Can someone put an explanation to the randomness to the songs that’ve been popping in to my head lately? Last week, it was the song which I associate the loss of my virginity: This song riiiiiiiiiiight here, folks, a very lovely song, to be sure—let’s give it up for The Isleys—but good Christ, I was 15! Just ... (shudder). I can’t be the only one disturbed by this. And then Friday, it was “The Legend of Wooly Swamp.” I ... don’t get it, except that this only seems to happen at the restaurant.

I’m a little concerned that my reading comprehension might be slipping. A couple weeks ago on Jez, there was this article on a young woman who was killed in a car accident. The young woman was white, a Yale grad with a job coming up at The New Yorker and other various and sundry accomplishments under her belt, and writing skills to give pause to the most seasoned among us—I mean, as in, “DAMN. That’s freak-of-nature shit right there.” THAT good. So I’m reading this article, and what I took from it was that she passed, she had a lot going for her, and when she in her last piece for the Yale paper said we need to embrace what we have because it’s all any of us will ever have and that’s not a bad thing, we really ought to consider it.

Well, fuck me, y’all, because I comPLETEly didn’t catch the part about how her story getting the space it has diminishes EVERY OTHER DEATH IN THE UNIVERSE because the media has a pretty-white-girl fetish. Jesus, ladies (and the guys in touch with their “feminine” side who, at least I’m convinced, are trying to pick up chicks on there). Yeah, there’s absolutely a coverage bias, and it has to be frustrating in ways I’ll never understand. I just don’t think Katie (the author) was going there with her post, and it drives me nuts to see all these people go nuts over something I’m pretty sure she never intended in the first place. Go read the article and tell me if I’m wrong, here. (Especially punch-in-the-throat-worthyhelpful was the chick who didn’t like the way Katie wrote about how the accident went down, going so far as to write out how she would’ve done it. To me, if YOU weren’t asked to write the piece and YOU weren’t asked by the writer making a living writing things your opinion on how to make it better, nor are YOU the writer’s editor, YOU need to stfu, or at least do a better job of finessing your criticism—which I of course not-sosubtlely pointed out to her by praising her benevolence in taking the time to tell the professional writer how to write. And she responded, but I didn’t read it because that one tends to be a know-it-all, and therefore the chances are good she either got my condescension or wanted to tell me why her rude behavior was appropriate, and who wants to deal with that?)

Great weekend this weekend: Spent all day recoveringrelaxing after TSB at the House of Blues Friday night, where it STILL costs $11 for a freaking 24 oz Bud Light (ferchrissake) (and yet it didn’t stop me from playing big balls and having several) and SBrown’s birthday shenanigans Saturday night, where the beer was better and the company ridiculously divine; became pals with the lead singer for this group and continued to shock Mark with admissions of my prowess. (Ok, not really because it’s not like he’s a prude, but it’s just not something he and I talk about, and we’re amused that our friendship has reached the level where I can blurt out something like, “Why yes, I’ve been known to (insert something sexual here),” and he looks at me all bemused and says “You know, I’m glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can talk about these things.") Today, however, marks a year that I met in person the guy with whom I wanted to see where things went, and naturally, he’s been on my mind lately—the things we were talking about before actually meeting and so on and so forth.


(Sigh)


I’ve been thinking more about that stuff I was not having luck articulating in my last post, and here’s what I’ve come up with: It’s not an easy task to live by the “Actions, not words” credo when you’re one of those people who always always ALWAYS separates a person from his or her behavior and will go to great lengths to not reconcile the two until there’s no other conclusion to reach. Doesn’t matter how shitty the behavior or whether I want friendship or a relationship; it’s just what I do. And I miss him—his brain and the way he made me want to be smarter to keep up, the way he slept on his back as if he were in a coffin just like I do (when I’m alone; I didn’t when he was here because I was afraid of snoring like a freight train), his skin ... OMG his skin! His skin was the most perfect skin I’ve ever seen in my life, so it’s good he had a tactile aversion like I do because I’d have probably never stopped petting him. The things I didn’t like, on the other hand, were to my mind all defenses I’d hoped he’d shed once he got to know me and not anything that had to do with who he was as a person. He just either couldn’t shed them because his issues run too deep or didn’t want to because he didn’t dig me at all, and what do you do with either of those?

Well, since the last time we talked ended worse than the time before, there’s nothing TO do but leave it alone, because you can’t force someone to like you, and since I vacillate between thinking he never even liked me as a person in the first place and thinking he got issues, I can’t imagine MY reaching out would be a good thing regardless of the “If you don’t fight for what you want, don’t cry for what you lost” saw one of my fb friends posted today. He could certainly try, though, if he wanted.