The Jilted One, the Psycho, and the Saturday Girl

One of my readers alerted me to the fact that sometimes when I’m writing I’ve been sounding like some kind of shark. An inept one, but a shark nevertheless. So I just wanted to remind all of you here that sometimes my writing voice is a bit different from the real me. I’m still the same sweet, sensitive, sometimes shy guy that I’ve always been. I’m still very respectful and thoughtful, even if sometimes I choose to write in a different tone. But, hey, what can you do? I write what I write.

I’ve looked back at some of my previous posts and also have been reminded of two things: one, I have no sense of time. Things that I that I think happened months ago happened a week ago and vice versa. It’s all a happy blur. And, secondly, it’s funny to read about feelings I’ve had about certain people and how those have changed rapidly, in one direction or the other. But I’m happy to have so much of it written down, even if I have to laugh at myself for putting it all out there.

And I’m happy to be able to be better at accepting people at face value. Hey, if you want to treat me like shite and ignore me, that’s okay. Everyone is on their own little trip. My bullshit detector is fine-tuned nowadays and I know in whom I should be investing my time and whom I should just cut loose. It’s all good.

So yesterday I stopped by the bar to watch a little of the Red Sox and have some lunch. When I pulled up JetBlue’s car was there but I was in no mood for that shite so I went in and sat alone. Even from a distance though I could her her non-stop monologue as she talked to the bartender and I was happy to not have to be involved in it. The Jilted One was there also and I did talk to her. Not that conversations with her have been all too productive. Since her break-up, she’s been in the bar everyday, seemingly all day, and she hasn’t been entirely coherent. Her long, public keening has been such that there is a new rule: “No crying at E.’s.” But I do feel for her. She has put herself in a position where she has no other outlets. She seemingly has no ambitions or desire to do things out in the world. On Friday she was talking to me about local politics and how she was interested in them because she knew so many of the local politicians but how she still hadn’t registered to vote some ten years after moving to town. She’s a mess, but I don’t even know what to say to her to wake her out of it–especially since her state-of-mind has been such that she probably doesn’t recall half of what’s been said to her. But she’ll bounce back in some way–probably no more awake to life than she is now but she will move on eventually I’m sure. As she was leaving she told me that she was an hour late for going over to her mother’s house and how she was happy she had survived a week of the break-up and maybe later that night we could burn something else that belonged to her ex. More therapy.

On Saturday night, D., Dr. B., and I eventually made our way down to the “secret” bar–you know, it’s only a secret if you haven’t been there yet. I had been there Friday as well with D. and Saturday I was labelled a “regular” by the bartender’s boyfriend (who’s way beyond a regular). Oh yeah, status. But anyway, Saturday there was a drunk psycho-bitch there whom I know well. She, for reasons no one could figure out, had taken a hating to this twenty-something woman and kept loudly and drunkenly talking about her. At some point the twenty-something woman, who also couldn’t figure out what the fuck was up with the psycho, came up to me and said jokingly, “My father’s here, she won’t do anything.” Before I even had a chance to take offense with the ‘father’ part of the joke, the psycho suddenly started yelling: “He’s not your father, bitch. I know his fucking ex-wife. I know who his fuckin’ kids are and you’re not his daughter. His wife’s mother is my goddamn godmother so don’t fuckin’ lie.” And, man, I was thinking to myself, this is turning ugly quick. Because, knowing the psycho as I do I knew that the rest of the night could have turned into a tirade against me–because once she gets on a subject she doesn’t easily get off it. Luckily for me though, she kept her nastiness focused on Ms. Twenty-something and then, eventually, she was escorted off the premises…or maybe she passed out in a dumpster, who knows.

At any rate, D. wanted to leave a little early so I jetted on up to E.’s to try to make last call and to see my new favorite bartender, the Saturday girl. (So what if she has a boyfriend, I can still fawn, can’t I?) And, though it was past last call, she gave me a beer and told me I needed to drink quick. No problem, especially since I was still mostly sober, having spent most of the night chaparoning a prom. As two o’clock approached, the person in-charge wanted everyone out and I discovered that the call for everyone to leave didn’t mean “everybody” but rather anyone they didn’t know. Oh, and I was still there along with the jilted one and a few others. I’m so ‘in’ with the Saturday girl. So, anyway, we eventually left. Another good night on the other side of life.

Well, I skipped a lot of the weekend’s details. So much to write about so little time. Perhaps I’ll get to more of them, perhaps not. This afternoon I’m awaiting a phone call; perhaps yours truly will be having a real “date” tonight, though I’m not holding my breath. But feel free to tune in tomorrow to find out.

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