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You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
If you have a complicated relationship with someone, an unexpected but pernicious reminder of this fact can be had, of all places, in the greeting card aisle. Here is a place where relationships are neatly divided and categorized, and none so much as in the birthday cards. There are cards for mothers and fathers, brother and sisters, and every other member of the family. There are cards for husbands and wives, and cards filed “Birthday with Romance” for that specific sentiment, when such heavy handed gems as, “It’s your birthday and I’m thinking of you... Naked”. There are “Birthday for Him” and “Birthday for Her”, some meant to be given to close friends and some meant to hand to someone in the office after the whole floor has signed it.
There is a card for everyone in your life that has a defined role, which often people do. People who you have fuzzy relationships with are either still on their way to being important enough to get a card, or on their way out of your life. In Greeting Card Land, someone is your friend, or they’re not. Someone is your boyfriend or fiance or husband, or they’re not. There is no birthday card for the man who you met when a new friend started dating him, the man who then drew you into a bizarre triangle where you provided all the abstract elements of a girlfriend—the long nights talking, the emotional support, the understanding—and the actual girlfriend bought the sex. There isn’t a card for this man who you threw yourself at while he was still dating your friend, and then again and again after they broke up, getting rejected each time. No card for someone who initiates deep kisses when they’re drunk, knowing full well your deep, abiding feelings, and then when you bring it up a day later abruptly changes the subject. There isn’t a card for the man who, despite rejecting you, expresses romantic feelings and actions to you constantly in the space of well over a year, orchestrating candle lit dinners, posing as your boyfriend at weddings, asking you to dance in bars and in his kitchen, insisting you stay over and sleep next to him, rubbing your shoulders when you don’t feel well. And there is not a good card for someone who, after being out of touch for months, starts a letter with “Jenna Baby,” and in the next sentence refers to you as his “dear old pal”. Read More »
“You are in love.”
“Seriously, don't tell me that I am in love.”
(Laughs). “Why not?”
“Because if I am in love, I will get my heart broken again. And I can't take that.
“If I'm just flirting, there is no chance that I'll get hurt.”
It's an important layer of protection. If you were never going for the gold in the first place, you can't get rejected and you can't get jealous. It's just about fun.
And that's where I'm at.
No really, I swear.
Jack and Diet Cokes; Union Bombs; the whimsical speak of the shights; letting drunk friends crash on my floor; drinking to forget; lots and lots of flirting; my new camera
Somehow whenever I'm with the Indian I get dragged into completely random situations such as house parties. It always seems to happen by accident, with no sense of predetermination, and frequently with the objective of free beer.
There was a party being thrown by some new residents in my apartment building on Friday, and the Indian and I of course ended up there. I didn't particularly want to be there but friends stick together.
Everyone was very nice, but I was tired, and bored. I left a couple of times, running over to the smoke shop or running upstairs in search of decent beer. Out of sheer boredom I macked on this cat (known hereafter as K) who kept flirting with me, but it came increasingly clear that it was going nowhere. K was kind of cute, and only kind of dumb at first, but got stupider and stupider as time went on, no doubt helped along by massive amounts of beer. I gave up on getting any action after this exchange:
K (whining a little): “I wanna go downtown!”
J: “You are downtown.”
K: “I know, but I wanna go to some bars, listen to some music.” (Begins doing the drunk white guy dance.)
J: “What bars are you planning on going to?”
K: “Bourbon Street!”
I later explained to the Indian that I was not going to chase K into that place because I imagine that Bourbon Street is the kind of place where “you catch an STD just by walking in. You come through the door and bang! You've got herpes.”
Except for some funny exchanges with the Indian, it was kind of a waste of an evening.
Tonight I watched Peter Pan all the way through, finally, and I highly recommend it. Catie and I made a liquor store trip, where I purchased peach flavored morning vodka, because it was on clearance, and I just had to after hearing all about it. I'm sure this is just one more step on some cosmic checklist to becoming a respectable alcoholic, but the comic effect of actually having that on hand is something I had to experience.
I just bought a new computer, which is being custom built in a warehouse somewhere and should be in my hands and set up in just a couple of weeks, so if for some reason you would like to opt of the CD-mix-making extravaganza that will promptly ensue, speak now, or prepare to receive and listen to many songs you may or may not want to hear.
Awesome things happening:
The one thing that must be said about awesome events: the anticipation is killing me.
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
