:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Sunday, October 05, 2003 ::

[ Until I'm Allowed Finally / To Wake / And Be Happy / Again ]
Well, I guess the weekend's over now. I'd argue that it go in the top 5 Worst Weekends Ever. Gosh, thanks for tolerating me everyone. There was a fair amount of misery loving company, which made things a little easier and the trip to Wawa not such a lonely one. Friday night was act-out night, act crazy night, never-stop night that involved my playing the fool and such; center of attention type nonsense. At least everyone seemed amused, and that I was a good desperately-running fool. I kicked my sandal far into the field by Lunt at night and couldn't find it for a while until everyone came to help. All the Board of Managers luxury-dinner stuff was still outside after the piss-poor Lighted Fools show, and so in an attempt to be good citizens and return the plate that housed the slice of cake that Leah stole from a rack of desserts (IMPRESSED!) that got consumed with bare hands in minutes before the weak, generally witless, not-up-to-snuff Lighted Fools show. Folks tell me the Throng was even worse the night before. Perhaps this whole Improv Comedy thing ain't for me.

The BoM tent was absolutely enormous; it probably could have housed my entire apartment building inside it, provided that it wasn't directly tacked onto 19, which is directly tacked onto 23. Who's been to 23's roof? Yeah. There was a giant case of wine that we didn't take, but Sebastian (a few hours later) did, which I'm rather glad about; I was worried that it would all go to waste. What DID go to waste was the giant ice sculpture centerpiece that was oddly un-Haverfordian in its immodesty. Oh well. My fault for buying into images; to be fair, these are the folks donating the off-the-hizzy bling bling, and modesty doesn't seem quite so at home in a giant tent with the wealthy sampling the finest we had to offer. Anyway, the point is that I licked the ice sculpture, and my tongue didn't get stuck to it, so whatever. It was most nice talking to Ali (who is awesome), but my piano skills were woefully inadequate, the basketball auction just made me sad and bewildered, and I just wanted to go home, where I fell asleep in my clothes after having some breadsticks and part of a 40. I woke up having missed a Phone Call. When I called back, I left a message, then tried again. The phone had been turned off. I spent the next two hours or so waking up twitching and shivering (I got myxomatosis) in Leah's bed (sans Leah, who was in mine), trying very hard not to think. Eventually, the anxiety dreams woke me up around 1:30 or so Saturday afternoon.

Saturday involved perhaps a half-hour of shaving my beard. It was decidedly a cleansing thing, though at the cost of a scruffy, fun, poorly-groomed goatee. Hilariously enough, Keith called from a small Irish island (whose name I couldn't pronounce then, and have since forgotten) mid-shave, and I just kept scraping away and chatted animatedly with him about Ireland, which probably resulted in a fair bit of unevenness, but oh well. He called me, and the first thing he gave me was motherfucking GPS Coordinates. I love that kid ::smiles:: . I think I may have had a single meal all day when I woke up, and just a bit of bread and water after that. To be fair, it was Genuardi's garlic sourdough bread (with whole cloves of prepared garlic...most delicious), but it's still far from a meal. I wonder when I'll be hungry again. It'll probably hit me pretty hard, I imagine, after the conversation with Jenn that makes this all Okay, though I don't know if it's even possible over the phone, or at all.

Saturday evening was awful, which is a shame, since a lot of really good things happened. I played Anne's Voldo, and was promptly taught not to go easy on her. I played DDR again, and was promptly taught that I was woefully out of shape, but hadn't lost everything. But she Called again, you see. I heard his voice. I was conversationally presented with the cold reality of their intimacy. It's not terribly different from what's happened to her in the past, which at least helps me feel like I deserve what I get. Even during the conversation, I knew that I was going to need a cigarette immediately thereafter. I was 2/3 of the way to Wawa before I realized that I didn't have my wallet with me. I've never walked back to the apartments so fast, hands clenched in my hair, muttering actual garbage syllables. Think "Rabbit In Your Headlights" video, without the mercy of cars slamming into me. I sprinted the last block, hoping to outrace, to abandon the conversation I'd just had. I found Allison in my apartment (oh yeah, I'd called her), and talked with her for a while, though she departed on a quest for cigs and never returned. I'm tired of kvetching. I just hope she's doing better. Ditto Nathan, with whom I later went to Wawa. I asked for Luckys, filtered. Instead, the lady gave me a pack of UNfiltered: just paper and tobacco, the baddest, angriest cancer sticks I've ever run across. Nothing prevents you from torching your fingertips with an ambitious drag; it doesn't even matter what fucking end you light. Nate and I split a pair outside of 34. It was delicious.

I woke up this morning to The Call I'd Been Waiting For around noon. The debriefing conversation went more or less the way I expected it to: I love you even more now, and I'm going to avoid the hell out of these details that have been causing you agony for the weekend, that simply cannot be avoided. Are you sure you want to hear about them?

Yeah, I was sure.

It wasn't masochism, but it wasn't painless anyway. But what could I have done? One way or the other, they'd have driven me crazy. I feel like she's consoling herself, convincing herself that a mediocre sex life with me isn't all that bad. Naturally, even if it is true, it'll be okay eventually (cf: Freshman year), and that I'm going to have to grow up a little bit and recognize that things aren't perfect, that there are going to be people who are better at the whole pleasure thing than I am, and that I need to recognize that this guy had a goddamn motel room in Wayne, New Jersey to make Jenn happy, whereas I've had nothing but dorm rooms and roommates, bedrooms and families. I naturally feel like I could do the same, perform equally as well, if (oh such a painful if) she were as interested in me. She said that, really: that at this point, she's not as interested in me. To be fair, she could have just misheard me on the phone, but--

::face in hands:: I can't even think about it. I had this coming to me, since Freshman year I had this coming to me. Sure, she's in love with me, but not as interested in me as a physical partner. That is, she'd want to do this again with someone else, or maybe the same guy, or something. I don't know that I could do this to her. I'm guilty of yet another count of being really lousy at being single, for certain. And now, she's probably talking to Heather and Jane about how I didn't take it very well, and whether or not it's being portrayed sympathetically, it's weak, and the two of them know it. Just one more thing, one more thing to obsess about. Stupid drama queen.

And again, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness, knowing that there's nothing I can do until she calls again. If she loses her temper with me the way I lost mine with her, I can only hope the 15 remaining Luckys will tide me over until things become Okay again. Oh well. For a dose of perspective, at least she didn't get with John Brodsky. Grace beyond words, dude. I swear everything will be fine.

Music: Oh, you'll hear about music. In fact, you'll outright hear music; I'm actually going to rip the song that's been haunting me since Wednesday. Go and get the album. Bands love that shit.

:: Aziz 2:03 PM [+] ::
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