Friends don’t
A story of Facebook friend deletion.
Friends Don't Let Friends vote for McCain
And I really did delete him! I didn’t leave that comment though. And it wasn’t just the McCain thing. But that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I don’t even really know this guy, he’s a friend’s friend who tried to get with my other friend and accused me of dating this other girl and needing to control her since she was my woman. This McCain endorsement just goes one step further to prove that this guy and I have nothing in common nor do I need to be tracking his every thought, feeling, or bowel movement via Facebookery.
Hence, DELETED!!!
Mountain Time
Sucks!
Not per se, but because all my friends are Central and Eastern time. And especiall for the Eastern Timers, I cannot drunk dial anybody because they are ahead of me by so much that by the time it’s time to call them they’re already in bed! Stop it guys!
Stay up extra late for me! Plz please pleas!
I love all of you.
Sidenote: I was invited to Liz’s wedding. Should I go? Should I bring someone? Should I go stag? Wedding Crashers? I think not guy. But should I even go or respectfully send a gift? I mean I like Liz, I think she is great and we were two people at the wrong time and the wrong partner, but I dunno if I can scare up the funds to just up and attend her wedding in September! Unless someone really wants to go with me. Let me know. It’s in Milford, CT and you’d have to pay your own way, but I’d rent the car!!
Dreamy Girl
Here’s how it works,
A pretty girl walks in to the coffee shop. Orders a Watermelon Italian soda. I’m making two other drinks while I take her order, so we chat (at her questioning) about performers coming in and how that works. It later turns out she’s interested in singing here but would need someone to accompany her. But in the mean time, we continue to chat and she says she’s just moved here. And I say I’ve just moved here. Only she moved from Alliance, and I moved from Chicago. But we both came to finish school, and how lovely that is.
Just as my brain is relaxing into the pace of the conversation, and as I’m putting the finishing touches on her Italian soda, it occurs to me that this girl is very pretty and that as a boy who likes girls there’s probably 10,000 things I could do to show the mildest possible see-you-later-sometime type of interest. However, I instead tell her that I hope she comes back sometime and sings once she gets all moved in.
She thanks me smiling; turns ’round and leaves. And very probably she got three or four marriage proposals before she walked the 10 feet to the corner. And because I didn’t say my sweet little nothingness of possible intent, she probably accepted one or more proposals (everyone needs a safety after all) and I am left in the lurch. Except it’s not a lurch or a rut because as the memory of our conversation fades into the greater morass of memory–much like half-n-half clouded coffee is still coffee but clouded, I recall that I’m not unhappy here “alone” and coupling isn’t something I need worry about.
The question then–the question of most of my life’s actions–is, if I’m so comfy on my own, why am I always keeping an eye out and getting momentarily excited about this sort of fast and far-off pipedream type stuff? Is that not the universal trapping of the whole durn human condition or what?
Possessions
My Possessions
Are many and various.
They are kept cluttered,
Out and about the room.
In scattered piles,
Like a pig sty.
And now I cannot find
the thing that kept all
the lies I tell to myself
that they might later
be taken as truths.
I fear that now, lacking those promptings–whatever their motivations–I wont recall what happened at all. Or why.
An example. Some years ago, my brother had his appendix removed. He stayed overnight in the hospital and says I visited him there.
I have no memory of that.
So either it didn’t happen, or it did and I am a crazy lunatic who can’t remember anything.
I’m very scared. Also, scared that he or someone else has the journal. I don’t really lock the slider in my bedroom. But then, why steal an unassuming leatherbound book, when it’s sitting next to a $1,000 laptop? It is likelier that I accidentally knocked it into the trash and didn’t notice when I took it out last week.
P.s. I’m thinking about de-cluttering in a serious and most-violent way. i.e. throwing out/giving away/selling lots of shit.
The Library Card
Today was perhaps my greated Nebraska adventure to date. At my brother’s prompting, I biked over to the public library and asked to sign up for a card. This was at his prompting because he wanted to check out a book, but didn’t want “to leave a paper trail.” And while this might sound like he intended to check out the Anarchist’s Cookbook, he actually was looking to get an out-of-print book of poems by one of the English professors at our college.
So, why was this an adventure you ask? Because the Library, in order to issue me a card bearing my name and a barcode, required more forms of ID than the Chadron DMV did to issue me a driver’s license. And naturally, I went over prepared to the DMV, and under prepared to the Library.
“Isn’t my license enough? It has my local address on it.”
“Well sir, you might just be living here for school, not an actual resident.”
["Oh, well I understand that then, wouldn't want crummy college students reading books!!"]
["Well sir, they do have their own library up there on campus."]
*Note: Campus is three blocks away, and to the south. Hardly “up there“*
After this short chat, the librarian produced a highly-stylized card–with color print!–detailing what secondary forms of ID were acceptable. Since I haven’t any utility bill in my name, and I’m not on the lease, I had to go home and return with a blank personal check. Which she barely even looked at. I think I could’ve held up a sheet of blank (non-psychic) paper and she would’ve passed me through.
She then disappeared with my license and I heard an electric typewriter going. Upon her return I was presented with a nice card, on which was slapped an ugly barcode label, and atop that another still uglier label bearing my name. It looks like a little kid made it. LIBARY CARD!!!! BOOKZ 4 FREE 4 ME!!! LAWLz…
Finally, we made our way over to the poetry section, to find that there the book was not.
