Guadalajara won't do...

and i'm never going back to my old school.

wierd night. i went out with BFF A (formerly Roomie A, creator and greatest proponent of the Zombie Contingency Plan, which he now refers to in casual conversation as "ZCP") for my belated birthday sandwich-and-beer extravaganza, sadly mostly cut short by his dodgy tummy.

we're in my favorite bar here in the ICT, catching up, he's telling me about his new good thing (a redhead. a *real* redhead, he now knows for sure...), and i'm telling him about my new job and whatnot, and then i spot him.

a curiously tall, angular man, who holds his pints just so. in precisely the same fashion that my bad ex (Ubie: my TEO) used to hold his. my ex, who was so curiously tall and angular. who smokes his cigarettes in an oddly delicate way, just the way this man is.

Little Brother will tell you, my eyes are no damn good. but there are simply too many consistencies for this to be less than a cruel coincidence. i check the hem on his pants, rolled, just so, just the way Mike did.

i decide to ignore all this nonsense, figure it's my own natural paranoia doing it's thing, and then i realize he's looking right at me, and there's no mistake. it's his face, it's him.

right fucking there. last i knew, he was in spain.

BFF A tells me he's gotta go, he has to get up at o-dark-thirty for work and i need to take him home, that we'll go out and booze it up friday night. serendipity? my BFF reading my face correctly? i can't tell. regardless, we split.

i drive him home, battling myself all the way in deciding for whatever sick reason to go back and confirm what i really believe is true.

i called Little Brother, by now i'm certain who i've seen. after all these years, he laughs. he asks me, did you punch him in the dick?

now i'm home. i caved, i did the search/google/myspace thing to see if i can determine if this bad piece of my past is really living here in town. i couldn't find him. which is probably for the best. i'd like to go back to my bar and be comfortable.

there's no point to this. if i'd wanted to stay and duke it out in some fashion, BFF A would have been right there with me, dodgy tum or no. as if alcohol is ever a good factor in the already ridiculously complicated equation of human relationship. as if it wasn't good enough that it's *my bar* goddammit, and that the staff would have had my back after i'd downed enough bourbon to be that foolish.

it's not that it's 'not good enough', it'll never be 'good enough' for me to ever have any entanglement with him again. there is no reason, no pressing issue, nothing.

i don't know what the point of this is.

i think it's universal that when one sees one's last truly bad ex, one is kicked rather cruelly out of whatever groove they happened to occupy previously. whatever.

i'm going to go sew, and think about math, and wait for my very good one true thing to come walking through the door, and i'm going to love him for everything he is, and who he is because i know precisely how it feels to not be loved, honestly and properly.

maybe the reminder isn't a bad thing, but there is no nostalgia. that was a long time ago, and a long way from here. and while the pictures in my head remain, like a gloomy exhibit, i can walk right past and come home to where i belong.

monday lolcat, just 'cause.

ha ha! i made it. thirty-one years.

nothing special this year, no lists, no wish-lists, no wants, no complaints.

i think (very briefly, mind you) about where i was and how i was ten years ago, five years ago, and i realize that it would be gluttony, pure and simple, to want for more than i have right now.

so while i could say, "happy birthday to me!", the reality is, it's been an awfully good year.


i know it's smarmy. i don't care.

Stitches, bitches!

unbelievable. i went thirty years, nearly thirty-one, without doing myself grievous injury, for the most part. it's not that i've been especially careful, lucky i suppose.

the story is silly, so i'll share. i just started my new job on tuesday (after returning from a fab road trip with lil bro)..my boss wanted me to start on this tuesday specifically as i will be working with outside salespeople, and they were all to be in town for two days of meetings: this would be my chance to meet them in person, and sort of sound them out. tuesday goes well, we have informative and interesting meetings. the boss has arranged to take us all to the Alley for some good-natured bowling competition and pizza and (cue Imperial March) go-karts.

i bowl reasonably well. i eat pizza exceptionally well. i'd never been on a go-kart before. i watch my shiny new coworkers take their turns, laughing and slamming into each other, and having what appears to be a ball driving these mini-machines of death around in circles..

i laugh as they strap me into my kart (i distrust things intentionally misspelled), and my boss rather jovially tells me the key is to "floor it and not stop until it's over"...i'm riding with a crew of hillbillies, and JoBu, and it's actually pretty fun, for the most part. then i get hit for the first time, and ooh, it kind of stings when you get slammed into the metal frame. my mind instantly recalculates the "fun" aspect of this activity. i decide my new priority is not to overtake anyone, only to avoid getting hit.

to this end, i start checking out the people behind me on curves..in fact, i get so interested in what the bastards behind me are doing that i completely missed a turn and hit the wall at top speed. i come to a complete stop, instantly. i am slammed against the frame of this kart again, with my lower body taking the brunt of the blow. i'm dazed, and in considerable pain.

the teenager manning the track scampers over, and asks if i am okay (at this point, i am counting my teeth, and making certain none are somewhere they shouldn't be, say, my lap)..i say i think so, but i am definitely done karting about. i limp over to the waiting area, and realize there is a wet spot on one of my knees...curious, and ready to sue someone, i roll up my pants to reveal a gash deep enough that i swear i can see bone. i nearly hurl. i realize i can see a wet stain on my other pants leg as well, and opt to not check this one out, as i felt i really would hurl at that point.

JoBu and i rush off to the hospital, where i get ten stitches for my trouble. the admitting nurse asks if i have insurance, and i do, as i had signed up for it at 9am *that morning*.

i get to attend my second day of work high on painkillers. awesome.