cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

humiliating myself for fun and sport

yeah, well, it’s not totally broken, or i wouldn’t be able to write about it being broken. right? but i done fucked it up good. i was just about to figure out how to record myself via microphone while recording britney via mp3 to another mp3, when … well, let’s just say i can’t hear anything anymore. at all.

i love it how what started out as a self-motivational tool turned into an embarrassing attention-gimmick, which has in turn turned into the outright destruction of my computer. this is me.

i’m pathetic and tired now, so i’m going to bed with the matter unresolved. suck. i will leave you with a tidbit of my day.

around ten this morning, my phone at work rang, which isn’t all that odd because it does that, infrequently, and i have gotten so used to this phone-ringing event that i actually answer it, say the right introductory bit, and even listen to what the person has to say every once in a while. this bit of technology, i’ve mastered.

what i was not prepared for was the identity of the caller. (i will actually invoke the right of pseudonym in this case, and you’ll have to take my word for it that it’s completely apt.)

dogstar and i have a really complex, weird, and otherwise confusing friendship. if you haven’t noticed by now, i’m not big on personal intrigue and confusion. i like things to be straightforward when the situation calls for it. like, for example, when two people have gotten in the habit of talking to each other pretty much every day, or at least every other day, and then one of them just stops.

so the other stops.

and waits.

and waits.

yeah, and waits.

then the waiting person leaves a voicemail message. hey, what’s up? where did you go? no response. the waiting person decides to give up, after several more weeks.

giving up requires a bit of posturing. it requires the use of the phrase “i didn’t really give a shit about him, anyway” which is such a fucking lie it’s absurd, especially when it comes to me. the list of things i don’t give a shit about is about two items long: neckties and monster trucks. i could not care less about either of these things. the rest, i care about. don’t ask me why; it is a total waste of my time. yeah yeah yeah.

so anyway, i somehow end up in yerba buena gardens with dogstar today, and as he sips a large dr. pepper from a large plastic cup and chats about the album he’s working on, i think about several things:

  1. i really don’t want to have to go to the desert to get that tan. (he just returned from burning man.)
  2. why am i sitting here? why am i listening? will i ever see him again after this? is this just the convenience meeting, the meeting that finalizes the not-ever-seeing-each-other-again-without-guilt process?
  3. why don’t i have the words to ask him why the fuck he disappeared?
  4. maybe i wanted him to disappear.
  5. god, i am so full of shit sometimes.
  6. okay, but does that mean i didn’t want him to disappear?
  7. huh? i didn’t quite parse that last one.
  8. right. so. where am i going to get that britney spears mp3?
  9. speaking of humiliating myself for fun and sport, why am i here again? … and so on.
it was actually, taken at face value, a pleasant time. the sun was shining, it was warm, we are two intelligent and charming people in a lovely city. he is polite; he doesn’t spit on me or call me “beeyotch”; most of what he says is at least moderately interesting to me. there are worse places to be, with worse people, and definitely on worse days.

whoever takes things at face value, anyway?

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I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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