Well… not quite. But things are finally beginning to green up a bit, now that the (most recent) snow is finally gone, and we’re getting a bit of sun (and, unfortunately, the dusty, gusty winds that bring that nice warm air).
So, of course, I get the cold I managed to (mostly) avoid this winter.
I really, really want to be good, normal, likable.
At the same time, I’m way past the point of being willing to begrudge people their happiness.
Like when a friend, someone I admire, sneaks off for a quick make-out session with someone I’ve had an unresolved crush on for a couple of years. Afterward, he was nice enough to keep me from burning myself over it. Still. I don’t know how many self-help mantras I can keep chanting without losing it completely. And they’re really losing power, some of ’em. “It’s not their fault” still works pretty well, but “Things are going to get better” usually drives me to convulsions and tears when I try it now.
I know, I know — “shut your cry hole, emo boy”.
Credit to Neil for not putting up with my shit, and reminding me how fuckin’ unhealthy and pointless it is. If he can quit smoking, I must be able to wean myself off the flagellation.
Fuck it. Waah.
So I finally got to see Black Sun Ensemble play, complete with belly dancers. And everything I’ve heard is absolutely, 100% true: Jesus is a fuckin’ amazing guitarist, and Jean Paul is a master of the subtle art of the gong. Too bad about the tranny trying to upstage everyone.
Also, while having a beer with Greg, I was reminded of one of my unifying theories of (my) relationships — that any girl who’s attracted to me must be either:
- Mentally ill, or
And yes, lazy eye counts.
(Apologies to anyone violating these rules — chances are, as the girl I took on my disastrous first date to Waterworld once informed me, I was being a space cadet)