For the third time since I have lived here, my neighbor came over tonight. Also for the third time since I moved in here, he asked my feelings on being with another man. It has almost gotten to the point where it isn't even awkward anymore.
I don't know if he comes over with the intention of "seeing where things lead," or if he just comes over to visit and I inadvertently send out signals that indicate that I am suddenly interested in some kind of fling. Tonight I brought up the topic of whether or not most people are attractive, as it was something that came up among some other friends last weekend, which leads to him telling me that he thinks I'm attractive, and that I am, in fact, just the sort of guy he goes in for. It was a very matter of fact statement, and I didn't think anything of it other than it being a means to illustrate a point. In hindsight, however, I wonder if just bringing up the topic created a situation that would inevitably culminate in him asking, "Do you think there is any situation in which you could see yourself being with a man?"
In any case, after he left tonight I noticed that he had left a lingering scent of cologne, or deodorant, or something. I sniffed the quilt that had been on the couch where he was sitting and realized that it was the same scent that had greeted me when I got out of my car last night after having returned from work. It had struck me as incredibly odd that such an odor would be hanging around my driveway, but I think I find it even more disconcerting now that I have someone to associate the scent with.
Even though I don't write anymore, I still have epiphanies from time
to time... I just forget them, which is, of course, a part of the
reason I started writing in the first place. Ultimately, epiphanies
are less important than Epiphones, and Epiphones are merely
knock-offs. So, if worldview-changing, earth-shattering experiences
pale in comparison to Mexican guitars, then why even bother with the
writing at all. Yup. Exactly.
On a related note: I once chortled with a friend over the fact that
many people probably think that any number of periods greater than one
is exactly the same as three periods. But now, just like in Soviet
Russia, the ellipsis chortles at me for caring enough about it to even be able to derive amusement from its, well, whatever....
On an unrelated note: my sneaking suspicion that every stab one
makes towards happiness, or fulfillment, or what-have-you, only works
to highlight, or emphasize,
or some-such, that one will never, ever, not in a million years be able
to make more of this life than drug abuse is willing to give them.
Still, I plan on following the Smart Patrol's example, and continuing
to shove the poles in the holes, by which I mean that I haven't given
up entirely on sexual intercourse, but that I have merely given up on
the idea of it being a pleasant, or even tolerable experience.
I've also taken to wearing a helmet when I engage in cunnilingus. I
know, right? How dorky could I be... I tell you what though, I'm no
kid anymore. That devil may care attitude may have served me well in
my youth, but I've got dependent kitties to think of now, and it just
wouldn't be fair to them if I allowed my head to be caved in by the
thighs of one of the many, many very, very dissatisfied women I leave in my wake.
In all seriousness, though, I took a step towards happiness only to
find that it was actually sadness. My happiness told me that I am a
killjoy, and that it all stems from the massive disappointment of my
fifth grade of life. I told my happiness it was fucked, and that the
very idea that I was a killjoy was predicated on the false premise that
there are things that don't suck.
I'm sure that there really are things out there that don't suck, but
it doesn't matter because I don't know thing one about being happy. I
feel strangely detached, and I look to Daniel Johnston and I think to
myself, now there's a fella who's got it pretty good. My happiness
tells me that I am underestimating his torment, but it is really that
my happiness is underestimating the ordeal of daily living.
In that one movie the made about Daniel Johnston some folks mention
that Daniel has written a thousand songs about his unrequited love,
and hearing this I remember that the best relationship of my life was
with the girl I never told. Really, the only loves worth having are the
unrequited ones. They are the only ones that don't disappoint
entirely, and the feelings they inspire don't differ dramatically from
the feelings or mutual love.
Nobody can love you if you don't love yourself, and it is impossible
to love yourself, so you might as well love someone who would never
love you anyway. Then, years later, you can look them up on facebook
and send them a picture of your penis (cock)! I drew googly eyes on it to make it less intimidating creepy.
