six hours of sleep is all a growing adult needs
Technically, I should've retired about an hour ago and got a good old fashioned eight hours of sleep. With the insomnia and rushes of worry I've been suffering the last two nights -- and the subsequent energy-laden days that resulted anyway (or not anyway) -- I'm up for a couple minutes still. Maybe spoiling myself with ten-hours-of-sleep/day over my utterly eventless Thanksgiving holiday was just the right psychological medicine.
As mentioned, I've had (yes, I'm gonna quote myself) "insomnia and rushes of worry" as soon as I crashed into bed. There are about two tiers to this. Tier the First is, as you may have guessed from previous entries, the trio of depressed best friends of mine, Jon, Paul and Zoe. (Why am I putting the lone female last? Dunno. Doesn't sound any better as Zoe, Paul and Jon or...alright, I'll stop.) For I am now adding another person to this list, and that name is Jeremy. See, Zoe and Jeremy started being official a couple months ago and Jeremy, 25 years old, had never had a girlfriend previously. So while Zoe was fawning over him, Jeremy was just going along with ye olde ebb 'n' flow, not sure what to do but, as he said, "gracious that she'd take me under her wing" (he did not actually utter the words "under her wing," but I'm taking some creative liberties here, and for no good reason).
Now, upon returning home from my parents', expecting everything to have basically stayed still, I get the announcement that Zoe has a date the night afterwards. No real questioning needed: she's seeing someone else, dumping Jeremy's ass, starting anew again. Only that's not what she's doing. She's keeping Jeremy and seeing someone else anyway. Jeremy was made knowledgeable of this fact and was, as per her words, "confused." Nevertheless, I guess he's going through with it.
Maybe I'm all puritanical here, but the only thing that ran across my mind as Zoe described this situation to me was, "Oh yeah, this is gonna end beautifully." As roughly the same thing happened to me (and I say roughly because I was not made known of Bronwen fucking someone else, because she got bonked behind my back). All of 18 and naive and still caught in this glamorous I-hate-everything-like-that-Caulfield-guy sensibility, I was all amazed when this girl I actually had a crush on wanted to spend some shall-we-say-intimate time with me. She was, as is Zoe, pretty experienced (though I imagine Zoe's not as experienced as Bronwen), and I was just along for the ride, trying to figure out what it was I should be doing as I was in the middle of doing it. Thus, you could say I feel somewhat protective of Jeremy-as-Jeremy-and-Zoe.
I've not actually spoken to Jeremy yet -- because I'm scared -- but I'm sure he's doing what I was doing when I found out: a little mad but confused and not willing to let go of something that seems like such a wonderful stroke of luck (that is, the relationship, not the "seeing someone else" bit). And while I know -- or at least pray -- that Jeremy isn't exactly me, I'm starting to think he'll react the same way I did. That his enthusiasm for the relationship will corode and deplete and Zoe will hold onto him because he's so unwilling to, like, speak the fuck up.
But how does this actually involve me, you might ask. Jeremy and Zoe are both my friends and I cherish them both as such. It is my prediction that this shit is gonna get ugly like Bob Dylan on the Oscars.
This brings us roughly up to last night as I stayed up till 2:30, tossing and turning and repositioning my body, worrying like a madman. Obscenities were thunk; plans to tell Zoe to find another roommate and me to just hike it to, let's say, L.A. and maybe speak to all these people again; and, yes, those thoughts of creative ways to kill myself. (Played around with smashing a light bulb and eating it. How moodily romantic of me.) Thoughts were also out to Paul, with whom I've been incredibly tolerant and supportive but, in the last two or three weeks, I've suddenly lost my nerve. And I nearly want to hit him for throwing rocks at himself.
This is getting long.
Anyway, so today -- as I feel a little better going to the Orchestra, which is a comfortable home away from home, where the people are funny and light-hearted but surely go home with more than a little melancholy in their hearts, too -- I pick up the Weekly. Eventually, I get around to Liz's column, a weekly dittie about her trials and tribulations with mental illness. Lo and behold, it's about how a friend of hers who was once mentally ill and whom she helped had finally gotten sick of her mental illness and officially stopped talking to her. And I re-asserted myself. Must be patient with Paul. Must find out ways to bring him out that I haven't tried yet. (I couldn't have tried all of them yet. Think, man, think.) Must be there when he returns. If he does at all. (As for Jeremy and Zoe? And Jon? Back-burner -- let's just ignore it for awhile because Zoe is about as willing to be helped as Paul McCartney is willing to admit he's the suckiest Beatle.)
On Bronwen: Against my better judgment, I've been checking Bronwen's site (www.astralpunch.com, if you're inclined) practically every goddam day for weeks now. (We haven't spoken in three months.) Her life is going really well: Brian just days ago landed a job in Baltimore and they'll be moving there. Suddenly, she's talking about leasing cars, buying kitchens, finally getting that engagement ring (.5k!) -- settling down, as it were. Now then, this is all great for her -- yeah, I'm happy she moved on so successfully from a whiny worrywort like yours truly. However, there's the nagging sensation that she's all of 21. True, she's been to England and Manhattan for chunks of her life, played both sides of the field (wink wink), dropped out of two colleges, said "I Love You" to more than one person (I'm assuming), become a small news celebrity, dissed Steven Spielberg in print, and been told by a celebrated children's author that she has talent. Still, she's 21. What's up with this settling thing? I'm not always the most perceptive person -- being, as usual, very introspective (or, okay, narcississtic) that I'm usually ignoring a lot of goings-ons -- but Brian didn't seem as freakishly head-over-heels with her as she was with him and, if I can throw my two cents in (and fuck you, I can), Bronwen likes the idea of having people more than the people themself. She's a romantic. This is all gonna end in tears. Can I bet two years here? Three tops? I do worry. After all, she was the only girl I ever said "I love you" to. And, sure, I meant it. I think.
