When you listen to a wounded friend, you listen hard. When you’re making something special, you put your unique brand of concentration into it. And when there’s a strict budget to stick to, you better believe you’re the one consuming off brand groceries like Diet Dr. Thunder and trolling craigslist for non-escort, cash paying gigs. When it’s crucial, you’re painstaking in your commitment.
"Hey A: The word on the street is that you have returned to the world of cyberspace…..Welcome back…Your time is no longer your own…You will be inundated with crap, "pass this on and get a blessing" stuff, "pass this on or you will lead a miserable life for the next ten years your finger nails will turn black", a few videos that you don’t care about…..and maybe…occasionally… a kind word from a friend..or maybe something even informative…Wow…(Sometimes I wish they hadn’t invented this thing and the Post Office and the telephone company would be solvent and I would have more time for what ever I do as a retiree….)"
- this morning’s email from my grandfather,
who later sheepishly admits to having attended Big Business Bingo for the first time in his retirement community of ‘about 70,000 gray haired old coots’
I am a bad friend. I behave like an ostrich when my anxiety and demons get the better of me, bury my head in the sand, and lose touch with everyone who matters in my life. I don’t call people back, I forget to ask how other people are doing, and I have been known to go off-radar for months at a time before resurfacing with a pained shrug and a ‘yeah, it was a bad one this time. mneh, it happens.’ attitude.
By some miracle many people still love me and forgive me and, if need be, are willing to grab a damn shovel and dig me out of whatever dune I’m hiding in.
Only now my bad karma is attacking these precious friends themselves.
Tonight, my bff slash pseudo-fiance (read: homosexual, intend to wed when I hit age 39 in a his-and-hers-boyfriends marriage of loving convenience) drove downtown to see me on MY schedule, took me out for a drink at a bar I selected, and… got his car towed.
All within 90 minutes on a bitter midwestern winter’s midnight.
He drives a Mercedes and the towing company damaged it.
- fucking exhausted (working 7 days in a row, 12 hr shifts, 6/7 openers)
- fucking exhausted (Nice Allison is not getting any results with changing the catastrophes and fuck-ups on the job. Today the ladies were introduced to Mitch the Bitch, who fucking makes it happen, goddamnit.)
- warm and well-fed. Thanks to my brother and his fabulous meatloaf. Yeah, that’s what I said… MEATLOAF. Don’t act like you’re too good for that shit. It’s fucking patriotic.
- dreading/excited for tomorrow. Day 7 of 7. I just have to get through 9 hours without committing a violent crime or getting myself fired. That’s it.
- thinking about what to wear for the weekend. Small carry-on luggage requires forethought.
- superfuckingexcited for the weekend. Have I mentioned that this is my first vacation weekend in 14 months? I don’t even know what the new airport looks like. Let’s get it.