Fun Stung Dung

What a whirlwind of a weekend, interrupted by stints on the couch that would make Roseanne Conner proud. There was music, and cars and booze galore. There were people everywhere, and I walked, peddled, and stumbled through them like a particularly noisy and irritating poltergeist. I tripped the lights with a pretty ginger (stress on the tripped) who ditched me like the unsteady, socially awkward slob that I am. I made a pal (who I am not sure I would ever have let into my house, were I not shit-faced.) I saw three ex-somethings. One brought me flowers for my pathetic little garden. One was charming with her husband, my old running dog. The most recent let me know what a handsome, athletic, and cultured gentleman she had taken up with immediately after moving out of my home. She planted a big wet tongued smooch in my mouth and left to go pick him up at his awesome job. These things do not happen to real people. They are the stuff of a soiled and tipsy imagination. I can barely believe that this is my life at almost 40. Back at work, the green visions attacked me like a particularly strong case of food poisoning coupled with the blackest thoughts possible. It did not help that I spent the day working on the roof, four stories up. I did not want the crowds in the office to see the darkness in my face, and I did not want to once again struggle to answer pleasantly when they asked, "How ya doing?" I have no right to these thoughts, because "Rwanda!", or something. I have no call to question the activities of people I drove away, and I have no right to be jealous. I screwed myself, and the whole world knows it. None of it gets any better. I keep making the same damned mistakes, year after year. I am the most interesting person I know, and yet no one wants anything to do with me. Maybe tomorrow It will be not as nauseating. Maybe I will actually sleep.