I Get Gooey
Yesterday I made a mental list of all the people I Adore. I realized that, not including my family, there are about thirteen people I love and who love me back. I am probably one of the luckiest girls I know, because I never have to settle for friends; the ones I have are all so fucking cool.
So in the grand tradition of 'shout outs' I would like to publicly recognize these unbefuckinglievable people who for some bizarre reason have decided to let me make them an enormous part of my gooey insides.
Hey-ya!
Yeah that was it. I think it would be unethical to name names or anything.
But yesterday, when I was thinking about it and rocking out to the Weakerthans while pulling up grass in a string bikini, I was completely blown away that someone as questionable as myself ended up with such awesome (cringe) companions, and ones who are willing to fly out to Colorado or to Chicago or to drive to Glenwood to paint a deck with me or to listen (however begrudgingly) to me bitch about Boy X for the four bajillionth time or to feed me gin and cigarettes when I need them and lame movies and tea tea when I don't or to deter me from my plans to join a convent or run off to Bolivia.
People about whom I really care, and want to know what they are thinking and how they are feeling, and I don't have to employ the fake laugh or the 'awesome!' or my tilted-head-I-am-sooo-interested look, because they are, in fact, so damn cool. And I'm so flakey and moody and weird! God! I'm so lucky!
When I thought about this, I suddenly ceased wrenching my insides about boys who -don't- think I'm so cool, and so I guess aren't really worth the neural synapses it took to come to that conclusion. Not that he isn't an amazing person himself but I really have too much other amazing shit on my plate.
And they are all so weird and funny and fantastic. Thank you.
By the way, Ben, I thought you'd appreciate a little anecdote from my last few days in SF. I may have told you already.
So you remember possibly-homosexual Atomic hardcore boy? The one I wrote my phone number on a pizza platter to?
R. and I went to Borders to spend the gift certificate my boss gave me, apparently for my non-intrusive approach to Lab since I did fuck-all but glare during discussions and wander around during practica asking 'Why' a whole lot, and occasionally exploding the demonstrations. Whatever the reason, I had $40 dollars on a card in my pocket and I was feeling fine.
So R. decides to lead me to the photo section, with me saying loud and stupid things on the way. And guess who is there, looking at polaroid books?
Ah, yes, embarrasing because not only did I reek of campfire smoke and I haven't showered in two days but also I'm rocking the Farah Fawcett hair, which isn't so good on me. And as I stand there, looking at a book on the History of the Male Nude, skinny black t-shirt boy and R. strike up a conversation involving (from the boy's end) a lot of sidelong glances and hxc sorts of giggles and 'hey look at this isn't this amazing!' sorts of comments.
Yes.
Then R. asked if we could take pictures of him.
I was looking a photograph of a naked oily male.
Appropriately shamed.
I am never asking someone out ever again.
So in the grand tradition of 'shout outs' I would like to publicly recognize these unbefuckinglievable people who for some bizarre reason have decided to let me make them an enormous part of my gooey insides.
Hey-ya!
Yeah that was it. I think it would be unethical to name names or anything.
But yesterday, when I was thinking about it and rocking out to the Weakerthans while pulling up grass in a string bikini, I was completely blown away that someone as questionable as myself ended up with such awesome (cringe) companions, and ones who are willing to fly out to Colorado or to Chicago or to drive to Glenwood to paint a deck with me or to listen (however begrudgingly) to me bitch about Boy X for the four bajillionth time or to feed me gin and cigarettes when I need them and lame movies and tea tea when I don't or to deter me from my plans to join a convent or run off to Bolivia.
People about whom I really care, and want to know what they are thinking and how they are feeling, and I don't have to employ the fake laugh or the 'awesome!' or my tilted-head-I-am-sooo-interested look, because they are, in fact, so damn cool. And I'm so flakey and moody and weird! God! I'm so lucky!
When I thought about this, I suddenly ceased wrenching my insides about boys who -don't- think I'm so cool, and so I guess aren't really worth the neural synapses it took to come to that conclusion. Not that he isn't an amazing person himself but I really have too much other amazing shit on my plate.
And they are all so weird and funny and fantastic. Thank you.
By the way, Ben, I thought you'd appreciate a little anecdote from my last few days in SF. I may have told you already.
So you remember possibly-homosexual Atomic hardcore boy? The one I wrote my phone number on a pizza platter to?
R. and I went to Borders to spend the gift certificate my boss gave me, apparently for my non-intrusive approach to Lab since I did fuck-all but glare during discussions and wander around during practica asking 'Why' a whole lot, and occasionally exploding the demonstrations. Whatever the reason, I had $40 dollars on a card in my pocket and I was feeling fine.
So R. decides to lead me to the photo section, with me saying loud and stupid things on the way. And guess who is there, looking at polaroid books?
Ah, yes, embarrasing because not only did I reek of campfire smoke and I haven't showered in two days but also I'm rocking the Farah Fawcett hair, which isn't so good on me. And as I stand there, looking at a book on the History of the Male Nude, skinny black t-shirt boy and R. strike up a conversation involving (from the boy's end) a lot of sidelong glances and hxc sorts of giggles and 'hey look at this isn't this amazing!' sorts of comments.
Yes.
Then R. asked if we could take pictures of him.
I was looking a photograph of a naked oily male.
Appropriately shamed.
I am never asking someone out ever again.