Short of wearing a helmet, the sure-firingest -not to mention the rootin' tootinest- way to make things less dangerous is to turn the lights off. You might miss some details, like those three tattoos, but we all know that the devil resides amongst the details anyway, so turning out the lights is kind of like spooning with the lord, and I can't think of a safer place than that.
Chao took me to play poker at his coworker's house, and on the way home he
declared that he wanted to get a beer. It was nearly one in the
morning, so we just went to the bar next to my apartment. We got a
couple beers and went out to the patio so that Chao could smoke a
cigarette. We stood around talking for about five or ten minutes when
the only other people out there called over and said, "You guys seem to
have interesting stories, why don't you come sit with us." So we did.
They introduced themselves as Laverne and Shirley, and we talked about
the housing market while we had two more beers. While Laverne was away
from the table, Chao asked Shirley how she knew Laverne, and Shirley said
that Laverne hosted the trivia night that she went to. Chao asked Shirley
where that trivia event took place and Shirley listed off all of the
trivia nights Laverne hosted, which seemed a clear sign that she was a
little suspicious of us. Laverne, on the other hand, demonstrated
absolutely no concern for her personal safety whatsoever.
So Laverne returns, Chao asks her about the trivia hosting thing.
She says she makes $75 a night hosting trivia, and that otherwise she
is an unemployed writer. At this point it occurred to me who she was,
so I asked what her last name was and told her that I had seen her
articles in one of the local weeklies. She said that she had quit the weekly and
took a job as a travel writer with the local daily before learning that
her editor at the new job was a nutcase, and the entire department was
restaffed.
Last call was announced and we ordered one last beer. As we drank
these last beers, Laverne started telling Chao about a Korean guy she
used to date, and how wonderful Asians are, etc., while occasionally
proclaiming to Shirley, "I think these guys should give us a ride home." Chao was obviously pretty uninterested, but I think he could tell that
I liked the idea of hanging out with the legendary local journalist,
so he agreed to take them home, at which point Laverne dashed into the
nearby 7-11 and pickup up a half case of Tecate. Chao and I lagged
behind a bit, and I said to Chao, "I think Laverne likes you," and he
replied, "Yeah, I could get laid tonight for sure, but let's just have
one beer and then leave." When Chao and I finally made it into the
7-11, Laverne was at the counter telling the Middle Eastern dude who
works the overnight shift that he was the most handsome man that she
had ever seen. Seriously.
She didn't have enough money to pay for both the Tecate and her
American Spirits, so I covered the rest and we walked back over to the
bar and got into Chao's car. She lived like ten blocks from the bar
we were at, so we get there fast and she pops open her macbook and
pulls up a youtube video for "this awesome Puscifer song." The house
was overrun with dogs, and there was a cat in the mix there somewhere,
and Chao immediately made a break for the back porch.
Ante up with your ass 'cause you ain't got a penny
Laverne and Shirley smoked a joint. I had a couple beers, told the
girls about the Shellac show, and told Laverne that she looked like David
Wain. Actually, I wanted to tell her that she looked like David Wain, but I took the coward's way out and told her that she reminded
me of David Wain. She told me how much she loved Stella, and said that
David Wain had made a movie recently. I asked her if she meant "Role
Models." She said that she did, and that it was awesome. Shirley
confirmed that it was, in fact, awesome.
I put on a Band of Horses song. A minute or so into the song Laverne shouts, "what the fuck is this?" I told her it was "Cigarettes,
Wedding Bands" by Band of Horses and she said, "I like 'Funeral,' but
all of their other songs suck. All of their songs suck except for
'Funeral.'" I stopped "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands," and put on
"Funeral" instead.
Chao finally came back in the house, and I started to get pretty
drunk. Laverne and I being the drunkest people there, it seems like we
pretty much dominated the conversation from that point on, talking
mostly about music and her writing. Earlier in the night she had
mentioned that she was writing "a book," but when I began prodding her
about it later on she was not very forthcoming. After she asserted
that Alice in Chains was "pretty much the only band she even cared
about," I told her that she could write her book about the rumored
hideous last weeks of Layne Staley's life. She interpreted this as
thinly veiled mockery, and called me a fucker.
