Emotions are a pain in my ass
I'm coming down with another stupid cold. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I'm deep in the throes of another cold. I started feeling it around Thursday. I think it was the misguided courtesy of a friend that caused this. I was out and saw a friend who kissed me hello then immediately followed up the kiss with the phrase "I feel like shit. I have a cold.". Wonderful! Fucking awesome! As far as I know I don't have an immune system. Like Nazis on the French countryside, I could feel the bacteria invading my system and taking over.
Thanks for the kiss............oh, and the two weeks of pounding headaches and lungs filled with mucus the consistency of joint compound. Bitch.
Anyway, despite my diminished capacity I helped a friend move into her new house on Saturday. She is an ex-girlfriend, but the breakup was almost nine years ago and we've been in the same circle of friends since college. We've remained close......ish. The move went relatively smoothly as she had moved a lot of the small stuff over the past few weeks (much appreciated). She had rented a u-haul for the bigger things, and showed up with it a few minutes after I arrived at her apartment. She was with, what I can only assume as her new boyfriend. If not boyfriend, someone who is probably interested......first one there, helped to pick up the truck, last one to leave.....you get the idea. Either way, he seemed like a nice enough of a guy. I was pretty much useless because every few minutes I had to cough up something. My main job of the move was that of the sarcastic prick who made everyone laugh...........except for the guys who were doing the hard moving, like getting a couch stuck in a doorway. So that's how the pack-up went........me cracking jokes, making some people laugh, while pissing off others.
--- Quick aside ---
After the truck was pretty much all packed up I heard a couple of the guys talking about getting together and jamming or singing or whatever. After listening for a while I realized that, although it will sound horribly pompous and elitist, I hate hobbyists. That is, I hate people who only do things half way. I think it's an insult to people who actually do it professionally. For example, when I talk to people who say that they paint in their spare time, because it's soooooo relaxing, I try to be nice, I really try to care, but just want to break their hands. As if what I do is just a full-time hobby. Sometimes it's frustrating to describe to people how difficult what I do is. Once again, I'm not complaining, I love what I do. I wouldn't trade it for anything...........................I also wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
--- Back to the move ---
We all got into our cars and made it to her new home. It's small, but cute and on a nice little suburban street. We got everything in and relatively organized in less than a half hour. After all the moving was done we were all standing on her front porch, when one of her friends drove up. She brought her 11 month-old girl. Yeah, I'm not really a kid person. I don't talk down to kids, and at 11 months this little girl wasn't getting any of my jokes. I refuse to use baby-talk. In fact until a person can carry on a full, lucid, adult conversation they're pretty much useless to me. Both of my nephews were able to do it by the age of two, that's why I would happily die for them.......my niece, she's getting there.
Our little party broke up after about an hour. I left my friend and her new.....whatever at the house. As I drove away I noticed that I was feeling depressed (that feeling lasted all night). I'm not exactly sure why. Is it because I see other people building normal lives, and I know that's not the road that I'm heading down? Am I giving up that stuff for pursuing my work?
Or worse.........Was I jealous? Not of the homes and the families, but of my friend. In the past I've always kind of chided people who got sad when they see a long-past ex out with someone else or getting married. Now I'm not so sure, but why?
Thanks for the kiss............oh, and the two weeks of pounding headaches and lungs filled with mucus the consistency of joint compound. Bitch.
Anyway, despite my diminished capacity I helped a friend move into her new house on Saturday. She is an ex-girlfriend, but the breakup was almost nine years ago and we've been in the same circle of friends since college. We've remained close......ish. The move went relatively smoothly as she had moved a lot of the small stuff over the past few weeks (much appreciated). She had rented a u-haul for the bigger things, and showed up with it a few minutes after I arrived at her apartment. She was with, what I can only assume as her new boyfriend. If not boyfriend, someone who is probably interested......first one there, helped to pick up the truck, last one to leave.....you get the idea. Either way, he seemed like a nice enough of a guy. I was pretty much useless because every few minutes I had to cough up something. My main job of the move was that of the sarcastic prick who made everyone laugh...........except for the guys who were doing the hard moving, like getting a couch stuck in a doorway. So that's how the pack-up went........me cracking jokes, making some people laugh, while pissing off others.
--- Quick aside ---
After the truck was pretty much all packed up I heard a couple of the guys talking about getting together and jamming or singing or whatever. After listening for a while I realized that, although it will sound horribly pompous and elitist, I hate hobbyists. That is, I hate people who only do things half way. I think it's an insult to people who actually do it professionally. For example, when I talk to people who say that they paint in their spare time, because it's soooooo relaxing, I try to be nice, I really try to care, but just want to break their hands. As if what I do is just a full-time hobby. Sometimes it's frustrating to describe to people how difficult what I do is. Once again, I'm not complaining, I love what I do. I wouldn't trade it for anything...........................I also wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
--- Back to the move ---
We all got into our cars and made it to her new home. It's small, but cute and on a nice little suburban street. We got everything in and relatively organized in less than a half hour. After all the moving was done we were all standing on her front porch, when one of her friends drove up. She brought her 11 month-old girl. Yeah, I'm not really a kid person. I don't talk down to kids, and at 11 months this little girl wasn't getting any of my jokes. I refuse to use baby-talk. In fact until a person can carry on a full, lucid, adult conversation they're pretty much useless to me. Both of my nephews were able to do it by the age of two, that's why I would happily die for them.......my niece, she's getting there.
Our little party broke up after about an hour. I left my friend and her new.....whatever at the house. As I drove away I noticed that I was feeling depressed (that feeling lasted all night). I'm not exactly sure why. Is it because I see other people building normal lives, and I know that's not the road that I'm heading down? Am I giving up that stuff for pursuing my work?
Or worse.........Was I jealous? Not of the homes and the families, but of my friend. In the past I've always kind of chided people who got sad when they see a long-past ex out with someone else or getting married. Now I'm not so sure, but why?
posted by A.J. at Monday, March 27, 2006
3 Comments:
I bet it was the phlem.
AJ are you still sick?
What's your deal, man?
I thought about you when I read about the results of the New York Armory sale. People were throwing caution to the wind and spending money like crazy. Many of the aritsts sold their stuff before the first group of ticket holders even walked through the doors.
You need to get in on that next year.
Yeah, there are a lot of shows that I need to get in on. A lot of that isn't up to me, but I do need to get better at submitting my stuff.
Had a bad cold, and was busy, and I really lead a boring life so there wasn't much to report.
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