So I got off of work last night, went to the Palm for a quiet nightcap, came home, sent out an email, got drunk text messaged (warning: the following entry stands in complete defiance of any and all rules of the English language) by Billy ("HI! I'M DRUNK! I WAS JUST AT THE CLARE!"), and went directly to bed. Do not pass Go, do not remove the $200 you just made at work, do not even change into pajamas. Just lay that greasy hair down, fully aware that the odor emanating from the bedsheets is a direct result of the hush puppy parasites (do hush puppies get fleas?) now migrating from your jeans to said sheets, but too tired to give a shit, a rat's ass, or a flying fuck.
Dear God. Look at that sentence. If that sentence isn't enough - on so many levels - to repel any man from ever climbing into my bed again, then I don't know what is.
So I woke up at 11:30 this morning, feeling like those eight hours of sleep could easily be stretched into another ten, but reluctantly got out of bed to commence frantic last-minute packing for the weekend. Must pick up Maddie. Must drive to Rockford. Must go shopping for Tracey's birthday present. Must... Must.... AHHHHH.
Baby steps. Step One: Pick Up Your Daughter.
*** Flakiness 101: a How-To Guide ***
Ten minutes, two backpacks, and one cup of coffee after waking, get on the road to Riverwest. Do not shower. Do not brush teeth. Get in car and Go. Realize you are, in fact, still wearing the same clothes you worked in last night. In a bar. With hush puppies.
Arrive at destination to find gate locked. Jump gate, land squarely and safely on icy path thanks to dried Kitchen Gunk trapped in treads of shoes. Proceed to front door.
Knock. Note the only sound you hear: the chirping of birds, and a band practicing in the basement of the house next door. No running feet from within the house you are at. Chirp chirp.
Knock again. Mutter under your breath, "Where the fuck is he?" Wonder to yourself why the father of your daughter would not be home at the time you are scheduled to pick her up. Knock louder. Through clenched teeth, sharply whisper, "jeezus."
Walk away. Remember the last time you jumped this gate, and how, when you were leaving the courtyard, you had almost jumped back over the gate to get out, forgetting that you could simply OPEN THE GATE FROM THE INSIDE. Remember who witnessed - and shared! - your lack of common sense in that moment. Smile.
As you are approaching your vehicle, realize you left your doors unlocked. Thank the Powers That Be that this is one of those nice blocks in Riverwest in which you can leave two backpacks, a purse, AND YOUR GUITAR in your unlocked vehicle for 10 minutes without someone coming along and stealing it. Them. Whatever.
Slowly become conscious of a dull ache spreading over your entire cortex. Notice the blockage of your left nostril. Mutter, "Shit."
Fall into driver's seat, rest forehead on steering wheel, and suddenly get struck with a revelation: This is where Dashboard Confessional got their name. This Very Moment could go into the dictionary as an italicized example of a Dashboard Confessional, if only you'd start talking to yourself. Note genius of local musicians.
Repeat, "Shit." Start thinking of where the nearest pay phone is so that you may call your daughter's father, determine their whereabouts, pick up your daughter, and proceed to Rockford. Try not to get all pissy and annoyed.
And then, right then, realize IT'S NOT YOUR WEEKEND TO HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. Daughter and father are off galavanting, spanning time, with no consideration of your frustration because THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THEY'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING. You didn't have to be here. You're sticky, you're stinky, your teeth are growing carpet and the carpet's growing hair, and YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO BE HERE. You could be home, in your bed, right now.
Realize that the question, "Where the fuck is he?" is obsolete, and the real question remains: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU. Or, more accurately, WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR BRAIN?
Right there. Aching, throbbing, and pulsating within the dense walls of your numb skull.
Posted by stephanie at March 5, 2005 03:27 PMi enjoy this story.
also, i realized i don't have a phone number for you. but re-thinking the content of this entry, do you have one right now? i just thought that should be something i have. cuz you're neat. we have good talks. and i'd like to visit some time.