Other than the one day where i was deathly ill, this’ll be the earliest i’ve gone to bed in three weeks. To the day. Yeah. Now ask me how much class i’ve missed…
G’nite.
q.o.d.
I was sorta expecting to have a wild year sometime in the midst of college. Last year i smoked pot a handful of times, but that hardly composes a bad streak all on its own, especially considering the romantic and sexual isolation i was experiencing at the time. This was going to be the year, though. It’s not exactly a cocaine addiction or anything, but it would’ve been something to tell Behind the Music about. This was going to be the year that i lived through drunken stories that could i hardly recall and slightly regretted tales of mornings after and all that. That’s not to say that i would have been a huge slut, because i love to lord my virginity over other (less pure) people, and i probably wouldn’t ever drink that much because i have an extremely healthy sense of my limitations – but i could’ve worked around those issues.
So, what’s the condition of this awful streak now? The story ends with my drinking leveling off, me actually maintaining a vestige of a social life, and *gasp* actually dating. I know, it’s weird. The weirdest part is, i still have zero-experience outside of this single relationship, so for as long as i stay within it i’m relatively going to be suspending my wild streak. But… i don’t want a handful of idiotic jaunts to consist of my entire youthful rebellion; however, admitting that i wouldn’t mind fucking up worse in the future basically admits the lack of validity of my relationship, which does not lend itself to alcohol poisoning or random drug addiction.
Can a healthy relationship and an urge to live one emotionally and physically shitty year co-exist peacefully in my life? Um… stay tuned?
You should probably hate me.
I don’t know if you noticed at all, but i sorta went out and got a life. I have to battle against the opposing forces of rehearsal, class, work, (survivorblog,) and a girlfriend before i get to this lonely white screen, and once i’m there i still need something to say. And i’ve got nothing to say. This nothing is a different sort of nothing than i used to have. In the past i’ve called myself two dimensional and claimed that i don’t have a single interesting thing to divulge to anyone other than the banal comings and going of my life. Now i feel somewhat oppositely… almost like i’m content that my life is full of actual happenings, so i don’t have to talk about them so much to prove their existence. Or maybe i think too much.
I’d also like to apologize for a lack of Trio … my guitar has been MIA for nearly two weeks now at my least favourite music shop in the city, getting repairs. I’d like to have a moment of silence for it, starting now…
… thnx. Love y’all.
Matt’s amp is buzzing. To get any kind of volume out of it you have to turn up the Gain knob, which distorts the signal a little and leaves you with this constant amplifier hum. It feels expectant, as thought some rock band’s big sound is going to come crashing out of the amp any second in a tidal wash of big guitars and growling bass, but really it’s just me sitting on the floor trying desperately to read sheet music from the Bass Cleff of a Tori Amos book.
The apartment is otherwise empty. I did a lot of wash yesterday, so the bedroom looks somewhat organized. In here is another story … everything scattered – papers, cds, jackets, shoes. It’s really the fault of this weekend; i didn’t spend much quality time with the apartment this weekend. Saturday night Drexel had their homecoming dance and i have this single glowing picture of me with a tie tied around my head as though i was some kind of savage, sweating like a horse and smiling madly. I love to dance, that’s all there is to it.
It took me fifteen years to learn how to do the mashed potato correctly. I’m not sure that the learning curve is so steep … i think instead i had to spend time learning all sorts of other little rhythmic pieces of the puzzle before i could put it all together. A decade and a half is a long time to have spent doing anything. I’ve been in school for fifteen years now… i’ve been out of my first house for fifteen years… i’ve had my Thundercats for fifteen years. it’s funny, i only have a decade on my closest cousin and he won’t ever know the same things i knew as a child. Thundercats, GI Joes, Madonna, George Michael, Casey Kasem’s countdown, Johnny Carson, Ronald Regan, the Gulf War … all of those things are vivid emotional and psychological building blocks of my life.
I’m the only one of my cousins that will remember my Grandmother. My nine-year-old cousin Dale wouldn’t have any memories of her active and laughing since he was five or younger, and all of my other cousins are only four. I’m the youngest person in the family to know her; we spent hours sitting at her kitchen table playing solitaire, lying on her living room floor watching Golden Girls every week, eating Golden Grahams before i got picked up by my carpool on the way to middle school. Last night i was on the phone to my mother and she reminded me how long my father’s mother had been in a managed care facility … time had shrunk it down to only a year, but she was out of her own home months before we left my home of sixteen years in SouthWest Philly (which she owned).
That was almost three years ago. It’s been a long time since i’ve sat and played solitaire with her, but to me it doesn’t really seem so expansive. She’d always get up and dance when she won… singing “Let the Good Times Roll” and dancing around the kitchen. I eventually learned to jitterbug so i could join her, but by then it was too late.
You never know how your first fight will end. You could be in the most idealic relationship ever, perfect and smiling and doting and happy, and a single fight could tear it all down. Maybe she cries too much or isn’t rational, or maybe you speak without thinking or are cold-hearted. I can’t imagine how you could predict that sort of thing; what the fight would be about, why, how it would end. Sure, you could be optimistic and just hope it’s trivial and that it leads to make-up sex, but how realistic is that, really?
So, maybe i picked a fight on Sunday. I think maybe we both did. The problem seems to be that we have nearly the exact same ambition, except i am all optimism with my assuming it’ll be alright, and she’s all pessimism and striving to make her goals come to her. Of course, pitting an optimist and a pessimist who both want to write for a living, act for fun, and be rock stars against each other is never too beautiful. Everything wound up fine, though, which was good, because after crying on the floor for an hour tonight i needed someone to talk to.