At least I never lied. At least I never kissed the devil.
Today I recieve a message that says 'You have not put any effort into our relationship. Last night I kissed XXXX but that has nothing to do with it...I love you.' During this break I worked six days a week almost alday long most days. The times I didn't I either saw friends whom i needed to visit; you know the ones that youve been friends with forever so you see them because you should. I saw friends who I missed and truly wanted to see and hang out with. I did endless work fro my parents, all the heavy lefting that needs done and all the extreme cleaning following by the dirty work (Taking out trash, washing dishes, etc.) I visited with family. With all of that I still managed to see Lauren and hang out with her for a longer time that I hung out with anyone at least five times this break. This is all not to mention that fact that after working all day (and being bitched at by a boss all day long about bullshit that doesn't concern me) I liked going home and sitting down in front of the TV with my father and not thinking and not moving. After my father went to bed I still called Lauren every night, with an exception to one night which I fell asleep, and also the night I stayed at my brother dan's in philly and stayed out late with him. I think if there was one thing I did show, it was effort. and I don't thin I'm alone when I say Kissing some other dude has everything to do with Lauren questioning our relationship. SIDE NOTE: It's also interesting to note that when she told me she was going away I asked a few times if she was going to see XXXX and she said no every fuckin' time. This makes her a liar.
For those of you sick of hearing about her, take solitude in know that is that last I will speak of her on this Journal. She and I obviously have some talking to do. And although I make her out to be and incredible bitch, I do admit that I should have seen this coming, that whole "Tell her about it" song by Billy Joel should have clued me into something. Anyhow I do love the girl. And at this tender age I suppose we are doing what she should so I can't blame her to much. But let it be known I was not the prime source of our demise.
In Lancaster there are a hand-full of bars owned by and patroned by fat head more money than they desreve assholes. With my job I was unlucky enough to be subject to these surroundings many times. Fortunatly I was giving many free drinks; which I view as reperastions, although i'm sure the givers of these gifts would certainly call it charity. Picture a dirty kid, with rough working hands, shaggy mop like hair a five o'clock shadow a week in growing and stale stench of cheap cigarettes, walking into a bar which seats a dazon suits or business skirts talking about money, where it's wisly put, and where it will be lost. This boy is there for a delivery but the kindness in prices from his boss is a debt that must be re-paid in false friendship. They welcome me to the bar without lowering the chins from the air, asking me general questions that they couldn't care less about recieve a truthful answer, without making eyecontact for a second, 'what school do you go to Jeremy?' 'What are you studying?' I don't watse much though on forming my words with any audioble volumne or coherence, I know they aren't listening and I know they will ask again upon my next visit.
Every so often I must excuse myself from the bar, to go into the bathroom for a moment to laugh at the obsurity of these small time yuppies (as well as the middle-aged and older post-yuppies). At the same time though I feel a sort of envy and sometimes anger. For example just this past week I delivered a an order of Russian beer (which is very expensive and the taste is worth every penny) to one bar that was holding a $150 a plate dinner for a reseption that was held directly after the ridiculously over priced admissioned Art Show feature four paintings by a Russian Artist. "Ten thousand dollars." Scoffed the fat drunk who owns the bar, "I'll buy it, and if I can't put it here I'll put it somewhere in my home, I'm sure I'll find a place" just loud enough for the skirts sitting around the corner of the bar to hear. I asked him what kind of art it was and gave him some chances to reply multiple choice style I said "Realism, moderism?" I know very little about Art, I'm not even sure if the options I gave were real. Regardless he stumbled on his words, quieter now, so the skirts were just out of ear-shot, and he never really answered my question with the giberish that followed.
The only solitude I bring with me today is knowing that for one month I was the dirtiest and most likly smartest drunk to wander in and out of the quiet lonesome bars which are home to a town that shouldn't hold them.
For those of you sick of hearing about her, take solitude in know that is that last I will speak of her on this Journal. She and I obviously have some talking to do. And although I make her out to be and incredible bitch, I do admit that I should have seen this coming, that whole "Tell her about it" song by Billy Joel should have clued me into something. Anyhow I do love the girl. And at this tender age I suppose we are doing what she should so I can't blame her to much. But let it be known I was not the prime source of our demise.
In Lancaster there are a hand-full of bars owned by and patroned by fat head more money than they desreve assholes. With my job I was unlucky enough to be subject to these surroundings many times. Fortunatly I was giving many free drinks; which I view as reperastions, although i'm sure the givers of these gifts would certainly call it charity. Picture a dirty kid, with rough working hands, shaggy mop like hair a five o'clock shadow a week in growing and stale stench of cheap cigarettes, walking into a bar which seats a dazon suits or business skirts talking about money, where it's wisly put, and where it will be lost. This boy is there for a delivery but the kindness in prices from his boss is a debt that must be re-paid in false friendship. They welcome me to the bar without lowering the chins from the air, asking me general questions that they couldn't care less about recieve a truthful answer, without making eyecontact for a second, 'what school do you go to Jeremy?' 'What are you studying?' I don't watse much though on forming my words with any audioble volumne or coherence, I know they aren't listening and I know they will ask again upon my next visit.
Every so often I must excuse myself from the bar, to go into the bathroom for a moment to laugh at the obsurity of these small time yuppies (as well as the middle-aged and older post-yuppies). At the same time though I feel a sort of envy and sometimes anger. For example just this past week I delivered a an order of Russian beer (which is very expensive and the taste is worth every penny) to one bar that was holding a $150 a plate dinner for a reseption that was held directly after the ridiculously over priced admissioned Art Show feature four paintings by a Russian Artist. "Ten thousand dollars." Scoffed the fat drunk who owns the bar, "I'll buy it, and if I can't put it here I'll put it somewhere in my home, I'm sure I'll find a place" just loud enough for the skirts sitting around the corner of the bar to hear. I asked him what kind of art it was and gave him some chances to reply multiple choice style I said "Realism, moderism?" I know very little about Art, I'm not even sure if the options I gave were real. Regardless he stumbled on his words, quieter now, so the skirts were just out of ear-shot, and he never really answered my question with the giberish that followed.
The only solitude I bring with me today is knowing that for one month I was the dirtiest and most likly smartest drunk to wander in and out of the quiet lonesome bars which are home to a town that shouldn't hold them.