I know you’re excited.
Yes, it’s another entry in my “Drunken Thoughts” Series – where I say too much after drinking too much.
Sometime tomorrow I’ll fight the urge to delete this entry. Instead I’ll merely fix the grammar and correct the spelling so I’ll appear more cognitive than I really am. (And better with tenses.) I apologize if you read it before then.
Today I revisit past tragedies with all new characters. All new except of course, one. This is my blog after all, so they’re always about me.
As usual, there is alcohol involved and it is set in a sleazy bar.
It’s the same old plot though: Boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy leaves bar with other boy.
Hint: I’m not the other boy.
I’m not upset with him though. I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed in myself for getting my hopes up so quickly again.
Again, I felt stupid.
I walked home from the bar, my frustration and self pity shrinking with each step as the men of P Street disappeared behind me.
Walking, I wished I was able to move from guy to guy each night like so many of my friends, passing on one as another seemed more likely — I’d probably feel more in control. I’d feel less stupid.
I wished I was one of those guys but I am glad I am not.
I’ve wasted too much energy on this already, now if you don’t mind I have some cats to cuddle.
I just broke up with someone whom I really, really liked.
You would think that by now that it’d be easier, having gone through this a few times and, in this particular situation, having seen the warning signs for two months.
I never thought that after posting that last entry that I’d already grow the balls to actually breech the subject.
Apparently balls thrive in alcohol.
Somehow “so how was your day” turned into “so where are we at?” after pent up anxiety and vodka met half way.
Yet again, the answers were “I’m not ready to live my life with one person” and “my life isn’t where I want it to be”.
To quote Motley Crue… “It’s the same old situation — the same old ball and chain.”
I’ve never accepted that as a valid reason why you can’t date someone. Fuck, just admit you’re not that into me. “I”m not in a position to…” implies that you think I wont accept you for who you are and I’ve always found it insulting.
Either way… for better or worse… here I am: 12:29am on a Friday morning and curling up in a fetal position with my kitties.
Furthermore, if hear “it’s not you, it’s him” I’m either going to burn this fucking city to the ground or someone is losing a testicle; just sayin’.
This doesn’t qualify for a a full on Drunken Thoughts post, but it’ll do.
I just spent the last couple hours sitting next to some guy in Omega, trying to seem interested but not crazy too-interested. He spent the last couple hours talking catty with his friend about people in the bar and making me laugh —to myself mostly, I probably wasn’t supposed to be listening to them, cause that’d be kind of eavesdropping and creepy-like. His friend totally busted me a few times and repeated a few comments for my benefit. That was a good sign, I think. I tried to interact, but I felt like a dork for some reason, so I didn’t say much.
The lights flickered. the bartender shouted “last call” and we wound up walking back down P Street in close proximity but not together, if you know what I mean. We talked a little during the walk, at Dupont Circle I turned right and they went left. I missed the train. and suddenly had to pee.
At this hour it was either Kramerbooks or Annie’s, since that’s all I know that’s open with a public restroom. I’m still boycotting Kramer’s so I decided on Annie’s.
I was alone so once I got to Annie’s I requested a seat at the bar rather than waste a four-top during the closing time rush.
Of course, I ended up getting a stool a few seats away from them. I heard his friend say “ask him if he missed his train”, but I was never spoken to. I just sat there eating my burger and fries, wishing I would have brought a book to occupy my mind or at least brought the nerve to tell him I missed the train myself.
Literally and figuratively.
I’m home, so I will now say goodnight.
I’m sitting in the Bourbon Pub again for the first time in nine months and already I’ve been hit on by an elderly straight women, her son, and a homeless transvestite.
I now know what it means to miss New Orleans.