January 12, 2009

nothing makes something arrive quicker than moving in the direct opposite direction from it

"Nothing like a group of smokers to go outside for our food to get here," J-Way announced to the table last night. A dinner on the company dime prompted a total of sixteen of us all from different locations to convene at a Dallas BBQ for a dinner of greasy "Texas-sized" proportions.
Her observation was correct, in that as soon as four or five smokers stepped outside to puff, our entrees arrived on the shoulders of two nervous-looking food runners.
I tucked into a gluttonous plate of honey-basted rotisserie and fried shrimp. I simultaneously enjoyed/regretted all of it. Reid explained to me how he can make virtually everything a tax write-off, from his gym membership fees to an espresso he bought in Italy, since he's a working, traveling actor and I was impressed. Everyone ordered carnival-colored margaritas the size of your head. They came with plastic dolphin stirrers and I felt sheepish with my club soda and lime in an equally gigantic chalice. Sans dolphin stirrer.

I was in a horrible mood all day and an eight hour shift felt like purgatory. As soon as I walked in everyone could sense it. I spoke to no one all day and apologized later, leaving in a huff. Something inside me kept gnawing to escape. When I stepped outside I inhaled the cold air, resurfacing, no longer shooting daggers at anyone who tried to address me. I don't know what that was about.
I thought about it all day and came to the conclusion that eating massive amounts of Dallas BBQ puts me in a crap mood. That and for whatever reason, being ignored by someone who I'm not sure I even want the attention from, is still annoying. Feeling nonexistent and/or disposable.
Adrian called me last night with some very disappointing news and maybe that as well.
But mostly all the BBQ. I think I ate poison and rot.

Shifting the same pile of schlumpy trousers, I sighed in exasperation as Stephen chuckled.
"I hate these pants. Fuck these pants," I said to no one, disheartened.
"Yeah they're pretty wily. Ever notice how some things in here seem to be alive, always moving? You try and make them neat but they never quite sit still..." he noted coolly.
"Yeah man. But really. Fuck these pants," I threw back.
I walked away, throwing up my hands. I thought about it. Stephen was correct. Eerily so, like he had thought long and hard about it. Something about him was slightly brow-raising. Like he would wear argyle socks and a matching sweater vest to go golfing with your dad and at the same time have a freezer full of body parts. Somewhere behind the pint of Cherry Garcia, a flask of Tanqueray and some leg of venison from last fall's hunting trip.
It reminded me of the night before, his plate full of beef, ribs and fries.
"That's enough meat for a week's worth of cold cuts!" I exclaimed as he polished it off.
"What can I say, I'm a carnivore and there's nothing I can do about it," he said nonchalantly.
I pictured A1 steaksauce in the glove compartment of his car.

I think there are too many people moving away from me at once. I don't know but it makes me want to follow.

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