The New Tattoo and a verylongstory
So Thursday - no wait - last Sunday - no wait ---- okokok the day after Hunter S. Thompson killed himself (RImotherfuckingP) I get a call from Jason. He says he wants to be friends! (of all things...) and doesn't want me to hate his stupid fucking ass and so OK we chat about HST for awhile and it's fine, whatever. Then I have a midnight screening of Blue Velvet at the 7G's and I invite him because - right? - we're friends now and friends tell each other about when they are doing something that the other may be interested in. Can't make it - which is fine b/c it would have been weird. Then calls a few days later to say thanks for the invite. THEN! I am having my fabulous blow out Ocsar party on Sunday (which is why I was Mrs. Dalloway the night before) and oh fucking boy what a party. From 5 in the afternoon until 5 in the morning. Of course I don't remember the last like 3 or 4 hours of it a single bit - but I heard I was having a great time. Then I passed out and snored. Nothing but the most upclass and glamorous for me you know. Next morning a message from Jason left the night before while I was (so I'm told and have some vague, fuzzy and scattered memories of, sorta) at the Baranoff drinking. The Baranoff is a fucking dive bar filled with cocktail waitresses who are suffering early onset Alzheimers but shit they're only maybe like 65 so why retire? Vi is the one in particulars name... I give him a call back in the morning - shit I know what's going on now! He is finally crawling back on pathetic hands and bloodied knees begging for my rightous forgivness. Fine, baby, crawl along. I've just gotta say that it fucking feels like a million dollars - that feeling when you know - YOU KNOW! - you were right all along - you were justified. That it was only a matter of time. So another few days go by - I'm flying super high on Prozac and I am the one who has nothing to lose. Tuesday comes along- another call:
J - how's your car?
C - still broke in the upper parking lot at the 7G's.
J- I'll come by on Thursday to fix it.
C- why?
J- cause you need a car.
C - fine.
J - have you watched (some program or DVD)?
C - no, my remote took a shit and I can't get the TV to change inputs.
J - I have an extra I'll bring with me for you.
C - OK.
Yeah - that's the best excuse he could come up with for wanting to see me? Whatever. Thursday rolls around - I'm with the Pest (rat) Control guy and Jason shows up. Tries to fix my car but it is/was a hopeless situation. I say - how about lunch? I got a gift certificate from Ruth to Agua Verde (long long story) and so it's a go. 'Bout halfway through lunch (delicious tostadas) he says - wanna go to the coast? Do I want to go to the coast? What? I thought we were just friends. Can we get 2 beds? haha. We go to Ocean Shores for 2 days. Stay at the Best Western (yeehaw) and fuck all the time and drink a 5th and a 1/2 of Patron tequila and a case of beer. His cousin and her husband take us out to a super-fancy dinner. Weird. Really weird. So then today I get to feeling really antsy - I'm all jacked up and I don't know why. I decide to get a tattoo. I had none and thought what the fuck? I ain't getting any younger and I like doing impulsive things. The funny about it is that I have been sort of meanderingly musing on getting one for 20 years so it's not all that impulsive. I call up Slave to the Needle in beautiful Ballard and make an appointment. As of about 2 hours ago I have the words "Futui Gura" tattooed on my forearm about an inch down from the crook of my elbow in fancy Edwardian Script - which is Fuck You in Romanian. As a side note - my tattoo artist is fucking HOT. Probably going to have to get a few more. wink wink. Thank you Prozac one more time.