Mjarc
"You're in love with a man," says Julie, "who insists that he can love you only whenever you're standing in the exact center of whatever room you're in."
This is my second Christmas season in a row without the horrifying experience of working retail. On one hand it sucks, b/c now I have no excuse not to go to all the family gatherings and borish Christmas parties where everyone wears terrible sweaters and pretends to like egg nog (and each other). On the other hand, its nice b/c I don't have to deal with rude video store customers who believe they are the only ones that came up with the bright idea to rent How the Grinch Stole Christmas on Christmas Eve. It just coudln't possibly be all rented out. Absurd thought, that one.
On a more general note, I'm feeling like humans may not be the worst folk on the planet right about now. I like weekends that break you down, and bruise you, and make you feel like you're worth something. I had a good one. I had a decent, laid back weekend, and I'm bruised, and my sweatshirt's got some terrible mud stain on it, and my brand new (WHITE) shoes have dirt caked on the sides, and I know that someone crushed a chili cheese frito into my hair last night, and its all just fine. I finally talked to one of the four parts to the infamous Johnny Quest last night. For those not in the know, the entity known as JQ did a bit of stalking to me back in the latter part of 1997, my first year here in Bloomtown. Why, I still don't know. I've never been able to put the pieces together to figure out why four girls would bother to paste up fliers with my picture and my phone number on it, all of them reading "Are You Hardcore? I am." They tried to be slanderous, but in some weird twist, their actions made me plenty of new friends. One of them last night called me a "bit of a celebrity". A bit too far? Yes. Did she say it with spite on her tongue? Yes. Did I kind of feel bad for her because she talked to me once in 1997 and has hated me ever since, unreasonably, irrationally, and with all her heart? Yes.
There were two bits of JQ present last night, and they stood together, obviously eyeing me standing alone in the kitchen of this terrible Winterball theme party thrown by a bunch of art douchebags. I had my stocking cap on, my HeyMay sweatshirt blazing, and I was quickly trying to drink as many Bud Lights as I possibly could. With the possible exception of Matt, about 90% of art douchebags put me on edge. One of the JQ pieces finally gets the balls to yell "Hardcore Marc!" as I get back into the swing of a conversation concerning who was more groundbreaking, the Stones or the Beatles. I see them blush, and giggle, and pretend like they got me. I yell, "come here!" just about as loud as I can. They wearily walk over, not knowing what to think of some dude they've hated trying to talk to them. "Hey, I know you guys pulled all that shit something like four years ago, and the only part that I regret about it all is the fact that I don't know either of your names," I say, looking just about as innocent as I possibly can. Why worry about something so trivial. I just want to play nice. "Kill them with kindness" and whatnot.
And I did. One piece didn't fall for it, gave me dirty looks, and walked away. The other piece did, told me her name, and we ended up getting involved in a twenty-minute conversation. A pleasent one that moved gracefully from topic to topic, mostly talking about teaching and students and how much cooler they are than us. It's nice sometimes to have things work out so well. I walked away, politely, smiling.
I'm sure someone beat me with something or another on the ride back home. I know I was stuffed in the trunkish area of a Jeep Grand Cherokee with Matt and another girl, and I gently humped Matt for twelve to thirteen wonderful, Normal blocks. A good weekend? Indeed.
"You're in love with a man," says Julie, "who insists that he can love you only whenever you're standing in the exact center of whatever room you're in."
This is my second Christmas season in a row without the horrifying experience of working retail. On one hand it sucks, b/c now I have no excuse not to go to all the family gatherings and borish Christmas parties where everyone wears terrible sweaters and pretends to like egg nog (and each other). On the other hand, its nice b/c I don't have to deal with rude video store customers who believe they are the only ones that came up with the bright idea to rent How the Grinch Stole Christmas on Christmas Eve. It just coudln't possibly be all rented out. Absurd thought, that one.
On a more general note, I'm feeling like humans may not be the worst folk on the planet right about now. I like weekends that break you down, and bruise you, and make you feel like you're worth something. I had a good one. I had a decent, laid back weekend, and I'm bruised, and my sweatshirt's got some terrible mud stain on it, and my brand new (WHITE) shoes have dirt caked on the sides, and I know that someone crushed a chili cheese frito into my hair last night, and its all just fine. I finally talked to one of the four parts to the infamous Johnny Quest last night. For those not in the know, the entity known as JQ did a bit of stalking to me back in the latter part of 1997, my first year here in Bloomtown. Why, I still don't know. I've never been able to put the pieces together to figure out why four girls would bother to paste up fliers with my picture and my phone number on it, all of them reading "Are You Hardcore? I am." They tried to be slanderous, but in some weird twist, their actions made me plenty of new friends. One of them last night called me a "bit of a celebrity". A bit too far? Yes. Did she say it with spite on her tongue? Yes. Did I kind of feel bad for her because she talked to me once in 1997 and has hated me ever since, unreasonably, irrationally, and with all her heart? Yes.
There were two bits of JQ present last night, and they stood together, obviously eyeing me standing alone in the kitchen of this terrible Winterball theme party thrown by a bunch of art douchebags. I had my stocking cap on, my HeyMay sweatshirt blazing, and I was quickly trying to drink as many Bud Lights as I possibly could. With the possible exception of Matt, about 90% of art douchebags put me on edge. One of the JQ pieces finally gets the balls to yell "Hardcore Marc!" as I get back into the swing of a conversation concerning who was more groundbreaking, the Stones or the Beatles. I see them blush, and giggle, and pretend like they got me. I yell, "come here!" just about as loud as I can. They wearily walk over, not knowing what to think of some dude they've hated trying to talk to them. "Hey, I know you guys pulled all that shit something like four years ago, and the only part that I regret about it all is the fact that I don't know either of your names," I say, looking just about as innocent as I possibly can. Why worry about something so trivial. I just want to play nice. "Kill them with kindness" and whatnot.
And I did. One piece didn't fall for it, gave me dirty looks, and walked away. The other piece did, told me her name, and we ended up getting involved in a twenty-minute conversation. A pleasent one that moved gracefully from topic to topic, mostly talking about teaching and students and how much cooler they are than us. It's nice sometimes to have things work out so well. I walked away, politely, smiling.
I'm sure someone beat me with something or another on the ride back home. I know I was stuffed in the trunkish area of a Jeep Grand Cherokee with Matt and another girl, and I gently humped Matt for twelve to thirteen wonderful, Normal blocks. A good weekend? Indeed.
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