Jesus H., I’ve become an adult

Tonight I realized that I don’t drink to get drunk anymore. I love alcohol — whether it’s a pint o’ beer or a girly, fizzy drink or a classy martini or a cup of coffee spiked with a few tasty liquids — but since I bought my beloved Samantha Jones (my cherished indigo Sunfire), I can’t get looped. Damn. Not for lack of trying. Now that I’m my own designated driver, now that I’m on a strict budget again, now that I want to look out for my friends, I can’t get crocked to save my life. Shit. I hate being a grown-up.

Stalker for Hire 🙂

I will admit to being a bit warm ‘n’ fuzzy right now, ’cause I did something I haven’t done in years. Shan and I were at Benny’s for our usual Friday night, post-gym delight, and as usual, we closed the joint. And as usual, Renee conveniently forgot to ring up at least a half-dozen of our beers (although I wanted two “real” drinks tonight, and she had to charge for those. Oh well!). At any rate, Shan seems to find a virtual Camelot at Benny’s, as it is full of men who spark her interest. (I, on the other hand, have absolutely NO eye candy there.) At any rate, one in particular — I’ll call him DJ because, well, he IS a DJ — has caught her eye on a number of occasions. So we stalked him. lol.

He keeps hangin’ out with this scary group we call The Osbournes. We’ve decided the scariest of them all should be called Ozzy. She’s about 4’1″, 400 lbs. Not like I have any room to talk, but I digress. At any rate, Renee told us that DJ and his fiancee recently broke up, and we’re all convinced that Ozzy is trying to move on in. At any rate, he attempted to talk to me at the jukebox, but after he found out I was playing hard rock, he ran screaming (he’s more of the R&B variety). He and Shan talked briefly (she’d like to ride him up the Beltway!), and we decided, after we closed the bar, to follow them.

Turns out that DJ drove Ozzy to the apartment complex across the street, where they sat in his car and talked for what seemed like forever but maybe amounted to 20 minutes. Shan jumped in my car and we drove around the block several times, finally parking at the Veggie Patch and waiting. Finally, she decided that this was crazy, so she left. I decided to sit there and search for my John Cougar Mellencamp CD (which I have yet to locate), just because I felt like I’d see him leave. So, with my internal lights on, as I was parked very obviously in the Veggie Patch’s lot entrance, he pulled out. I hurriedly shoved my CDs, CD case, headphones, cell phone and whatever else into the glovebox and pulled out like a cat outta hell to follow him.

I stayed with him for a mile or so, down to the 395-N ramp. As it was 2 a.m. and we were the only cars on the road, I figured it would be even more painfully obvious if I followed him home. lol. But it was just funny as all hell. I was wishing Shan had stayed for literally three more minutes, so we could’ve taken a late-night road trip to wherever. I figured he probably recognized me in his rearview mirror, or else he thought I was some random psycho (well. … hee hee). So I left a VM for Shan from Little River Turnpike and eventually did a U-ie and headed home.

Hysterical. I haven’t done shit like that in forever. Loved it!!! Only for a friend would I do something like that … I didn’t even stalk Brat or CR or anyone else when I had the chance. 🙂

Ah, Shit — He’s on My Mind Again — Damn Booze 😉

Speaking of Brat, that’s why I was looking for the Mellencamp song. Every time we went to happy hour, he played “Pink Houses.” Always. My personal favorite is “Ain’t Even Done With the Night,” but it wasn’t on the jukebox. I played “Pink Houses” but it never did come on. Damn it. (Oooh, found the CD!)

Found myself missing him. Shit. That ain’t right.

For all the advice from dating books, guides, websites and friends with successful relationships that advise us to play hard-to-get and to act disinterested, I say fuck it. You know what … Shan and I are strong and determined and bold. And we approach men when they’re too shy to come to us. We don’t strike at random … we get the eye contact going and decide that we’ve found decent prey. So we go after these guys. And if it scares them off, so be it. We were discussing the fact that it’s pretty ludicrous for us to act like we’re demure in the beginning when we’re both steamrollers. We need guys who can handle us, not be scared off like little pansies when we do what comes naturally, which is to take the reins and yank these guys forward when they fall asleep at the wheel. If we wanted pussies, we’d go for women.

Although. …

Nah. I’m still holding out hope that a great man will enter my life at some point. 😉

Something cute did happen tonight. A guy who did attempt to talk to me, who was very sweet and shy, apparently was watching me all night. He finally got up the courage to tell Shan that he thought I was beautiful (was he nutz?) and wondered if I were married or had a boyfriend. As he was not my type (i.e., not ultra-white), she said I had a boyfriend. But she was enamored by him, and I thought that was adorable. Perhaps I am missing out on something. I don’t know. But I can’t change 30 years of preferences, either, not on the spot. And that’s the shame of it all … I told Shan that if I would just change my “type,” I’d probably never be single, but all the hotties I tend to eye up (and sometimes pursue) aren’t interested in me. Blah. Their loss.

LB said that CTL asks about me. A lot. How sweet and how sad. I think he’s a good guy. I really do. But the Bermuda Love Triangle had just wreaked too much havoc for there to ever be a solid ground for that. I guess I myself could be considered the storm, as I was the one in the middle. Even though my affair, as it were, with Brat was short-lived, it lasted for as long as we knew each other. I could never want anyone else as long as I wanted him, and I will die believing that it was mutual, the whole time. Only now, I’ll die without him, unless he gets his shit together and figures out a way to make me look back and want to take that chance again. I went after him with all of the energy and passion that I could possibly muster, and well, I went splat. I hurt for a long time. And I’m fine now. I really am. But as I sit here and drink my blackberry merlot and my mind gets fuzzier, I remember him more clearly than ever.

You know what I want? I want him to feel a minute of the heartache that I carried for him. Just 60 seconds of knowing what it’s like to soar and to crash and to burn. Especially that burning part. And I hope it’s a slow burn, one that simmers for years. I don’t want him to forget me; he had too large of a part of my heart for me to ever truly forget that he ever existed.

“We’ll fast forward to a few years later

And no one knows except the both of us

And I have honored your request for silence

And you’ve washed your hands clean of this.

— Alanis Morrissette, “Hands Clean” —

Perhaps I’m just sentimental or perhaps drunker than I originally believed, but I can still feel him. Shit. I’ve also been thinking about Melissa a lot, too. I need to find her, if for nothing else than to just know that she’s OK. I’ve had such an awful feeling that something happened to her, that maybe I’m too late to even reach her. But even if I did manage to locate her, what the hell would I even say? It’s amazing how, when we know we acted like dumbasses, we want to make things right — even if we don’t know how or if it could ever be possible. And maybe some wounds are better left covered, too.

I miss my mom. Even though she can’t make things “all better,” she can, however, make ME all better.

Mmmm. … Matchbox Twenty has a new CD. Must.Buy.Soon. Eventually. Or never. Whichever comes first.

Bon Jovi tickets went on presale this week. They’ll be in D.C. on March 9. I’m sure it’s cost prohibitive anyway, so I’m not going to think about it. (I only missed one of their concerts when they came to Pittsburgh — one! Some fan I am, missing the show in my new city. Argh.) I have to figure out how to buy gifts for all the upcoming occasions and holidays that I have to get up the gumption to attempt to care about. Argh. I used to love this season, but at this point, just making it to Jan. 1 without a nervous breakdown is all I’m asking Santa to bring me for Xmas.

Christ, this entry went downhill. It’s 3:30 a.m. Off to bed, damn it. 🙂

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