ihavebeenfloated

When I was living in Chula Vista, my social life was nonexistent and that manifested itself in somewhat odd ways. Once, after a trip to Target where I had a personal style epiphany—I was listening to Rilo Kiley and wondering if I should fancy myself a scenester after I went to one of their shows and kind of liked the style of all the stupid sixteen year olds—and bought some new pants and shoes and manipulated my existing wardrobe to make me look more, uh, scenester.

Since I had no reason to leave the house except to go to Rubio’s and eat, or EBGames to buy new shit, it’s not like there was anyone to dress up for. At work I wore medical scrubs, so that wouldn’t help.

It didn’t even occur to me that it was odd, but I decided to show up at work a little earlier than usual—”I was doing something in the area,” lies—dressed up in my new clothes so Laurel (a supervisor who seemed to be receptive to my wavelength, in a friendly way) and others could see. The reception was lukewarm, and then I changed into my scrubs.

I’m wearing those shoes now, after not having put them on pretty much since that night—three years ago. They’re uncomfortable and a bit loose. But the point is this: when you’re isolated within a certain emotional, social, and physical situation for some time, the lines between what is normal or acceptable and what is unusual or quirky begin to blur. You lose something to contrast your actions against. I had no friends, no social contact, and I was so subconsciously in need of appreciation that I did something that—in retrospect—seems really odd. Or, at least, it seems odd to me now, and who is to say that now is not the time I am not sure what is acceptable. Who knows?

Last night I had a party at my house and Mike did his usual, “Hi, I’m drunk now, so I’m going to talk someone’s ear off about all the small miserable dramas in my life in the hopes that it’ll bait you into liking me,” to someone. I was disgusted, as usual, but later on I found myself, slightly drunk, thinking about doing and/or saying things—to Trista—that would be the equivalent of Mike’s normal actions. I can’t really remember specifics now but I remember thinking, repeatedly, “Brad, that’s fucking laaaame, you don’t want to do/say that, Christ, what’s wrong with you?” in response to a large number of my own thoughts.

I commented on it, saying something—incredibly awkward—about how I can sort of understand how Mike doesn’t realize what he is. I’ve been isolated to a womanless existence for barely a week now and I got a little alcohol in me and my first thought was: “Let’s browbeat some bitch with my pathetic until she fucks me.” Thankfully, I have self-control and common sense. I can only imagine how hard it would be to suppress that stuff if I was going on a solid twenty-two years of miserable chicklessness.

Chicklessness. That’s fuckin’ awesome. Time for Taco Bell.

Oh, oh…

What’s brown and sticky?

A stick!

What’s brown and sounds like a bell?

Dung.