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Downstream Again
I am mind-numbingly apathetic about this journal entry right now, which is a shame since I don't have much time.
I should probably talk about The Date first, although it feels like it happened years ago. In summary, it was A Date. I had a nice time. There was dinner, and a movie to boot. The guy, whose name is Tom, was laid back about a lot of my nonsense -- which is an absolute neccessity for anyone who spends much time with me. He was actually charmed with the anti-cow diatribes, the deconstructionalist fashion sense, the rabid affection for Spanish television, the assertion that we should drive out to the middle of nowhere just to see if there was anything there, and the pathological need to buy gumballs from the swirly machine. In addition, he scores mad points because the castle in Macbeth is his family's ancestral home. And in the true spirit of my quest for an unusual job, he suggests I become the person who chases the ducks off the runway of DFW airport. I like him quite a bit. Val accepts this but wonders whether I like him in a romantic sense, and I cannot answer because I am very bad at recognizing these things.
Tom mentioned that he'd intended to ask me out back in December, but Patrick had told him that I was gay. To be fair, Patrick was telling the truth; he was just telling the truth in a completely innacurate and misleading manner, since I'm also straight. While Patrick's mischaracterization may be linked to the "in love" issue, it likely has closer ties to Patrick's general neurosis that all of his friends will become infatuated with one another, leaving him cold and adrift somewhere in the arctic circle. I would probably be much more annoyed with Patrick had I not gotten Tom's telephone number from him eventually, written on a sugar packet with a space pen while eating catfish po-boys in a retired solitary confinement cell. (Setting really is everything.)
This is all very boring; exposition usually is.
I'm feeling drained and helpless right now due to continued sorties against my bank. I'm on the verge of resorting to name calling, because they will not allow me to get my money from them. They say I do not have an account there and never have, despite my receipts and paperwork to prove them wrong. Similar absurdity has happened with both my credit card and my internet access, and periodically my class schedule. I recognize that I'm prone to paranoia and should guard against it, but it makes me antsy when I'm followed by black police helicopters and told repeatedly that I do not exist.
In other news, three different people have turned to me in the past two days, laid a hand on my shoulder and said, in one paraphrase or another, these words: "I'm sorry about Thomas. I wish I could say it was unexpected, but he was always on the razor's edge between light and darkness; what a waste that he chose his own obliteration. I'm so sorry, Romie."
Seemingly, I am not allowed to have closure. Ever. It's been four years now, and I still cry over him. I wish the amnesia of six months ago hadn't worn off. I've tried pretending that he's dead, but there's some small part of me that thinks he'll come back. It's a bit like being married to a coma patient.
The one bright spot, as usual, has been Kung Fu. At least being faced with a metaphorical Darth Vader lets me be metaphorical Luke Skywalker. Dr. Harkins has singled me out for reasons of his own and continues to make me do things like spend the entire class blindfolded, kicking tiny targets I can't see, or explain the rationale behind ettiquete to a four year old child while doing a very advanced kata.
I can't conclude this, I just have to go now.
I have to go.
I should probably talk about The Date first, although it feels like it happened years ago. In summary, it was A Date. I had a nice time. There was dinner, and a movie to boot. The guy, whose name is Tom, was laid back about a lot of my nonsense -- which is an absolute neccessity for anyone who spends much time with me. He was actually charmed with the anti-cow diatribes, the deconstructionalist fashion sense, the rabid affection for Spanish television, the assertion that we should drive out to the middle of nowhere just to see if there was anything there, and the pathological need to buy gumballs from the swirly machine. In addition, he scores mad points because the castle in Macbeth is his family's ancestral home. And in the true spirit of my quest for an unusual job, he suggests I become the person who chases the ducks off the runway of DFW airport. I like him quite a bit. Val accepts this but wonders whether I like him in a romantic sense, and I cannot answer because I am very bad at recognizing these things.
Tom mentioned that he'd intended to ask me out back in December, but Patrick had told him that I was gay. To be fair, Patrick was telling the truth; he was just telling the truth in a completely innacurate and misleading manner, since I'm also straight. While Patrick's mischaracterization may be linked to the "in love" issue, it likely has closer ties to Patrick's general neurosis that all of his friends will become infatuated with one another, leaving him cold and adrift somewhere in the arctic circle. I would probably be much more annoyed with Patrick had I not gotten Tom's telephone number from him eventually, written on a sugar packet with a space pen while eating catfish po-boys in a retired solitary confinement cell. (Setting really is everything.)
This is all very boring; exposition usually is.
I'm feeling drained and helpless right now due to continued sorties against my bank. I'm on the verge of resorting to name calling, because they will not allow me to get my money from them. They say I do not have an account there and never have, despite my receipts and paperwork to prove them wrong. Similar absurdity has happened with both my credit card and my internet access, and periodically my class schedule. I recognize that I'm prone to paranoia and should guard against it, but it makes me antsy when I'm followed by black police helicopters and told repeatedly that I do not exist.
In other news, three different people have turned to me in the past two days, laid a hand on my shoulder and said, in one paraphrase or another, these words: "I'm sorry about Thomas. I wish I could say it was unexpected, but he was always on the razor's edge between light and darkness; what a waste that he chose his own obliteration. I'm so sorry, Romie."
Seemingly, I am not allowed to have closure. Ever. It's been four years now, and I still cry over him. I wish the amnesia of six months ago hadn't worn off. I've tried pretending that he's dead, but there's some small part of me that thinks he'll come back. It's a bit like being married to a coma patient.
The one bright spot, as usual, has been Kung Fu. At least being faced with a metaphorical Darth Vader lets me be metaphorical Luke Skywalker. Dr. Harkins has singled me out for reasons of his own and continues to make me do things like spend the entire class blindfolded, kicking tiny targets I can't see, or explain the rationale behind ettiquete to a four year old child while doing a very advanced kata.
I can't conclude this, I just have to go now.
I have to go.