Spaghetti
Writing this at Sal’s. Been meaning to haul my laptop in here since they got wireless. I’m kind of self-conscious about it, though.
I’m self-conscious about a lot of things.
Had another half-day at work today. Couldn’t bring myself to start; slept until eleven or so.
(I thought that perhaps writing in a different environment would allow me to distract sufficient portions of my mind to let the words out; I didn’t count on being distracted by food, though. Duh.)
I go to restaurants because they remind me that other people are real, and I can interact with them on my own terms.
That’s not how people are. On-demand.
These are people that are financially obligated to be here during certain periods of time. They’re polite to me because it’s their job. This isn’t friendship. This isn’t family.
I haven’t actually talked to Chad in a couple months.
We were drinking at the Nail one night in February. Chad and I disagreed about the capabilities of the HDTV behind the bar, and he just went off. He snapped at me that every time we go there, I argue with him. I disagreed, and that didn’t help my case any.
Something in me shut off. I was furious. I felt betrayed, whatever the reality. I was done. I finished my drink, finished what I could of my pizza, and left.
I think I understand what happened from his perspective; about as well as I do from my own, anyway. I won’t go into that here, as it seems like airing someone else’s laundry. As I have my not-entirely-reasonable responses to feelings, so does he.
(Waitress drops by; I wish I could learn to keep my eyes from immediately going to breasts.)
(Can’t have a post about my feelings and another man’s feelings without reinforcing my heterosexuality? No, really, the waitress is painfully attractive.)
We’ve had a couple minor text-message “conversations” since then. He’s quit drinking, which makes me angry. I don’t know if this could be described as rational or not, but it’s certainly inappropriate and counterproductive. I’m glad he’s happy with it, but… I feel like once again, I’ve followed him into something only to be left behind when he moves on. I can’t keep up with him, and never could.
(More accurately, I think, he bores of things and moves on while I prefer to stay in one place.)
That’s not his fault.
As careful as I’ve tried to be, little flecks of tomato sauce have found their way to my laptop.
There were other things I wanted to write about, but I think that’s enough, for now.