But I'm not living a sort of double life, and I only want one personality, heh, so I won't try to be two-faced or harbor so much ambitions that it can't divide equally in my body. But at the same time, I feel curiously pacified, placid and sometimes at work, sometimes here, either place just existing as a collection of atoms instead of someone of more substance or ambition. Not that I feel shallow, but things feel that way at the moment.
Ran into the ex a while back at a bar, and in-between loud rock being grainily blasted from old speakers and our mutual friend happily celebrating her 21st birthday, there was a chasm of feelings that I hadn't felt a distance from in quite some time. It's like we had never spoken about us, about the fact that we were ex-lovers and would deal with it, and instead she was very aloof and distant and man, I'd love to say I didn't give a good goddamn but it's just not true. It bummed me out because I had always liked the fact that we were still OK to be standing in the same room, even though we dated for 2 1/2 years and I never thought the outcome could be salvagable if not for a hearty dose of venom, anger, etc. But it could, although that night made me suddenly think that we had regressed in a sharp burst. The doorman had a Cocteau Twins shirt on, though, which almost redeemed the night. Almost. Now my mailbox waits with an open maw for a reply from my e-mail to her.
My lovely friend Lori sent me a mix CD (and other assorted fun items) for my birthday (July 31st!@#) and I'm listening to it right now. Props to her, so if you ever see her walking around the street, give her a hug or something. She's small and into emo music, so she'll eat it up.
I can't decide if my current unhappiness stems from the vacancy that my currrent life vs. Italy has left, the lack of seratonin-correction via capsule, or what. It's frustrating because I want a source but all I find is me pointing fingers instead, nothing that makes sense. Everything seems to be beautiful and sexy and exciting and all out of reach.
That, and I need to write more. I haven't written much of anything at all, although the main inspiration (ok, girls, heh) has been sort of vacant. I wanted that for a while but I'm starting to lightly toss around the idea of getting back into it. My muse is starving and she's fucking kicking the shit out of my brain at times. I sit, place my fingers on the keyboard / click the pen / wet the quill, and I can't seem to even make one rhyme. I'd get really angry at something, if it weren't so fruitless at the moment. I guess I could write a poem about writer's block, heh, but the problem is right there, isn't it?
Today at work, a good waitress named Caitlin was chatting with customers. The place was very slow, so she could afford to talk it up. She was telling them how she was working all the time because she needed to get 300 dollars by Monday, so she was sort of tired (and only had a little money at the moment). When the couple departed, they left her a 300 dollar tip. No lie. The bill was roughly 30 dollars, too. Caitlin cried for a bit and then we all wrote a Chicken Soup For The Waiting Tables Staff. No, seriously, isn't that wonderful? Caitlin's a great person, too, so I'm especially glad it happened to her. The story made me smile.
I work a double tomorrow. I wore two different colored socks to work today. And this entry, while fodder for the absense these past few days, heh, is staggeringly uninteresting. Don't any of you tell me you liked "the prose". You just want loud rock music and sex.sock star,
Jared