So today was coffee and conversation with Guy Friend at a local bar/restaurant. Neither of us was apparently paying attention to notice there was a Starbucks RIGHT NEXT DOOR, and the bar was where I landed, arriving first, waiting for him, *not* augmenting my iced tea with any "Long Island." I very well could have, and Guy Friend would never have known. (I would've known and hated myself for it, and I would've told my sponsor, who would've shot me.) I didn't, of course, but the threat of ALL of those BOTTLES behind me sometimes gets a little overwhelming and unnerving, speaking just in regard to my own illness, as does the underlying din of clinking beer bottles, glasses, corks opening, ice landing in said glasses, in what was otherwise a relatively quiet setting, etc. (As I've mentioned before, one of my idiot savant traits is memorizing background noise while simultaneously paying attention to conversation.)
Our last barroom confab (over a year ago) was at another bar/restaurant, at my request but per his choosing, though we had Diet Pepsi, and that was sitting AT the bar, which was even unhealthier. Bars, unless you're there to see live music, are, to a recovering alcoholic, both a dream and a nightmare. A definite strength-of-character challenge. A fantasy world and a reality check at the same time. Sort of like my addict mind imagining walking into a whole, vaulted room containing barrels of pure hydrocodone powder and not being able to snort it (like SuperJuls' job as a chemist. Hello, jealous! No, SuperJuls doesn't snort hydrocodone. Merely an analogy.).
I sat there and had a lovely visit with someone who's time for me is (sometimes frustratingly) limited in a room filled with all this other shit I can't have right behind me! (Stomps foot.) Guy Friend thinks, in hindsight, that I did just fine, and I ended up apologizing for not having the where-with-all to change the venue to Starbucks and took the blame for both of us, resigning and allowing him to make the plans for a change. Perhaps he took pity on me after my 17th text in a row that intimated, "GET ME THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
I *did* do just fine, but repeatedly asking to meet in a bar, as I explained to Guy Friend, isn't the healthiest atmosphere for me, which he, as my friend, should be more considerate of in the future. Besides, it's not like he's maliciously trying to put me in risky or uncomfortable situations. That said, he suggested that next time we just go to Panera for some innocuous soup and salads. Which sounds great.
Guy Friend, upon entering the restaurant/bar, sat down in the big, round booth, which was conducive to sitting closely together, but kept his proper spatial distance and gave me his usual half lip-half cheek smooch greeting. Had I turned my head a millimeter, I'd have landed that ever-elusive kiss that has been looming over (mostly my) our heads for more than a year (his ever-so-brief kiss on my lips like a year and a half ago, I don't even count much, because I think he feels impossibly guilty about it, inexplicably, bawk bawk). He ordered some coffee, with me nursing that glass of iced tea the whole time. (Perhaps best we didn't go to Starbucks, where my usual dose of crack is the venti (large size) half coffee/3 espresso shots with steamed soy milk. He'd have been peeling me off the walls after that on an empty stomach.)
It was lunchtime, but no food was consumed, not that I would've eaten anyway. (I'm on effective low-calorie intake since my mother's proclamation that I was looking "heavier" through the middle in my tank top, weighed myself and exceeded 120 lbs. by 4 lbs. That bowl of cereal I consume before bedtime to help me fall asleep is turning me into a heifer.)
Talkety-talk was kept benign and friendly, and fun, mostly about my school, the world of psychology (I told him I was profiling him as we spoke, which I was, though I shan't diagnose him with anything at this juncture of the blog.), my anxiety, The OKC Thunder and the NBA finals (no, it didn't seem like a good time to interject that The Flaming Lips' "Race for the Prize" is the Thunder's rallying song for the finals), art, Freud's cocaine addiction and numerous relationships, Kate, Boston, Costa Rican waterfalls, Luke and guns, his work, his kids, his co-worker nearly going insane, his mother, Paul McCartney, buying cameras, strategic church seating, and Best Male Friend only made like 2 or 3 appearances in the conversation, which was only appropriate as I was there to spend time with Guy, not further egg on their machismo laps around the shark pool known as Annie. His wife was embedded in the typical pronoun of "we" in conversation and not referred to by name, just like his daughters, who I can never keep straight.
