On the Six

Ok, so this story doesn't actually take place on the 6 train, but that's the title of a J-Lo album, and therefore it's funny, because everything that has to do with J-Lo is funny. Even her freak multiples. This was a different train, but that's not that important.

It was a crowded, rush-hour train. We commented on its crowded-ness when we got on.

I hate couples that stare into one another's eyes, mooning all over each other like a pair of lovesick fools (though "lovesick" is one of my favorite words). I immensely dislike these people and think them not only puke-inducing, but rude (I'm not sure why).

This day on the train, I couldn't stop looking at you, right smack in the eyes. I was so gross, but so were you. Staring at each other like a pair of idiots. But I love you and couldn't help it.

We stood with the pole between us; that fucking pole was so in the way! I felt that the skinny little pole took up so much room. We hugged, then, tightly, with that pole in the middle of our hug. I hated that pole.

I kissed you quickly, on the lips, about four hundred times.

You whispered in my ear.

It was the best train ride of my life, and the purpose of this blog is to apologize to the people who had to witness our sickfest. But once I looked up at you, I didn't notice them at all.

Not as Scary as You'd Think

The other day I was walking to my subway stop in Brooklyn, on the phone with my best bud. I was having a normal conversation with that tramp, and didn't feel the need to interrupt him when something very odd happened. The second he was done yapping about some shit or another, though I had to ask him:

Me: Did you hear what just happened to me when you were talking, just then?
Him: No, what?
Me: Some dude in a hat walked up to me, pointed in my chest, and said "on this night, I will kill one lady."
Him: Are you serious? Just now? How did I miss that?
Me: I have no idea. Maybe you're just really self absorbed.
Him: "On this night, I will kill one lady?"
Me: Yep. In his defense, though, I don't think he meant that I was the one lady.
Him: Oh, that's good.

And, scene.

I'm Sorry In Advance For This (A Post Not For The Weak of Stomach).

I watched the Ricky Gervais HBO special on DVR last night, with Boy. That man is just freaking delightful* (I mean Ricky, not Boy, though Boy is pretty damn delightful himself). I laughed out loud several times, even though I was in the midst of a bratty argument (I picked it myself!) and even though I was lying on the sofa thinking "I will not laugh. I just won't. That will prove a point" (that there was no point to prove bothered me none). It's that good. You should all watch this special.

Midway through his routine, Ricky told a joke that jerked a memory of mine. Well, not a memory of mine necessarily, but the memory of a story an old friend once told me. A story of something that happened to him...a story that had tortured me for many days and weeks and months and years. My brain was haunted and no amount of brain-scrubbing could remove this yarn from the depths of the cranium.

But then, one day, poof! Oh happy day! It was gone. Until Ricky.

So friends, because I am sure there are so few of you, I will risk telling the story right here. Dare I? Yes, I do dare. So read below if you wish, but you have been warned. No one has ever heard this story without responding with some version of "UGGHGHGHHGHGHGH." Here goes:

Back in NOLA, I had a friend, a friend who will heretofore be known as Red. Red had received an email about an upcoming high school reunion. Red was very anxious about attending, but since his friends were such horrible people who loved to see him uncomfortable in any situation, they (we) made their (our) case for it, and finally convinced him to go.

Right before Red was to leave for the reunion (it was in Houston), he had an apartment-related emergency. The sink exploded, or there was some sort of plague, (bugs, locusts, or frogs, I forget which one). Red was unable to live in his apartment for three weeks, so since he was already going home to Houston, he figured he'd just extend his stay. I think it was around Thanksgiving, anyway, so lots of us would be either with our families (sounds unfamiliar), working hard (closer, but not quite), or too drunk (bingo) back in NOLA anyway.

