YESTERDAY
When a beautiful 21 year old girl comes over after dinner to smoke a joint and divulge in life philosophies and spontaneously bursts into a yoga routine while I play "Where Is My Mind??" by The Pixies, I curse the universe for testing me. This girl, Celena, could not be any more seductive. I have convinced myself it wasn't completely intentional: the yoga seemed to draw her down from her high, since she had a 7:30pm rehearsal time to meet, and so I did my best to ignore this nimble creature stretching across my floor.
The universe--you bastard--decided that Celena would have a boyfriend, an actor, whom she recently moved in with. A goofy sort of character, but a boyfriend, a commitment, and unforeseen obstacle. You cannot begin to understand the mental anguish of being on a date with someone else's girlfriend, thinking, moments earlier, that you were going to spend the evening wooing this girl. Cancel those plans, quick.
When I asked her who lived in the apartment by Sac State with her, Celena dropped the boyfriend bomb. A part of me had already accepted that idea when she came in to Old Soul with that guy (who did turn out to be her boyfriend), but since she'd still gone ahead and made these dinner plans with me, I figured the concern was not worth concerning about. Nope. The boyfriend exists, and he is overbearingly eclectic.
This morning began at 7:00am when I made a quick stop at Old Soul for coffee to warm my hands as I made a brisk walk to N and 27th, where the River City Food Bank was doing a little press-conference for its new location. The old one burned down in October. Arson. Who burns down a food bank? Crazy people. So I had to chit chat with the community leaders, then I wrote this article about it.
So anyway, Celena and I still went out to dinner at the Hot Italian. We had a good time. Good conversation. It was nice to get to know her and it certainly felt like we were friends by the end of the night. We had wine, we went back to my room and smoked a joint, and then I drove her out to the studio for her rehearsal.
Her boyfriend was there when I picked her up. We shook hands, made eye contact, and it was like he was saying, "Have fun with my girlfriend, but I know what you're thinking and don't think that I don't."
What the hell, right? And when Celena laid her head on my shoulder as The Pixies sang the final dying notes of "Where Is My Mind??" I couldn't help but wonder the same thing.
TODAY
I faced my landlord, Paul, today. It didn't go exactly as planned, but at least I didn't leave angry. The poor guy's so flustered with his day-job that every third word out of his mouth is "can't." I've never seen someone so ready to blow their brains out with a shotgun. That said, he's good at playing dumb and vulnerable. Not a whole lot was resolved--I paid 550--and a new lease wasn't written up (like Paul would have time for that), so now I feel like I'm being overcharged by a hooker who just wants to talk. I guess now I have all the more inspiration to get a better paying job. Paul says the lease length is pointless, so long as they can find someone to move in whenever I decide to go.
I can't make up my mind about the Peace Corps. I think I'm just being lazy because I don't want to write the essays. Plus I hate asking for letters of recommendation. A pamphlet they sent me suggested I choose a date for departure one year from the day I turn in the application. I guess it wouldn't hurt to at least send in the application and put the idea on the back-burner. A year? That's a long time to get distracted by something else entirely. Hank suggested trying to be a video game tester.
Kirsten came over after she got off work and we went to Hot Italian for pizza. Four hours earlier, I'd gone to the Hot Italian with Celena, so it was more than a little strange to come back a second time, with a different girl, and yet order the exact same pizza. I thought that I'd lost my wallet at this point, however, so I couldn't get a glass of wine or help pay for the dinner, so Kirsten treated me. It was like having pizza for dessert after pizza for dinner. She'd had a frustrating day, however, and needed an ear to talk to. She stayed the night.
Quote: "I'm usually thinking about twenty different things at once, but when you're fucking me, all I can think about is you fucking me." Probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
Life is an incredible experience. People are fascinating. The passage of time, indescribably mysterious. The way we interact. The evolution of a relationship. The way eyes meet and fingers touch. The smiles, frowns and furrowed brows. Leaves changing color outside open windows on a cool December 2nd afternoon. I am at a point of my life where I have actually stepped out of my self. I am not living so much as creating. Right now I am on my deathbed looking back at a life that I know was good. I will surround myself with stories. I will live this life as well as I will one day remember it being.
TWO NIGHTS AGO
I went to Jack's house the night before last to smoke a joint and watch Adult Swim. Jack is a peculiar guy, not unhappy but medicated with marijuana enough to endure a lot of bad luck. "It seems like every girl I have sex with gets pregnant," he said, insisting he'd used protection each time. "I'm just potent." So with what sounds to be multiple children out there in the world with multiple women, Jack rents a room in a house in West Sac and gets by just fine. A little sloppy, but comparable to a freshman dorm, no worse. My only worry is he's one of those people who knows all the lines and scripts of any Family Guy episode that happens to come on. I rarely turn down an opportunity to hang out with anyone, just for the chance to get to know them a little more, and it was good to see Jack outside of the bakery. Now I know he's real.
YESTERDAY
When Celena translated into English "Quelqu'un M'a Dit" by Carla Bruni, I might've fallen in love, if just for that moment as the secret of life seemed to flow from her lips.
TODAY
Posted the Sac Hop story. Not my best. I hate knowing that I've posted something lame, but it's pretty obvious, now, when I write a good article and when I write a mediocre one. Having just one interview takes points off. A general lack of solid detail, a lackluster tone for an otherwise exciting event. Maybe I'm being too rough on myself. Maybe I just don't really care anymore all that much. Larry was a good guy though. We finally met up on the night before I went out to Jack's house and got that long-postponed interview.
Then I almost forgot to give David Barton his by-line count. Woops.
- Left to Fry
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