Epiphany.
When Mr. 80 grand asks me out I will say yes.
I spent some time trying avoid this advance, as I don't want to waste his time or mine, but it won't hurt to eat a meal with the guy. No pressure.
And hopefully, I'll be able to slap my memory of Alby so hard it bruises.
(Do not think I am not myself repulsed with the ego trip I continue to provide him.)
I shall look lovely and say witty things.
And have fun for pete's sake.
Ms. Overanalysis moves on. Briefly.
I should explain here that I honestly have a full life and use the blog as my not-so-secret touchyfeely free for all--but I am SO sick of explaining myself....
Manhattan was delightful. Actually, Astoria was delightful. It is nice to have friends who remember you before you became Mr. or Ms. Oh So Mature Adult. No matter how fast we are running, we always keep up with each other (they would like that I quoted Dave Matthews). One day I must pontificate on how it is to be so intimately connected to boys who are now men and girls who are now women. It is a good feeling. Very safe. If you were there, you know what I mean.
I went to Astoria one way, came back another. Beer gardens will do that to one.
If you've not been to an authentic beer garden, honestly. How much of an adult are you?
There is only one person I want to see in New York City.
Okay, like 4 or 5, but let's stay on the one. You all know it's Alby, so whatever.
Do you know what it's like to be unable to see someone who actually wants to see you?
It is the most unnatural thing in the world quite frankly, and there's no solace at all in knowing you're moving on like an adult. Supposedly. Because the adult way is apparently to shove inappropriate issues into a tiny little box and pretend they never happened.
I shall be in Manhattan Sunday, and feel frustrated. Partly because I (annoyingly) still just like him so and just want to talk to him, partly because I'd like to give him mean dirty looks and I cannot, and partly because I'm pissed to feel this way every time I go to Manhattan now.
I shall concentrate on pretending he doesn't exist. Because, supposedly, he no longer does exist for me. Why dwell on imaginary friends?
But my imaginary friend is still the only one I want to see in New York. He's such a fool; you can't buy this type of devotion!
'Losing My Religion' has nothing to do with religion.
Well it could...but it doesn't.
It really has to do with being so so fed up and discombobulated that you're beyond losing your mind, you are losing your religion. That's how screwed up you are.
Welcome to my metaphor. Mine and Michael Stipe's, because he is always up for that sort of thing.
Some of you may remember my literal intention to burn my cds. I have not yet done so, although my Beck "Odelay" cd snapped in half when I accidentally pushed my bureau drawer into it. Oddly, that is one of my few cds with nothing even remotely romantic on it, and it would have survived the bonfire. Alas. Anyway, my REM cds are in hiding because they know I'm coming for them first.
More on my (our) metaphor. I saw Michael Stipe on CNN a few months ago, and I couldn't call the one person who would have appreciated it (yes other than Mike Stipe's mom). The entire charade with that person was embarrassing, inexplicable, and more painful than it was worth. I will not let it go, still, and I'm okay with that.
Perversely, that whole clusterbomb is not even a minor part of the reason I'm losing my religion, and I wonder if Master Stipe got it wrong. So we turn to Bono, who completely understands exactly what I mean at all times, and we learn that when he was all messed and had opera in his head, he in fact had some kind of love lightbulb hanging over his bed. Where can I purchase one of those? Are they only available to the wealthy and stick thin?