Chao went back outside, and for several minutes I ramped up the
sarcasm until it was to the point that every time I said anything, Laverne would get out of her chair, walk over and punch me five or six
times. After a few rounds of this I told her that I wasn't being
sarcastic, it was just this condition I had that made it sound that
way. I got a case of the giggles because I didn't realize where I had
taken it from until after I said it, and once I realized it, the whole sketch
started playing in my head. Through my laughter I asked Laverne and Shirley if they, by the way, liked the Kids in the Hall. They both
laughed, but I wasn't sure if it was polite laughter or uncomfortable
laughter.
Chao came back inside. Shirley put on Richard Thompson doing "1952
Vincent Black Lightning," then told us about her job as a planner for
the Parks Department. One of the dogs proceeded to chase Chao around the room, humping his leg every time he stopped moving.
It was about 3:30 at this point, and Shirley left a few minutes later. Chao went back outside.
A girl could feel special on any suchlike
Laverne told me that she wanted Chao to leave. "No problem," I
said, "I'll go get him and we'll get out of here." She told me that I
was supposed to stay. Chao walked back in.
I told Chao that he didn't have to wait for me, I could walk home. He jumped at the chance to get the fuck out of there.
The minute Chao left, Laverne set her glasses down on the table,
positioned a chair directly in front of mine and leaned into me. I
gave her a hug. She said something like, "you and I should be
together." It didn't make a lot of sense, but I think it was supposed
to sound sexy or convey an invitation to molest her. In any case, we
stopped hugging. She sat looking at me for a few seconds and
disgustedly exclaimed, "give me my fucking glasses."
I handed the glasses to her and she put them on, stood up, walked
over to the table and took them back off and set them down. She walked
back over to me, sat down on my lap, took a long drink of wine (all of
the beer was gone at this point, so we were now splitting a bottle of
white wine), and kissed me.
We made out for a few minutes before she mentioned that we should
get some "blow." I was all like, "yeah, that sounds rad." "Can you
get some?" she asked. I told her I didn't know, but I could make some
calls. For reasons known only to God and alcohol, I called Ezra, who
groggily answered the phone only to hear, "Hey, do you know where I can
get some coke?" He spent some time giving the query actual
consideration, bless his heart, before informing me that I was fucking
insane to be calling him at 4:30 in the morning looking for coke. He
later told me that he was confused until he heard a girl's voice in the
background, at which point he realized that I was with a prostitute, or more precisely, a "coke whore,"
eliminating his confusion.
While I was failing to get coke we had finished off the bottle of
wine and the sun had started to rise. Laverne grabbed my by the hand and
led me into the bedroom and said, "I want you to get into bed with
me." So I got in bed with her. We kissed a little more and she
stopped and said, "Your mouth tastes like shit." I agreed and asked
her what she thought I should do about it. "I think you should fuck
me," she answered.
In a sense too far gone from love.
Seeing no reason, at this point in the night, to break my remarkable
streak of bad decisions... Thirty seconds later, the dog that had been
humping Chao all night started licking my head.
I sat down on the floor next to the bed and tried to talk to her.
I realized at this point that she was totally out of it, alternating
between seemingly being asleep and giving me conflicting instructions
about whether I should treat her body like a temple or a playground. I
suddenly felt like the biggest asshole in the world.
I walked outside and picked a rose. I walked back inside and set
the rose next to her on the bed and kissed her on the forehead. As I
walked out of the room she said, "lock the fucking door on your way
out."
Chao called me the next day. He told me how great he thought Laverne and Shirley were, and asked if we were going to go out with them again. I told him I thought it was unlikely, that I would guess that Laverne would be embarrassed by or guilty over the whole thing, especially considering that she lives with her boyfriend. He asked, "Why would she be embarrassed, it's not like anything happened?" "Yeah," I said, "I don't know." He told me that Laverne kept kicking him in the crotch, and that she tried to kiss him, but he was a gentleman. He is a gentleman.
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