Man, to think at this same time three weeks ago, I was sitting on a real live deck (not my puny little balcony) in a real live backyard at an undisclosed location in a pair of basketball shorts and a tie-dye while my friends’ hound guarded the perimeter (and when I say “guarded the perimeter, I really mean peeing on everything he hadn’t already peed on twice—prednisone sucks), and now I’m .... not. I got to grill out for my charge and me, and people, I GOT TO TAKE A SHOWER LONGER THAN A SLIGHTLY LONGER WHORE BATH. Do you know how long it had been since I’d done that!?? And my blowdryer didn’t overheat as fast, either. Perhaps there’s something to the whole home ownership thing. Today I spent ... sleeping, which is equally as awesome, really, but also has me on guard because between the sobbing I’d been bitching about all week and need for copious amounts of sleep, the cook at the restaurant better not have gotten me sick, is all I’m saying.
I’ve been instructed by one SBrown that I must tell the story of my first laser hair-removal treatment—no no, not THAT kind of hair because a) NO, and b) the Groupon that allowed me to purchase this dreamprocedure didn’t cover that business. And anyway, what I went for is, at least to me, much more embarrassing: my face, or more specifically, what I refer to as my “meatbeard,” much to the dismay of my sister, who thinks that’s the grossest descriptor ever, but I (and other people, thankfully) think is hiLARIous.
So like I said, Sbrown wanted to hear all the gories—except there weren’t really any, other than I had to put gauze in my mouth to cover my gums and had to put cotton pads over my eyes beFORE the blonde, fuzzy-bunny, 20-ish year-old aesthetician strapped the solid-metal tanning-booth goggles over my eyes. She then spread ultrasound goo on the area, kicked up the jams to whatever voltage felt like a rubberband snapping, and it was all done in less than five minutes. I’ll go through it five more times, the end. The REAL bitch of it was that I was a mere five minutes from the greatest mall in the world ever (A FREAKING TESLA DEALERSHIP, PEOPLE!), but I had to be back for a finance meeting, so I didn’t get to go. Next time, you’ll have to pull me out of Nordie’s shoe department. Mark my words.
Meanwhile, chatted recently with a familiar character ‘round these parts—because of job crap, she’s asked me not to use her name, but I’m sure you could figure it out if you’re so inclined—and she was telling me about reconnecting with a guy she dated a million years ago. She friends him on fb, they talk for a few days and everything appeared to be fine until one day, when first he was all “Hey, when you going to be on?” and then when she gets on, he hits her with the following:
I’ve been thinking a lot and I can’t think of one positive memory of you. I really don’t like you. I’m sorry I was abusive ... (something something gibberish we couldn’t quite parse) ... I don’t want to talk to you anymore.
Then he blocks her as if after that, she’s going to pursue any sort of further contact.
So naturally, that guy deserves ALL of the scorn because WHAT!?? Who the fuck reaches out to someone to tell them they don’t like them!? More than that, though, I’ve come to really not understand what possesses someone to apologize when they don’t really mean it, and by “mean it,” s/he thinks the apology’s enough in and of itself.
Self-indulgent story time, and I’ll even throw it below the fold for y’all:
Long, long ago—like, 14, 15 years ago—I met a chick at this conference temp gig we were working. Nice woman, but we were complete polar opposites and just didn’t have anything in common. Still, she was nice, and she tolerated me, and you can’t have too many nice people who tolerate you around, right? So anyway, we hung out off and on for about three years—mostly because I kept her at bay—and a few months after Dad died (which she drove the hour to come to the wake, I might add), she came to the resort one evening; T was living with me at the time, TOG and I were having issues more than normal, and I had just started to realize the magnanimity of having to deal with Mother without the buffer that was Dad the first 32 years of my life; suffice it to say, I was a dick to her. She may have called once more afterward before deciding (rightfully so) that I wasn’t worthy of her effort.
I’ve always felt bad about the way I treated her (especially since at one point, I’m pretty sure she asked me point-blank if I wanted to hang with her, and I pussed out like a pussy from telling her the truth), and if there was ever someone to whom I should apologize, it’s her. She ALSO deserves someone who wants to put an effort into a real friendship, which I ... don’t, clearly, or I would’ve, so to me, if I don’t really intend to make a situation right full-stop, what difference would my saying “I’m sorry” make? Personally, I don’t believe it would, because them’s just words, man, and they cheap. Could my stance probably have more to do with the fact that I’m not good with letting out people who’ve I let in than it does ... reality, maybe!? You tell me—I’m just kind of thinking out loud, here.
Which leads me to self-indulgent story No. 2: Why I don’t keep grievance lists on people—no, seriously! I really don’t, and you know why? Do y’all remember me telling the story of how Dad kind of got us into a financial disaster and the shady way he kept the ship afloat? Can’t remember if I was specific or not, and the details aren’t important because looking back on it, he did what he had to do,and whatever. If you ask Mother, however, she’ll tell you about horrible it was and blah blah blah like it happened yesterday, and this was 20—yes, 20—years ago, and I know this because she reminds ME about it every month or so. And god forBID you bring up how her brothers—men SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE, FERCHRISSAKE—don’t call her to make sure she’s Ok or offer to take her out or bring her food or whatever it is she feels they should be doing for her; THAT you don’t even have to ask, because she talks about that CON.STANT.LY to everyone she possibly can.
That’s ... not me.
Sure, I beef with people, and unless I’m completely at fault, you’ll almost never see me make the first move to patch things up—can’t get rejected if you cut bait first, after all, says the Abandonment Handbook—but once we do, shit’s in the past, man, and I’ve welcomed back people who’ve done really shitty things, as we all know. So when recently, someone I care about told me there were things that bothered me that I hadn’t told him about, I was stunned because I just don’t work that way. I’m still stunned.
I don’t know what else I want to say about that, so if someone can give me some insight, have at it. Oh, and Happy Zombie Jeebus Day or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days.
Oh, whatEVER. 