He did like my fresh, new haircut, which I must say is faboo, as always. You have to love how the gray hair just STICKS OUT of your head like porcupine needles. No dyeing for this broad, no way. I earned every gray hair on my head, thank you. We all have. (Given my Dad was almost all gray by age 35, I count my blessings. Though I have more gray hair than my 68-year old mother.)
While my sense, from his invitation, was that he didn't want to spend the visit talking about music, I explained George Harrison's "Cheer Down," which essentially means to "chill out," though I think what confused him was WHY on EARTH I would suggest he "cheer down" via my musical compilation when he's such a laid-back guy, at least with me, though the song does explicitly imply that the singer wants the muse around, and it's ok to have the occasional hissy fit, and that he'll love ya anyway.
No, I didn't want to freak him out or worse, hurt his feelings, by my honest observation (based on being friends with him for upwards of 3 years) that while I love and accept him for the man he is, 'cause he's a doll, he's one of the most religiously-psychosocially repressed people I've ever been friends with. Maybe part of it's a generational thing, or a Catholic thing, I honestly don't know. The more time he spends with me, the "looser" he gets and he has a lot of fun. When we go a long time without being around one another, he retreats back into his predisposed apprehensions and rigid mores.
I observe and respect moral and societal standards to a limited extent, though I'm an anarchist, anti-authoritarian and a non-conformist, especially when it comes to my religious beliefs, which are frequently a direct opposition to the tenets of the denomination in which I was raised. I understand his vigorous sense of right vs. wrong, despite the fact that it's not me who historically blurs those limits. He, in turn, tends to project his expressive repression upon me, which is sexist, unfair and inconsistent, as if I'm a tart. Best male friend told me I innately give off an unconsciously "alluring vibe."
(And I largely reject Freud!) So what did I do? I sent Guy Friend a mildly tongue-in-cheek, suggestive Father's Day someecard in which I deemed him "hot." (Great, now he'll be scared away for months.) Why? Honestly? It was late at night and I was tanked on my meds and as I said a couple of days ago, I'm getting my mojo back and consequently feel extra-frustrated.
Best male friend, after a recap of events, conceded a victory in Guy Friend's favor, not only as he did a few days ago, by praising Guy Friend's professional prowess and knowledge converse to Guy Friend not being as artistically minded as he is, but also by telling me that in a lot of ways, Guy Friend fills voids and satisfies needs/wants of mine that Best male friend never can, not simply because of the distance factor. Which is, as he said, sort of the whole point of having a diversified group of people you call "friends." Best male friend said, "It's too bad you can't be in more than one place at a time, because the world could use more Annies." MORE Annies? While the world would be a very huggable place, it'd be bedlam.
Kate, meanwhile, has BOTH of them figured out.
(When Best male friend was in acute crisis both physically and mentally, his own wife conceded the plan of action to me, understanding, with knowledge of our relationship's complicated history, that she wasn't equipped nor was she willing to "deal with him" and she, likewise, knows there are things about him that I uniquely understand and jive with that she never will. Like I've said before, I respect her place and she respects mine, even though she and I couldn't exactly be called "buddies." And she knows he, gasp, kisses me! Sin!)
Guy Friend and I spent about 1 1/2 hours together catching up, though much of what *I* wanted to cover never made it into the conversation and consequently, I'm actually considering giving him the 10,000+ word email/book I've been slowly writing him over time that explains how I feel and why about lots of topics, and various other observations and anecdotes, in order to help him understand some basic principles and alternative philosophies, about which I'm sure he's unfamiliar and would rock his world (in an enlightening, educated fashion, from a fresh perspective, rooted in both the street and intellectual wisdom I've adopted during my relatively short life and the education and experiences I've had). My anecdotes are Keith Richards' worthy. Seriously.
