I don't want to imagine cool shoes
My head hurts today, and I have refused all invitations to just sit in my apartment with the lights out. Nick Drake feels like hangover music, to me.
Yesterday was a good day; you can tell just by my entry how well things were going. After writing that, I curled up under a willow in our arboretum and skipped rocks and took new pictures for my Friendster profile. After riding the bus home I took a nap with the window open and a constant breeze across my face.
When I awoke and began getting changed for dinner, my manic mood became more aparent.
All day I'd been manic, though. Neurotic and sick-to-my-stomach from my own moodswings. The moods were in such sharp contrast that I could easily tell they were irrational.
Regardless, I sank into an internal rage while trying to change my clothes and realizing they don't fit the same. I'm not fat, I know, but my clothes fit tighter, and that's a fact.
Second, this bastard sweating problem which has at some point in the recent past decided to plague me has destroyed some of my fashion choices.
When Heather arrived I was ill-tempered for none-good reason.
At the restaurant I removed myself to smoke alone and calm down. My little girl in NY called me, actually, which helped significantly. She was at a diner in Manhattan with two of her friends and no immediate supervision and she wanted to let me know. And to ask me to come back. She and her friends said the new nanny is decidedly less-cool than I was and they can't take her for another year so please, will I return to New York?
That I cannot do.
My mood was more even the rest of the night, after I got into the alcohol, but I was prowling for something. My mood was even but I was very unsatisfied.
At our half-decent venue I ordered a $2.50 glass of bourbon, and there appeared Aaron. My group and his group all mingled, and I met his best friend in the whole wide world. I'd seen them earlier, on campus, and had called out to Aaron that he "looked fresh" since he was newly clean-shaven.
Last night he said cat-calls are welcome, so long as they aren't pejorative. Then we talked about how verbs should be conjugated in the pejorative sense, after which he asked if English had a subjunctive, and I got to tell him yes we do, in the third person, and it's used primarily in hypothetical situations.
You see, conversations like that in a bar are really, really cool, to me. Anyone can sit and bullshit about bands and music and shows and how shitty that other girl's ass looks in her jeans, but not everyone can talk about how they try to speak in only two verb-tenses while participating in a conversational-English program for international students.
Aaron, as I expected, was horrified by my alcoholic choice, and he said, "you never get well-brand when you're with me." Too true: he always has top-shelf, and even in his home there is at least ten different varieties.
So he bought me a Maker's Mark... I don't know why he bought it for me.
Somehow, as I got drunker, we were talking about best friends - because his was there - and then merged that topic with the unpredictability of feelings for the opposite sex.
He put his arm behind me and appeared very relaxed. Amelia's visiting friend was curious who the "tall guy in the glasses" was that he took so much of my attention. Then I realized that he was giving perhaps a similar impression to his own visiting friend, and what a statement that could be. He was no longer sitting beside his friends, nor did he speak with them after I came up.
goddammit.
This Aaron guy is so much like Tylere in that I absolutely love every minute of interaction with them, as well as find them attractive (though Ty'e is hotter indeed), but if they could just stop being the way they are with women it'd all be perfect.
I need Aaron to be straightforward. To not say things that make me wonder if it's encoded with his own feelings, which then evokes responses from me that could be interpreted as being encoded as well - whether or not they are - and I would have *no* problem just discussing, "hey, I think you're rad... but..."
After the show we matriculated to the Vid (because that's the only way to get there when you're drunk), and I wandered the sundry pockets of rooms and people looking for a set of eyes that might interest me. When I realized I was too drunk for new sport, and couldn't find any old sports, I ordered a glass of bourbon and shot shitty pool.
Really shitty.
I missed a clean shot, and turned to some guys at my back, asking who fucked me up, because somebody had.
"Sorry. It was me," one of them admitted. "I touched your butterfly."
Jaw agape, I glared at him and then turned to my friends with the exclamation, "he called it a butterfly!"
It's funny to me now how offensive that was.
I told Jen that I intend to fool around with Mike, and I hoped that would be cool, since they had fooled around recently. She said of course that was fine. Who wouldn't want to fool around with him. He's fun, and he's leaving soon.
Aaron had gone home at this point, so I wasn't being rude.
If Aaron had come to the Vid (the walk there made me feel significantly drunker) then I probably would have started seriously flirting with him, which shouldn't happen. If I flirt with him it ought to be possible when we're sober, too.
So I don't know what to trust as being the feelings at my core, versus the feelings on my surface. I don't know which feelings are causative of others. I don't know which can be stripped away.
Aaron and I spoke of trusting our gut.
My gut tells me to just find a broad chest to curl up on where I can fall asleep and ignore the future.
For some reason, this is one area where it is difficult for me to trust that Immenence is pushing me into the open arms of Providence (when it could just as well be the gaping jaws of Precipice).
