Maybe I’ve mentioned this before, but they did a survey of athletes somewhere; a majority would have traded all but five years of their remaining life in exchange for being the best at what they did. Maybe that’s some sort of acid test to see if you really love what you’re doing, or at the very least, if you’re crazy enough to try to go somewhere with what you’re doing. I know I’d trade my whole life save one year in exchange for writing like some sort of literary god on earth. One year would probably be one book, but to write the greatest book ever, I’d make that trade.
Hell, right now I’m basically giving up on everything else to try and get this to work, so I better get something out of it. Realistically, this book won’t get published, but I am learning a lot about the whole process of writing a book that I can take with me. Someday, Somewhere, Somewhen, I will manage to get a book published, even if it kills me. Which, at the rate I am going, is the most likely scenario. Me or the book. Me or the book.
Ah yes, almost forgot about the debilitating stomach virus I contracted in
Close second place to that would be vomiting up water because I had taken Pepto Bismol, which coated my stomach, thus irritating everything. That was really quite frightening.
[Good and bad times. –K]
***D.C. and M.C. asked me if I wanted to go to K.'s house for a cookout. Seeing as how he lives in Virginia, and I happen to be stuck in Virginia, this would work out well. Not a fan of driving all over the tri-state area what with gas prices rocketing through the stratosphere. Right before we go in, D.C. and M.C. draw a diagram of their new house. Both of their sinister drawings do a fairly good job of conveying what I would be ill-equipped to define (and since sinister in the original Latin derives from "left-handed," I am correct in more than one definition here).
Of course, keeping in line with my tendency to do stupid things, one of the first things I do is grab a Miller Lite. Thankfully, it tasted just like stale water. Plus, I'd had a lot of pickles earlier in the day, when I went to Jerry's to write, and sat there for a couple of hours just grabbing free pickles and snacking on them after I had lunch. Yes, I know my behavior is questionable, but really, I can either be pretentious in a coffee house, or pretentious in a restaurant. At least I get my money's worth with the free refills, damnit.
As a result, my memory is fuzzed out for the next few hours, but here is what I do remember. At some point, I ask M.C. if it would be in poor taste if I were to relieve myself in the woods. The answer is an unqualified yes. Then, several people point me in the direction of the bathroom indoors, and instruct me not to go on any of the mattresses. I find it, close the door, pull down my zipper, and untuck myself. Of course, being slightly intoxicated, I forget to lock the door. I hear some rattling, and quickly tuck myself back in. A woman comes in, takes a step back, gets very flustered, and apologizes both before and after she closes the door.
The worst part is when I finish my business, she's waiting in the kitchen. I go up to her to tell her the bathroom is free, but when she sees me walk towards her, her face screws up and she looks like she's about ready to cry. When I talk to her, she stares down and to my left/her right. I feel kind of bad, but there's really nothing I can do. Of course, if I were a right bastard and not so intoxicated, I'm sure I could have made a really horrible comment, or tried to get her to feel even guiltier. But I'm not a right bastard. Well, not then.
I think at this point, M.C. is forcing me to get up and out of my chair on a regular basis to go get food to line my stomach. I start whining like a little bitch and give her a dirty look for making me get up. M.C. adopts the Metatron/Voice of God tone and tells me not to sass her. I apologize and turn away as quickly as I can. Later, I also find out that I'm going to go gamble with D.C., M.C., A.W., and the entire rogues' gallery of T.S. in July. At least I've been given enough notice to start saving money to lose immediately.
At some point, J.L. [Damn, this is not the J.L. that lives in Virginia, though this one lived in Virginia in his childhood. From here on out, the law student/nascent lawyer J.L. I refer to as J.L.H., and the networking J.L. in Virginia I refer to as J.L.J. -K] gives me a call. I haven't talked to him since his semester started. He's in Washington, D.C. for the summertime, and our brief conversation leads me to believe that there's going to be a fair amount of drunken debauchery, my favorite kind of debauchery. It should make the summertime a little more engaging.
At some point, the issue of my torrid love affair with L.M. comes up. Wait, did I say "torrid love affair?" I meant "cold-hearted bitch-fest." M.C. raised the possibility of selling out to pay off the law school bills by becoming a (dun-dun-dun) lawyer, then bumming around the world, meeting people, drinking and partying. Damned if I didn't almost go drop everything, empty my savings, leave behind all my responsibilities, fake my own death, and do that. Not that I thought about the plan too hard, driving off a bridge would also require me to find a bum about my size and do bad things which I'm not really ready to do. Yet.
D.C., once again, lunges into his spiel about working at T.S. Really, I don't know why I've been so resistant to the idea of working there. At first, I think I didn't want to move to Virginia, but exigencies forced me into that, so that's no longer an issue. Then, there was always the issue of travel, which a job at T.S. would require, but there's really nothing tying me to Virginia. I don't know. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is always on my sleeve, so I'm always home? I'm never home? It's not so much where I am, so long as I'm OK? Who knows? And maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the fact that the job description doesn't quite match up with my current job responsibilities. Maybe I am a rock, and D.C. is the constant stream that has worn away at my (laughably infirm) resolve over the past couple of years.
When we leave K.'s place, I talk to him briefly. This helps if you imagine a man possessed by a male banshee on crack, recorded, then slowed down to 1/8 speed. His voice was that unnerving:
K.: Oh, yeah, your parents. "We have your balls, they are soft and squishy in our hands. You will not get them back until you are 39."
K.T.: If then. I might not get them back until they die.
K.: Yeah. I'm not serious, that's why I drink.
Funny, I'm serious, and that's why I drink.
After we roll, the talk continues, and it seems more and more alluring, like that woman in the corner of the bar after 3, 6, 17 beers. I'd sobered at this point, but the sober reality was hanging just behind me. Keep on languishing at L.M., or take yet another chance in life. And let's be honest, no one knows what will happen, and it really is just a job application, and it really is just a job. And I'm not that unhappy at L.M. And I love living in Virginia. And I don't miss my friends. And I lie a lot to get through the day.
I got home that night and sent my updated resume right on over to D.C. We'll keep you all posted with the hap(penstance)s.
***
The spacing problem is caused by me starting posts in a word document, then completing them in the posting window. I could remember to do everything in a word document and paste, but that reeks of effort, and I am lazy.
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