Thursday, July 23, 2009
I hate feeling like I’m too nice.
Because I am. In real life, anyway.
I did an old acquaintance a favor last night. It was kind of weird and didn’t make any sense, but I did it anyway. I think more than anything, he just needed a friend.
He bought me dinner. We talked about life and work and aging and how the world has become like a crazy sci-fi movie where robots take over. Except in this movie, the robots are passive-aggressive, and just sit there while we run around in smaller and smaller circles until we’re just orange blurs of light that will power the machines until the end of time.
After dinner we went to see a rock band. His girlfriend came to meet us. I got almost hysterically angry from the moment I saw her.
Tall, slender, and fucking gorgeous. I couldn’t tell if she was black or ‘mixed.’ Her skin was the color of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. Her eyes, a light green. She walked up to my friend and gave him a sweet kiss.
“We are in love forever,” he sighed.
“Yes, we are,” she sighed back.
And I just wanted to scream and cry and destroy everything I touched.
Why do I have to always be stuck watching the things I really want pressed up to my face like a bully taunting a helpless child? Why did I waste my time on this ‘business meeting’ where I impart oceans of wisdom and knowledge all for a plate of rubber chicken at another shitty L.A. restaurant?
Obviously it was so I could see what I’m missing.
This is my life.
I work and work and work and work. I only date women that approach me first. I’m never happy with them. They hound me and love me and beg me to marry them and father their babies. But I don’t. Instead I live a secret private life of drugs and porn and whores and $80 blowjobs on top of the parking structure of Ralph’s grocery store. I sit and imagine all of the things I could be doing with my life.
Instead, I’m planning elaborate hook-ups across state line with big sexy babes that I don’t even really know but know enough to fuck on a long weekend out of town.
I smoked a big bowl before going to work this morning. But I do that every day.
I don’t want to be this person anymore. He’s just too fucked up.
So—who to be now?
If you were reading this, maybe you would tell me. But you’re not. So you won’t. Fine. Fuck you too.