Normally I wouldn’t do an update (largely because I doubt anyone would actually care), but because developments have come about in all three of my blog entries in a very short time, I figured I’d share.
1) Update from entry titled: The Dangers of Crossing the Street
The offending driver continues to wave at me as if we are friends. I do not wave back, not even with one finger. I think part of the reason he remains unsuccessful in his quest for my blood is that now two others get off a different bus at the same time and cross the street with me almost every single day. One of them is a very tall, beefy, pretty attractive black man. He’s difficult to miss, even if you are hell bent on your left turn. The other guy who rides this other bus is bordering on hot, but looks like an anachronistic John Travolta from Grease if he frequented the Jersey Shore. And stole James Dean’s hair. However, he was witness to the last near-run down, so I may be harsher on him than I should be. In any case, if I weren’t so focused on my Running with the Light (a.k.a. The Great American Car Dodge), I might enjoy the view more.
My work friend finally talked to the wife of the He-Demon of Satan’s Chute who launches at me in his predatory van (whose vehicle I can only presume is from the same Infernal Factory that spat out Christine and the wretched 666-van which ran down Stephen King). The wife’s response? “Oh, I thought he stopped that.” Bitch…WHAT? Like it was an addiction for which he was seeking help and was thought to be doing better at avoiding. Now this frizzy-haired whore has the nerve to give me dirty looks when she sees me in the hall. Don’t make me “accidentally” open the break room refrigerator on your face.
My “never-really-gonna-happen” crap talking aside, the good news is that the Van Assassin has apparently accepted a position in another state, and will be transferring at the end of the month.
I may get through this ordeal unscathed.
2)Update from entry titled: Why I Stay in my Room
A friend of mine came from several hours away to visit me. We will call her Beverly (only because I’m re-reading Stephen King’s It at the moment), unless she cares to be revealed. She is my oldest friend (in the age of our friendship, not because she’s Methuselah-ette) and very dear to me. My roommate, Stacey, also knows her and was at one time fairly good friends with her. She and my, uh, “friend”, Giuseppe (who is Mexican, not Italian, but the fake name fits for reasons too boring to reveal) and I were in the front room.
I understand it’s Stacey’s apartment too, but he always thinks he can and should come out and hang out with me and my friends, thinking they all want nothing more than to hang with HIM, and that I am only the insignificant connector. Whatever.
As the three of us were watching copious amounts of South Park, Stacey came out, stood on one foot, and lifted his arms as though he were working out with invisible dumbbells. We ignored him. He took a step closer to the TV and did it again. We ignored him. Step closer, repeat. Ignore. So, he sat on the ground and tried to do the splits. He stretched his hamstrings. He stretched his arms. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. He inched toward the TV and did the splits again. Ignore. Finally he got up and went to his room. Boo hoo, Stacey.
When Giuseppe, Beverly, and I decided we wanted ice cream, Stacey eventually came back out wearing jeans, saying he would drive us so my friends wouldn’t lose their precious parking spots on the street. Very nice of him.
Then came the Attention Wail. “Uuuuuugh! My pants are SO loose on me now! I NEEEEEED to get a belt!” Beverly looked at him and threw him a bone. “You look good. How much weight have you lost?” And it is an amazing achievement, and Stacey looks as good as he can. It’s an admirable thing he’s done. But it was like the proverbial fat kid with cake. He was so happy he almost drooled into his own panties. He told her and told her and told her some more how much he had lost, what he’s doing, how he’s eating, blah, blah, blah.
We left and came back and Stacey decided to stay out there with us. He was all but doing back bends and vying for more attention, but not nearly as bad as before. I thought, “Hmmmm, one compliment and he quiets down. Is that the secret?” But then the bitch in me, always near the surface, said, “Why the hell should I be irritated and pestered and corralled into forced compliments, solely for the sake of ending the eternal parade for attention? Screw that!” So, I was silent. And silent I will remain.
Now, he texted me twice tonight (from the other room) to see if I wanted to go out and get something to eat with him. I don’t feel my greatest (see update #3), so I declined. Then he wanted to go get Yogurtland. I declined again, telling him that I don’t feel well. He said, “Ok, well let’s hang out when you feel better. Lots has been going on and I wanted to reconnect and talk about everything and nothing.”
As Stacey let slip to one of my best friends that he’s “sooooo OVER” living with me, I think I know what it’s about. I think that, five months after I realized that it would be better for both of us if we no longer live together, that he has come to the same conclusion. I had planned to tell him with about three months to go on the lease to give him enough time to get another place. I believe that Stacey wants to beat me to it. Or, or, or…I’m being hasty and neurotic and he really has noticed that I see him only as a joke and don’t want to live with him or have much to do with him and genuinely wants to reconnect. I suspect it’s the former rather than the latter.
I seriously wish this was made up. I wish I was exaggerating. But I’m not. Not even a little. I swear to you that every single thing I have written here is 100% the truth. And that makes it all the sadder.
3) Update from entry titled: Wedding Angina
For the actual outdoor, beach-side wedding, the temperature was a mere 81 degrees and the day was overcast. It was a sweaty, sweet ceremony. I actually got a little choked up, but hid it under my charming façade of cantankerousness and a calm face. Even so, the wedding party was ready to slip right out of our suits from sweat and sheer desire. The bride required a sweat rag at almost all times. We took pictures on the beach and were off.
I typed up a whole update for this entry, up to and including the drunken debauchery (to which I briefly referred in Update #2), but really the event was too special to have just part of an entry. Everything about it (other than the aforementioned sweat) was absolutely great. I dreaded it, I hated the outfits, and I loathed the thought of pictures. I whined and bitched, and complained, and went only because of an ill-represented sense of self sacrifice for a dear friend. Martyrdom is not sexy, and I was a paragon of idiocy and beastly uncharitable-while-trying-to-be-nice lunacy.
The moment I saw my friend in her dress, that all fled. Her, uh, bride, was just as radiant in her tux.
I thought I would be miserable.
Instead, I had almost illegal amounts of fun, got some ass and nipple action, took genuinely good pictures, had a cute straight guy try to pimp his cute gay brother out to me, danced with hot girls, and got to take part in the union of two very dear friends.
All in all, not a bad weekend.
Now I sit here watching old Shark Week episodes on Netflix, being sleepy, and dreading work tomorrow. Maybe it will be as fun as the weeke…yeah, no. Ewwe. The very thought of bare asses in that place. Ewwe.
Until next time. Ewwe.