Fuck You In The Ass, Tom Scholz

Fuck You In The Ass, Tom Scholz

I felt like dogfuck yesterday. Mostly just tired, which was making my brain unreliable as well. I managed to have a great day anyway, because, well, I was with Katie. How could I not?

But I was tired. I called off work today at 11PM last night, right before going to sleep. I woke up once around 3AM, then was out cold until 8:45.

I feel better. But not quite together yet. I think the sleep apnea is back, so even if I get a lot of sleep, it's still shitty sleep that leaves me kinda fucked-up all day. I've found myself eating more recently. I'm afraid to get on a scale. I doubt I'm back up over 250 like I was last year, but I know I'm past the 235 I got down to a few times recently. I think I've lost and gained back weight three or four times in the past year. I get in a decent frame of mind and manage to eat well, exercise a bit, and keep my head together, then some shit comes along and while I may deal with it far better than I would have a couple years ago, I stop being so concientious about taking care of myself. It takes WORK to stay healthy, both mentally and physically, and I feel more capable of it than ever, but I'm still falling off the track more than I'd like.

The sleep apnea probably isn't helped by having a sinus infection blocking my breathing. I haven't felt sick, but I've been blowing unspeakable Lovecraftian horrors out of my nose for a month now.

"Ahh...ahh...ahh..YOG-SOTHOTH!"
"Bless you!"

When the fuck did I start doing cocaine? Jesus snot-bucket Christ. Most of it has been bloody, and what the FUCK is this hard black shit? I could save it up and make it into fucking body armour to send to our guys in Iraq. The phrase "nasal wood chips" came into my head one day. It's thoughts like these that have limited my circle of friends.

If I eat some ungodly hot peppers, it goes away and I can breathe great again. For about an hour. So I should eat habanero peppers once an hour. Well, maybe not. Then it would be blood and chunks of Kevlar coming out my ASS. Can't fucking win. At least today's tissue remnants are mostly green instead of red. A marvel to be seen. Dysentery green.

Camel's perfect brand of melodic prog-rock in the player right now. The Snow Goose. One of the more lovely things in my collection.

Oh, Amanda. What am I gonna do with you, you sweet little vixen?

I just got home from lunch. Her hair was in a perfect ponytail (it curved up slightly at the bottom, making it look like an actual pony's friggin' tail, and it amazes me the things that I notice sometimes, especially given the shit I NEVER seem to notice when it comes to women) and she looked so good, so warm, so...Amanda. Dammit. Nine fucking months. I've been at this for nine fucking months. And I feel like I need to give birth to SOMETHING, just to get this feeling of expectation over with.

She was over the anger. It wasn't mentioned. She was tired, but smiling, and our bits of talking between her trips to other tables were very pleasant. She was happy to see me. And I was relieved. I had no idea what to expect when I went in, but I figured it would be good, and I was right.

She said she will call me, she just has had a lot of shit going on lately. Mostly, I'm not really expecting the call. Soemthing tells me she won't. But I might be wrong. Fucked if I know.

Work has been hell on her. The guy she broke up with a few months ago has been calling, wanting to try again. It was very interesting to see her talk about that. (And interesting that she told me about it, it seemed to be a clear and deliberate message to me that I'm not the only one not wanting to limit my options.) She lets so fucking little out when talking about US, but she's quite easy to read on other subjects. The way she said "So I'm thinking about getting back with him" was laced with a large amount of both irony and cynicism, and I could tell she doesn't have her heart in that at all. She'd told me before about when they split. In a parking lot, both drunk and screaming at each other. That came back on me, and I sat there with a couple thousand questions in my head again. Not just about her. About me too.

She also said her other ex - her daughter's father - has been really shitty with her lately, and even shut the door on her face the last time she brought her back home to him. (They have joint custody.) She has no idea why, and I remember her saying that they usually got along quite well together.

She looked tired and worn down by all this. I sat there and looked right at her, unable to think of much of any intelligence to say to her, but wanting so much to make her feel better.

She came back later, more conversation. And I looked at her again, the wave of desire nearly drowning all pretense at keeping ANYTHING inside. I looked her right in those brilliant blue eyes and said, "God, you are so beautiful."

The way those eyes lit up, the way she wrinkled her nose and grinned. That look of...wow. That was the closest I think I've ever seen her with a sort of frisky "come on and fuck me, boy" look. It was so PLAYFUL. I've made some very vague and playful hints in the past several months about what ELSE I'd like to eat other than those chili five-ways, and I swear to you, that look on her face suggested Mutual Dining Options that...oh lord...the fuck-chemicals burned and burned. Holy shit. She turned right around and walked off to another table, obviously not wanting to let any more out. But...dammit. I'm leaving this soon.

And now I sit here still with a million questions.

But it wasn't just that. In fact, not even mostly. I still felt an almost overpowering urge to let loose and say all the other things I want to say, all the thoughts and desires of wanting to give and share and be human and loving and all that other shit that is probably making you fine readers want to puke and say "You're funnier when you just talk about pussy, Doug."

But I wanted so much to stand, reach up and take her face softly with both hands, hold it there, look into those eyes, and say "I want you, Amanda." And kiss her. Softly. Gently.

And then drag her to the floor and fuck her brains out. I mean, come on. It's ME we're talking about. I'm a drippy over-romantic cheesehead AND a raging pervert. We've established THAT shit a long time ago here in Dougieland.

She asked when I was coming back next, told me she'd be there this weekend. I told her I'd be back Saturday. I'll be in Cincy Friday night, leave Saturday morning, and come back up here to pack my gear and head up for the gigs. Marion on Saturday night, a private party outside of Huntington on Sunday afternoon.

I'm holding on to some kind of hope, I'm just not sure what it is yet. I seriously doubt that she's willing to have the kind of relationship I'm thinking about, maybe only seeing each other once every two or three weeks. Part of her problem with her last boyfriend was that he wouldn't commit to more than whatever it was they had at the time. I don't see this really happening. But...I don't know. I really don't know. I know about as much of where this is headed as I did when I first laid eyes on her back in August. Then it was all about fuck-energy. All about ravaging her body. Wanting to eat her like The Snatch Buffet. I actually had dirty little daydreams about her having to take me to the emergency room, trying to explain to them why her boyfriend had just dislocated four or five vertebrae.

I still want that, of course. But adding in this other stuff, this good warm fuzzy stuff that I try to write about in an intelligent manner but probably come off like a douchebag about...I want that too.

I put a dollar bill on the table. On top of it, I put a slip of paper. Another copy of my phone number. A quarter holding down each side of it. Two more quarters next to it. And then I left.

I left facing another piece of myself, one of those bits of cognitive dissonance that I'm never quite sure how to deal with. That slip of paper with my phone number. Why it was already there, already written down, waiting in my pocket.

It's been there for days. This morning before I left for lunch, I went somewhere else. But H wasn't there, and she didn't recieve that slip of paper. Amanda did later.

I recognize the inconsistency. But I don't honestly feel bad about it anymore. I'm trying to take care of something I feel a strong need for, and I can't pretend to be other than what I am - really fucking alone and sick of it, trying to find a way of making something happen, and not wanting to limit my options. I can't do that to myself.

But I also don't want to fuck up anything that might happen with Amanda. She can't know what I know - that the paper on top of today's tip was originally meant for another woman.

Fucking hell.

I'm starting to feel awake again. The coffee she brought me did its job.

Onward.

Love,
Dougie

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