No, I didn't ask him for the third time whether or not he ever figured out who Syd Barrett was. I didn't muster the courage to ask him what his wife thought of me after having met me (if she had any opinion yay or nay) or if she was aware that he and I were even meeting for coffee. I didn't bring up my birthday party at all. I indicated that I wanted to see him again soon, and he said he had relatives flying in the early part of July, so it's unlikely I'll see him before mid-to-late July, which sucks, unless we get together for dinner after work some night, which I'll certainly suggest.
He said he enjoys my blogs overall but feels that my blog tracker "invades his privacy" and he wishes he could read me privately, without my knowledge, I guess, which puzzles me, given this is MY web site. It's an honest, autobiographical account of my world for the public to read though, yes, he's featured in my writing, because he means something to me, so his opinion is valid and I understand that much. But anyway, I don't closely monitor when he reads what, so it's not like I'm reading over his shoulder and he, like the rest of the world, is free to roam. The blog tracking software is, for me, now just a source of amusement to see what crazy shit people Google and land on my writing, like "douching is good". Certain nosy, unwelcome, potentially threatening readers abandoned the blog months ago, which means I either finally exhausted them or they've moved onto somebody else over which to neurotically obsess.
Published authors know the demographics of who's buying their books, just as other media outlets know their demographics, like the Neilsen ratings, for example. Why I keep track of my overall readership is my own business, which might someday make fiscal sense, and for my own edification. It's interesting data. (Like, it's fascinating to me to see that someone went through the trouble of running my blog through a Turkish translator. What is the Turkish word for "douchebag?") I told him that I don't care WHEN he reads it, as long as he reads it.
Just wait until I write the screenplay for my life story, Guy Friend!
I was in the middle of the parking lot with him leaving, our cars parked far away from one another, and it didn't even seem like he was going to hug me, as we made idle goodbye chit chat and he seemed in a hurry to split. Instead, I reached out my arms to him and let him control the scenario. Got a big hug and, consumed with frustration over "Will he FINALLY kiss me?" I forgot to give him my one-of-four copies of George Harrison's new CD of early and alternate takes. (Warning! If you kiss someone who's insane, it IS, in fact, contagious!) (He didn't kiss me.) Once I got home, I texted him that I forgot the CD, because I was distracted by the tension over whether or not he'd kiss me and that I'd save George for next time. Naturally, he didn't respond to THAT text, because THAT text was scary and had to do with latent chemistry, which he occasionally avoids but is obvious. Did we not learn anything from the 1960's? (Well, I didn't, obviously, seeing as I was born in 1972.)
Which of Harrison's early takes did I really want him to listen to? "Behind That Locked Door."
....Unless my original hypothesis from a blog or 2 (or 3, I don't know) ago is true and he innately finds me utterly repulsive. (Which both Kate and Best male friend think is hogwash. Best male friend's impression? He said I was "striking.")
"Do not go where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." --Ralph Waldo Emerson
OR:
It's a shame I didn't get around to explaining the Fluxus art movement to him, which is the discipline Yoko Ono was a part of. Meanwhile, I just keep channeling my inner Yoko and abiding patiently.
In other news, Worst Facebook Status of the Day? Why am I friends with this woman??
Ok I am not feeling well at all. This surgery has my body.out of wack very bad. Worried about Blatter they hit by mistake during surgery amongest a post op complication causing pain. But this I leave in the hands of my Dr.s
Seriously? "Amongest?" "Blatter?" Holy Jesus! PS, I'd sue anyone who perforated my bladder. Is it any small coincidence that this woman's daughter had to be held back another year? Yet more testimony as to why I don't chit-chat with the other parents outside of school and wait for Luke in the car. I just can't tolerate idiocy.
Went over my homework reading and will study at great length Monday night, in preparation for my first Abnormal Psych test. I think if I go in with an "I'll ace this!" attitude, I'm destined to fail. If I go in with low expectations at excelling, I'll fare much better. It's my way of mind-fucking myself.
Came across this interesting graphic today, which is certainly true:
So that was the big Guy Friend Round-Up. Fun, interesting and insanely frustrating.
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