So Red goes to the reunion. He gets wasted. He sees old friends. He drinks with old friends. He drinks with old girlfriends. And finally, he does the stud-muffin reunion thing that guys everywhere want to do: he begins flirting with the girl he loved from afar, who didn't know he existed in high school (ahh, John Hughes, you would be proud). Eventually, Red asks the girl to go home with him, and she accepts. He takes her back to his parents' house, and is so drunk that they never move past the sofa. Red falls asleep, drooling on the floor, because he wanted to leave the sofa for the girl (oh, the chivalry).

The next morning, Red feels so bad. He wakes up with his head on the floor, mouth open on the carpet, and embarrassed. He's sure he wasn't at all able to satisfy this girl based on how drunk he was, so he wanted to make it up to her. He reaches up to the sofa, pats her on her hand, and says "hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I wanna go down on you."

Except she wasn't there. She had left in the middle of the night.

The hand he was holding (but not looking at) was his mom's.

He looked up, realized this, and ran into his room, where he stayed for the remaining 18 days (eventually one of us let him stay at our place).

That's the story of Red. Sorry if I oversold it, but to me, not many things could be worse.


*Our definitions of "delightful" may not synch up. Read the rest of the blog and judge for yourself.

I Actually Don't Mind the Term "Manic" (and Things You Can Say on The Simpsons).

Well, look at you! Still reading my blog. Aww.

So I guess a person could technically call me "depressed." Am I sad? No. Have I learned how to monitor this depression so that I can live a totally normal life? Yes. Do I hate when people ask yes or no questions and answer them themselves? Yes.

Anyway, I'm pretty much fine now. I go through the occasional "bummed out, unsure about stuff" phases, but who doesn't? Because of my history, though, I forget that this shit is not exclusive to me. It's funny...being totally self-absorbed, when I used to go through these rough patches, I would forget that they would eventually pass. The scariest thing was that I always thought they'd last forever.

On the other hand, one thing I never really minded was the post-rough patch period. The high high high that follows the depressed low: the mania. That used to be fun.

What the fuck does this have to do with anything?

Well, I'm going through a small period of optimism, starting today, that came on so suddenly that I feel a little manic.

To address the second part of my posting title: apparently you can say "shite" on The Simpsons. Groundskeeper Willy said it on an episode the other night. Put an accent on it and it's cute, I suppose.

I'll Start With a Little Rambling, End With a Not x365

Hi folks,

After last week's festivities, (the election, the situation with my hockey league, Boy having Irish friends in town, the election, and drinking every night in celebration of all of these things, like the election), I haven't felt much like blogging. I already fucked up on NaBloPoMo, and though I can do it again next month, I can't win the fancy prizes donated by friends of mine like Uncouth Heathen. But it was more about the discipline than the prizes. I mean Uncouth Heathen had some sort of surgery, and she was still able to do it.

BUT. Next month. I have faith.

Also: I don't know what this means in my life, but I've been having gross dreams about brain damaged test monkeys and dead pigeons.

I went to hot yoga this morning, which felt great, but after a few too many days of not doing it...that shit is hard.

Anyway, here's another one.

#8: I drove to Ozzfest with you, in a car with you and #4, and one other girl. At one point of the long long car trip, a bug fell out of your dreads. I always thought you were cute, but my friend thought you were a stupid little boy (you're only five years younger than me). You were also a little dirty, hence the bug. We drank a lot of red bulls in that car, and the concert itself was the drunkest I've ever been in my entire life. Did I want to go to Ozzfest? Probably. Tommy Lee was probably there. But I couldn't tell you one thing that happened that day, except for this: there was a guy there who would pay people to kick a soccer ball at his head really hard. You kicked that ball. You missed his head by a long shot.

Stupid Clocks

So today, technically, I didn't blog (11/6). But I did. It's only late for me right now, and I didn't suppose (stupidly), this would count for Friday.

But.

I am not upset. I love this week, and don't for a second regret all the wonderful victories I've won.

XOXO

Wow.

Wow.

Thanks, everyone. I have nothing to say. Will I not be able to be cynical anymore?
This is incredible.