Los Curvos

It's fast happening, this life I live. The taxi arrives at 6:15 in the morning. Put it on the boss' account. My sister will pick me up, and after dinner I'll be with my friends. It seems like a dream -- one more dream, God knows I've had enough dreams, every night -- and it will pass just as quickly as those dreams. I'm easily pleased, though, and the enjoyment of being near my friends will be nearly impossible to contain. I'm afraid of meetings like this: the kind where it's a surreal environment, and the next day you have to deal with the long trek of months and months without it. I wake up from the dreams every morning with a sharp emptiness that impales my chest like a trophy of war. I didn't take this for granted when I had my friends around me, either; just ask them... Doesn't it seem cosmicaly cruel that the "coolest" life I could be living right now has to be over 800 miles from the people I love? Now I get a day and a half to hear their voices, feel their arms, be drunk, and engaged, and laughing and crying (it's a wedding, betcha I'll cry). Then I'll leave again. What kind of progress could I possibly make in a day and a half? Then I'll return here, and feel set back from meeting locals. I just wish my friends would come up here to see me, take me by the hand, go with me to bars, clubs, concerts, shops, parks, and museums until I've met some people, then they can go back to school, and I'll be fine here with the people they found for me. The hard part is walking into the place alone, and striking up a conversation that goes sort of like, "hi, I'm new in town and am looking for someone to show me around." I'd rather not. Maybe I just need to make out with some one and all this tension of love and friendship and lonliness would subside. It's been since April that I've had no lip, so I guess I'm due a little. Don't think I'm mellow-dramatic for expressing doubt about visiting my wonderful and most loving friends, because I'm excited to death and can't wait to be there. It's gonna be wild crazy fun time, like a fox (p-h-u-c-h-s), for obvious reasons. I'm just releasing a little of my middle-child-syndrome for my own benefit. (Meaning, as a middle child, I prefer things to be low-key and non-descript. No news is good news. It's easier to leave if the break is clean. Pain is not a part of pleasure. Love should be simple, and simple.) Today I'm listening to Starsailor.