Lord have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways

Write an entry. Yeah, fucking write an entry.

I would give just about anything for a cigarette right now. Maybe because I so badly want something in my mouth, but mostly because writing and smoking used to go hand in hand for me. Now that one of those hands is chopped off the other has been laying dormant and flops occasionally. It needs to come to life.

As do I.

Today was stupidity and awkwardness rolled into one. If I had to admit that I was stupid I would do so here, and I guess that I am in a sense. It’s funny how stereotypes mirror themselves, and it’s funny how I don’t think I have a pattern but I do. I found you, I was honest with you, I lost you, and now I look for you. But you…you’re fucking one of a kind, kid.

Usually, and typically when I am not exposed to a stimulus it stops being stimulating. I’m not really sure how to react to the opposite. And certainly I shouldn’t react at all. But you’re like a hot stove and I’m a 4 year old child, and it’s everything I can do not to touch you. And I want to….touch you. But you won’t let me and I’ll just have to deal. Learn to follow and fall silent, learn to accept the opposite of everything I know about me. As if I ever knew.

~~~

(Earlier scene)

He means well. I’m sure of it. Yet here I sit at my desk contemplating what it will be like to watch my Father interact with a woman other than my (dead) Mother. He encompasses awkwardness, and although he has seamlessly passed that on to both of us in some fashion, he is the epitome of it all. There are so many things I can’t forgive, and so many things that I don’t have to. After all, I’m the anti-girl. The girl without a story, the girl without a reason. I do the things I do because you do what you do, how you do, so well. I do what I do because I am hell.

Yet here I sit. In a parking lot of that prism building that I am sure once meant something to me. Enough to find my way back after an oh so awkward meeting that only made me think of what might be. And now I regress for just a moment or two. Though the name eludes me, your madness does not.

Then the phone call comes. She can’t make it to dinner. I sigh, relieved. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do with all that??

~~~

The company I work for hires a private chef to come in and cook us lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No, I’m not fucking kidding, and yes, it is a stupid waste of money. Especially since I need help in my ‘department’ yet I can’t imagine these lunches costing less than a grand a pop. You get down with your mad Bentley self.

But I digress.

So anyhow, on Tuesdays and Thursdays our receptionist sends out a ‘Lunch is ready’ email when…………uh, lunch is ready. Well today we had a special lunch because it was the IT guy’s last day and the receptionist wasn’t working. So I took it upon myself to send out the email and titled it ‘Lunch for the quitter is ready’.

It wasn’t received well.

~~~

And then there is my sweet music man. Who just isn’t quite sweet enough.