I think this took an hour. When things are at a boring old plateau, all you can do is whine.
As mentioned, I've had (yes, I'm gonna quote myself) "insomnia and rushes of worry" as soon as I crashed into bed. There are about two tiers to this. Tier the First is, as you may have guessed from previous entries, the trio of depressed best friends of mine, Jon, Paul and Zoe. (Why am I putting the lone female last? Dunno. Doesn't sound any better as Zoe, Paul and Jon or...alright, I'll stop.) For I am now adding another person to this list, and that name is Jeremy. See, Zoe and Jeremy started being official a couple months ago and Jeremy, 25 years old, had never had a girlfriend previously. So while Zoe was fawning over him, Jeremy was just going along with ye olde ebb 'n' flow, not sure what to do but, as he said, "gracious that she'd take me under her wing" (he did not actually utter the words "under her wing," but I'm taking some creative liberties here, and for no good reason).
Now, upon returning home from my parents', expecting everything to have basically stayed still, I get the announcement that Zoe has a date the night afterwards. No real questioning needed: she's seeing someone else, dumping Jeremy's ass, starting anew again. Only that's not what she's doing. She's keeping Jeremy and seeing someone else anyway. Jeremy was made knowledgeable of this fact and was, as per her words, "confused." Nevertheless, I guess he's going through with it.
Maybe I'm all puritanical here, but the only thing that ran across my mind as Zoe described this situation to me was, "Oh yeah, this is gonna end beautifully." As roughly the same thing happened to me (and I say roughly because I was not made known of Bronwen fucking someone else, because she got bonked behind my back). All of 18 and naive and still caught in this glamorous I-hate-everything-like-that-Caulfield-guy sensibility, I was all amazed when this girl I actually had a crush on wanted to spend some shall-we-say-intimate time with me. She was, as is Zoe, pretty experienced (though I imagine Zoe's not as experienced as Bronwen), and I was just along for the ride, trying to figure out what it was I should be doing as I was in the middle of doing it. Thus, you could say I feel somewhat protective of Jeremy-as-Jeremy-and-Zoe.
I've not actually spoken to Jeremy yet -- because I'm scared -- but I'm sure he's doing what I was doing when I found out: a little mad but confused and not willing to let go of something that seems like such a wonderful stroke of luck (that is, the relationship, not the "seeing someone else" bit). And while I know -- or at least pray -- that Jeremy isn't exactly me, I'm starting to think he'll react the same way I did. That his enthusiasm for the relationship will corode and deplete and Zoe will hold onto him because he's so unwilling to, like, speak the fuck up.
But how does this actually involve me, you might ask. Jeremy and Zoe are both my friends and I cherish them both as such. It is my prediction that this shit is gonna get ugly like Bob Dylan on the Oscars.
This brings us roughly up to last night as I stayed up till 2:30, tossing and turning and repositioning my body, worrying like a madman. Obscenities were thunk; plans to tell Zoe to find another roommate and me to just hike it to, let's say, L.A. and maybe speak to all these people again; and, yes, those thoughts of creative ways to kill myself. (Played around with smashing a light bulb and eating it. How moodily romantic of me.) Thoughts were also out to Paul, with whom I've been incredibly tolerant and supportive but, in the last two or three weeks, I've suddenly lost my nerve. And I nearly want to hit him for throwing rocks at himself.
This is getting long.
Anyway, so today -- as I feel a little better going to the Orchestra, which is a comfortable home away from home, where the people are funny and light-hearted but surely go home with more than a little melancholy in their hearts, too -- I pick up the Weekly. Eventually, I get around to Liz's column, a weekly dittie about her trials and tribulations with mental illness. Lo and behold, it's about how a friend of hers who was once mentally ill and whom she helped had finally gotten sick of her mental illness and officially stopped talking to her. And I re-asserted myself. Must be patient with Paul. Must find out ways to bring him out that I haven't tried yet. (I couldn't have tried all of them yet. Think, man, think.) Must be there when he returns. If he does at all. (As for Jeremy and Zoe? And Jon? Back-burner -- let's just ignore it for awhile because Zoe is about as willing to be helped as Paul McCartney is willing to admit he's the suckiest Beatle.)
On Bronwen: Against my better judgment, I've been checking Bronwen's site (www.astralpunch.com, if you're inclined) practically every goddam day for weeks now. (We haven't spoken in three months.) Her life is going really well: Brian just days ago landed a job in Baltimore and they'll be moving there. Suddenly, she's talking about leasing cars, buying kitchens, finally getting that engagement ring (.5k!) -- settling down, as it were. Now then, this is all great for her -- yeah, I'm happy she moved on so successfully from a whiny worrywort like yours truly. However, there's the nagging sensation that she's all of 21. True, she's been to England and Manhattan for chunks of her life, played both sides of the field (wink wink), dropped out of two colleges, said "I Love You" to more than one person (I'm assuming), become a small news celebrity, dissed Steven Spielberg in print, and been told by a celebrated children's author that she has talent. Still, she's 21. What's up with this settling thing? I'm not always the most perceptive person -- being, as usual, very introspective (or, okay, narcississtic) that I'm usually ignoring a lot of goings-ons -- but Brian didn't seem as freakishly head-over-heels with her as she was with him and, if I can throw my two cents in (and fuck you, I can), Bronwen likes the idea of having people more than the people themself. She's a romantic. This is all gonna end in tears. Can I bet two years here? Three tops? I do worry. After all, she was the only girl I ever said "I love you" to. And, sure, I meant it. I think.
I think this took an hour. When things are at a boring old plateau, all you can do is whine.