fryerworks

At 8:30 this morning, I woke up with a sore throat and the feeling of a disemboweled pumpkin on Halloween. I’m not hungover. Not anymore. Not after waking up at 5:00 AM to puke. Those two cherry bombs probably did it to me, though I was asleep by the time they did whatever it is they did. The bartender described them as “cherries soaked for three days in vodka” and that he’d added a “secret ingredient” that he refused to share. This guy, this bartender, is wearing that biker guy’s outfit from The Village People and his chest has more hair on it than I have on my whole body, clearly visible since his leather vest is unbuttoned and two sizes too small. Maybe because the cherries had to be digested before having an effect, that’s why I didn’t feel much drunker than I already was when we left Guerneville around midnight.

After Sarah (not Sara) was done making out with her girlfriends at the last bar, me and Adam got her to join the rest of us in the truck so that we might finally leave. Don’t get me wrong. I was having a good night. But I’d decided at some point earlier in the day that today was going to be a day when I didn’t think about Amy too much. Sundays are the days when I usually hang out with friends and today was planned no differently. I’m grateful, too. Otherwise I might have just gone home and done homework and laundry, and that shit is boring. So instead of that, I forfeited myself to the whim of the moment. Whoever had a good idea about something to do, I went with that. From Michelle’s plan to go smoke at Danny’s house after work to Sara (not Sarah, who came later) telling me there was a plan to go to Guerneville that night. Just so you know, this small town north of Santa Rosa holds annual “Women’s Weekend” events that invite all of the lesbians and gays of the area to get drunk and express themselves with no inhibitions.

It’s already Monday, obviously. I came home too intoxicated and tired to write out a comprehensible entry. Bryce was asleep in the loft, too, so I didn’t want to wake him up. He’s a funny sort of person when you wake him out of a REM cycle, and so I figured I was done being awake anyway. Plus, there was this envelope by my bed with my name on it in Amy’s handwriting. I didn’t read the letter inside until I’d gotten into bed. I debated whether or not I should post a copy of the letter on another page but then decided not to. Amy starts the letter off saying that she feels like a big part of her was ripped out zombie style (and I appreciate her ability to connect to something I’d understand) in that she feels like losing me is to lose a big part of her life. Just so you know, I was totally aware of that fact, and a lot of me never said anything about breaking up with her because I knew of how big of an impact that would have on her life–good or bad–considering she doesn’t have a social network to rely on, like I do. So I know that she’s freaking out right now because that’s like having a television and then Comcast turns off your cable and all you have is a big box.

The letter then went on to list a number of things that she is willing to change about herself in order to make the relationship work. What the letter sounds like is one of those rare situations when you are trying to bargain for something and all of your demands are met at the expense of the other. She promised to not be my mother (saying I can “smoke pot” or “quit school” if I wanted to) and she promised to change herself, too, by seeking counseling to deal with her emotional instability. I just… I read this letter, which ended with her telling me to take my time and that she’d respect whatever decision I came to, and I was slightly impressed that she was able to bring up some of the key things I hate the most about any relationship in general. There, of course, was the implication that this event is ongoing–just as I expected would happen, since I know me and I know her–and though there is no deadline now, there is the fact that there must be a deadline eventually. I still dread that moment. I am too passive aggressive.

It’s funny that the day would end with that letter, too. Because I’d basically avoided thinking about the situation at all. I woke up at 8:00 and lied in bed for a few more minutes, wondering if I should ride my bike or kill the planet–choosing the latter, and then went to work at 9:00. I’d forgotten that Carissa’s shift was being covered by Danny, so the morning played out a little differently than usual. Sara and Michelle and Shelly were still there, at least, and so I started my Sunday just like any other Sunday. Except Michelle told me she had a surprise for me after work (hint: it’s marijuana) and then later we made plans to smoke with Danny, a sort of carrot on the stick that helped me get through the day. You know about Michelle. Danny, who’s gay–just so you know, is nineteen and complains about everything. But he’s got a good sense of humor and exists on the same plane as I do, bonded over our connection to the coffeeshop culture, so it is always fun to find a way to hang out with him–though this is only the second or third time it’s happened.

What I learned when I was smoking with Michelle and Danny was that I shouldn’t get ahead of myself so quickly. I shouldn’t already have these strong feelings for her because, for Christ’s sake, I’m still working on ending a relationship that I don’t want to be in because I just don’t want to be in any relationship. What I learned from this part of the day was that I want to be good friends with Michelle. That’s all. In the future, maybe we’ll grow so close that something intimate happens, but that’s not my concern anymore. I just want to have a good time no matter what happens. No more trying to force things. No more focusing on one point and overlooking everything else. Whatever happens will happen. This part of my life shouldn’t be about figuring shit out or getting stuff done. When else will it be okay to have $6.03 in your checking account and a week until your paycheck and fourteen dollars from tips in your wallet? This is the time of my life that I’ll look back on the most fondly, the time when opportunities and choices are the most available to me. What I learned when I was smoking with Michelle and Danny is that my friends are my family and my home is Santa Rosa and that’s all that matters. That’s all I want right now. I’m not so enthusiastic about the idea of answering to someone, of having that significant other, of looking out for someone else.

Because then days like Sunday will happen with greater consistency and with less stress. When I dropped off Michelle and went home, I rearranged the apartment a little and had a beer and let my high run its course. Then I called up Sara and we met at A’romas and walked down to Toad In The Hole to have a beer. Cheers to Bryce for introducing me to Stella Artois, which apparently is on tap everywhere and I never noticed it, because that’s what I drank all day. Sara is like an older sister to me and we got to talking about Amy, about work, about her relationship, and saw the end of a basketball game that some other patrons were especially excited about. Then we went back to A’romas and got snacks and, after Adam called, we meandered back to Toad In The Hole with T.J. to have another beer and some garlic fries with Adam (Sara’s boyfriend) and Chris (Adam’s friend). Those two left to get Chris’ girlfriend (Sarah) and T.J. had to get to work, and then Sara and I went to Rodney’s to buy $20 of weed for Carissa, who we met up with around 6:00 PM when her shift ended. I went with Carissa to her house so we could smoke a bowl and play Need for Speed: Most Wanted with her roommate, Justin, who I got to talk with about GTA IV and this mission where you have to kill these three strip club owners. Adam came and picked us up with Chris and Sarah in the truck and we went to get Sara from her house. Then, thirty minutes later, we were in Guerneville looking for a parking spot. At the first bar we each had a beer. Then we tried two others that night. The other Chris got progressively more drunk while his girlfriend, Sarah, got progressively more intimate with these other two girls that happened to be at every bar we went to–friends of hers, I guess, who she made-out with passionately. Other Chris became a silent, brooding character that was so smashed that he’d stumble and mumble all over the place incoherently. I had weird moments when I realized that my parents were doing this same sort of stuff when they were my age. Carissa and I were stoned and drunk and carefree, so we did all right during the night, but even Sara and Adam were having problems behind-the-scenes that made most of the night awkward. After the two cherry bombs, we left Guerneville.

The letter from Amy concluded Day Three.

Now I’m trying to think of how to respond.

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