It's been a long time. The day after the last time I wrote, it was Friday the 13th. Not that {sic} means anything, it's just an interesting point of reference.I didn't go to the stand up thing tonight. I was uninspired, and very, very hungry. Yesterday, I had a stomachache and diarrhea, and today I've been insatiable, and I still have diarrhea. Right now, my stomach is grumbling and gurgling. Not a surprise since I had a bowl of muesli at 7:30 a.m., and eggplant parmesan at 9:30 a.m., 12 p.m. and 8:p.m.
Friday the 13th is significant because I started taking Wellbutrin that day. It certainly has done something to me. Besides the diarrhea. Everything is different. I wouldn't say I'm having a crisis, but everything is definitely different. Askew.
I got up and went to the Y, then to work. Then came home for lunch and hung out with R for a few hours (much to his confusion), then went back to work for a few hours (that was the part that confused him).
Today, I was planning on going to the stand up open mic - or I should say up until today. I felt uninspired and decided it was because I haven't smoked any pot since Saturday night. That night, I went out on what felt like a bad date with M and my alter ego(?), whom I met at a faerie part a couple of weeks(?) ago. But I don't want to talk about either of those things; they won't be easily forgotten so I don't need to write them down.
Anyway, after Saturday night, on Sunday (duh!) I decided I would stop drinking and smoking weed and cigarettes. At least until I figured out how I was gonna react to the new medication.
My plan for tonight at the open mic was to sing "Fancy Pants" and do a funny introduction too, like saying I got my Aunt Joy Belle's pants by mistake from Santa one year, and nobody wanted to admit the mistake, and I ended up wearing them to every family gathering from that point on. ((This is just coming to me.)) I got the nickname "Fancy Pants."
I'm no stranger to nicknames. I was born with one. In the eighth grade I was called Gaybird because I didn't know how to carry my books. The butch Italian classmate girl who lived down the street from me, VL, taught me how to carry my books so I wouldn't be a Gaybird anymore, but it didn't work. I was a short, fat, nelly boy whose parents had talked him into playing the tuba. Or more correctly, the Sousaphone, the big white octopus with its tendrils wrapped around me and its ass up in the air and wide open. The best I could play sounded like octopus farts. And since I wasn't an athlete, and since I carried my books like a girl, and since the best music I could play sounded like octopus farts, the other kids picked on me and called me Gaybird and made fun of my mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches on Wonder Bread.
So I took to eating my lunch at the end of the dead end hall where they kept the surplus of desks. Behind the desks. I found a little path and hid back there and ate my sandwiches and dreamed about what kind of revenge I would take on my classmates, what revenge I would take on the world. And I vowed to learn to play the 12-string guitar.
(take out ukulele)
I'm a third of the way there... Help me out. "Well" after me. I sing "Well" and then you sing "Well" after me. Got it? Every time I sing "Well" you sing "Well" after me. --Not yet. I'll tell you when.
(Fancy Pants)
--
I got into cooking last night and didn't clean. I swept the upstairs but didn't really clean. This morning I painted a picture - quite a lovely one, I think, from a picture R took in Scotland, I think; he's a wonderful photographer - instead of cleaning downstairs.
He woke up. I went to work. At 2:30, C and I went to Sam & Zoe's for a cup of coffee each and one piece of double chocolate layer cake. I also ate a bag of "Sweet 'N' Salty" from the Honest Vending box that R2 set up. (Jeez!) I also ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I don't know what else. I had three sodas today, three cigarettes, three puffs of pot (and maybe I'll have a fourth and see if that helps me sweep the downstairs). I really just kinda want to go to bed.
I told R about the wan who washed his dog's head after Bayne humped him. R politely requested I not allow Bayne to do that since some people are really offended by that and we should respect them. But he walks up to a car with a W '04 sticker on it and sticks his tongue out at her! I'm confused. I thought he would find my story amusing, not make a request of me because of it. Is "flummuxed" the right word? Is that the right spelling? Sometimes I really have to question what R and I are doing together. In some ways it seems temporary. It's not because he doesn't want to have sex with me. Not yet. It's not because he doesn't think my comedy is always funny, or that when I ask his opinion on my Las Vegas story at the open mic he said, "Well, I've already heard that story before." Not yet, anyway.
It's comfortable, that's what it is, and that's what I think I need. And I guess I do, for now. But that doesn't keep me from thinking what-ifs. Sometimes-- no, that's not how I meant to start that sentence. A couple of times I've thought I don't know why I clean the house since R rarely comments on it. He comments when it's dirty, but not when it's clean. Well, almost never. He has such ease with criticism and such a hard time with compliments - or even constructive criticism (although I do see him trying hard on both of those). And I know it's all about his childhood, and I know he can't let go of that, but I don't understand how he doesn't want to; doesn't want to change that. S pointed out that R is very civic-minded. I hadn't thought of it before, but it's totally true. I always saw it as the closer you are to R the less interested he is in you. I saw it as possibly his one big flaw.
His view of how to treat his fellow Earthlings is beautiful. Sometimes it seems that it is at the price of discomfort of Self. It sounds very Buddhist, and so I guess it is (I'm happy to say I've got R reading - and quoting from - Shambhala Sun), but he gets angry, it seems, when others aren't as civic-minded as he is. He's offended. Everyone should act civil the way he does. That's the important part. I guess he doesn't feel like he has to be civil to a supporter of George W. because he is so offended by him. I don't know.
I just lit cigarette #4 (a reward for the comedy bit above) and a suflur ember fell on my thumbnail and the tender skin just below it and slow-burned me. I couldn't tend to it immediately because I was having trouble lighting the cigarette; the match was short, the flint strip was damp, and the wind was blowing. I let it burn me as long as I could take it, then flicked it off and stuck my thumb in my mouth and it tastes like sulphur (are both "f" and "ph" correct in spelling that?). R would say, "That's what you get." That's his humor, and I don't find it very funny, either.
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