12:07 p.m. - 2010-11-28
And so the night continued on with my jolly friends blocking his attempts to speak to me, watch me dance, and Dave went so far as to pick me up, throw me over his shoulder and carry me across the lawn in circles to get me away from him.
I just wanted to hear his American accent. Is it so wrong to want to hear someone's real accent? Is it?
Later, I talked to the man who chipped off parts of my heart. I got sad. Real sad.
While he took photos of people jumping in the backyard (it was insanely fun), my PMSing-emotional wreckage of a soul-self, escaped past the fire into the comfort of an empty house.
I sat on his bed and cried and cried and made myself upset enough to run to the bathroom and ralph. Ralph and ralph and ralph.
The tears. There were tears and tears and tears. Tears that had crusted around my heart like eye boogers and filled in the chips around the edges. Fooling me. Fooled by tears. And too much beer, and too much of the past, and giving the audience of my memories something to watch and relive and mourn, they melted the ice of eye boogers and flowed like snot on the peak day of a terrible cold.
The tears took me to a cove that swirled around and around, shit in a toilet, I'd become.
So I took my stinky, lonely turd of a self to my car with my guitar and digested and re-digested myself, until my soul could use the parts of me that my heart doesn't know what to do with.
And the tears kept coming, like the sprinkling after a terrible windy storm, cutely tapping on the puddles, plick plick plick, pleasantly playing with the pores of my plush poopy praying pain.
My tears and I, we made it back up to the front porch as my Source of Sorrow came outside, apparently looking for me. Oh, the concern, oh, the love, and the sincerity people express for me.
Poor girl, poor girl with the broken heart. What a brave girl, what courage, to make it here and stay here and be here, without any hope of getting anything that she really wants or needs.
We shot the shit, talked about his aching back, and my eyes stayed full, like a glass, when you ask, "Is yours half full or half empty?" By god, mine eyes were full, pouring over, so full, so full, my glasses for eyes.
And every lovely man, every angry true friend that walked by me, averted his eyes when they felt my pain emanating and aiming for the stars. For what good is wishing? What good is it? What is it good for when there is doing?
And they glanced my way with empathy, perhaps even sympathy, and nodded politely, sympathetically, yes, and mostly with empathetical leaning, for I am a lady in pain, inflicted by one of them, a boy, a boy, a boy.
The lovely angry friends that were women, they hugged me, the two of them that were left, and it was so very nice to see them, and would be so very nice to be angry with them, to be true with them, to shoot the shit with them, outside of these painful parties pouring poor poopy me into their line of fun. walking the line. crossing the line.
Sorrow Woe fiddled with a uke and my sister, who'd arrived 2 hours before to share in the joy of my lovely real friends, saw the pain in my face and the crease of my wrinkles creating a fetus-like form of "ohhh oh oh" hold me or i may roll away.
and so we left and i did not say goodbye. silly tears. silly soul. silly.
at 4:27 am, approximately an hour later, I received a text from the Pain Inflicter: "You okay? You seemed upset or something."
I rolled into my gigantic bed and my sister laid herself beside me, because of her bad hip, her divorce, and her car that won't start.
I awoke more hungover than in most recent morning experiences, and I responded at 11:00 am this morning: "Sorry I made people feel funny. Bonnie said people were feeling awkward. I know it's assumed that I'm upset about us, and I guess it's hard not to be sad about it sometimes, but I think it's more a combination of PMS, too much beer, and depression. I'm going to go ahead and blame Richard, too. But it was good to see people, great party."