Bent Words

Bent Words

April 30, 2010

They used to call my grandmother Two Beer Marion.

With that said, I know this isn't quite right. But I've had a few beers...

If I were fourteen, I'd throw out OMG. Exclamation point.

Actually, I'm double that and I yet I just said it out loud. Not in acronym style, however. More Napoleon Dynomite. So I suppose that exonerates me from all, or at least some, ridicule of the pubescent type.

And I didn't say "exclamation point."

But it was implied.


At any rate, oh my f'riggin' Gad (that's Canadian for "Oh my fucking God")!

* Sorry, I can't stop (not getting to the point, that is). I was watching Trailer Park Boys the other night and now I'm all aboot the Canadian speak. I never knew they had a Bostonian thing going on with their "ar" words. Park. Dark. Hard. It's so addicting that it forces me to accent my normal speech. All the time. Which is probably annoying to everyone else but it makes me giggle tremendously. Fucking Canadians. I love doze guys, eh.

But let us get on with it...

I was trying to make it better. Not just for me but also for you.

And, I don't know, I might have just made it worse (for you -- not for me). If I did, sorry.

But, seriously, she started the drama parade.

She insisted on all this correspondence which began with a "friend request." At first, I freaked out. Angry-style. Because I knew it was a game. A ploy. A drunken mastery of the illustrious wonders which comprise The Internet. So, at first, I did not reply. I sat on it for awhile. I pondered the meaning, tossed about the possibilities in my mind, was advised not to reply by certain individuals and then, with the clarity only a new day can procure, I replied (i.e. called her bluff).

I told her flat out that I was more than willing to accept her friend request if it were genuine, on Faceblob and otherwise.

She responded with an apology.

Laura = 1. Her = Zero.

During Round Two, however, she caught me on a Drunk League night.


She had started with a guilt-inspiring message and somehow I managed to roll along for several paragraphs with unnecessary, if not unrelated, explanatory stories. Not once did I really connect back to the main point, which is the first thing I learned to do well with serious composition while pursuing a minor in Creative Writing.

Kinda like what I accomplish here on most days.... (Although here it's all about the catharsis -- not about the sense making.)

And so I received a lengthly reprimand in reply which not only offended but also put me in my place (not that I needed placement).

Laura = 1. Her = 1.

Luckily she wasn't finished so I had a chance to redeem myself.

Upon her third piece of correspondence, I was finished playing. I mean, it was a fun game and all but I wasn't about to bus roll someone (especially myself) or become diverted by her absolutely incorrect version of the truth. I know I only received a B- in Logic (first online course offered at UW-Rock County) but she's gonna need a few more truthful premises if she's ever gonna garner a logical conclusion from me.

So I threw back everything she threw at me. She tried to toss a bag of accusations into my lap but I grabbed that satchel with both hands, opened her wide, flipped her upside down and showed her quite plainly that there was nothing contained in that parcel but air. And I won.

Not that this is really about winning or losing. It's not. It's mostly just about me being selfish, really, but I'm not about to take the fall for someone else's bag of tricks. Normally I'm more than willing to address the mess someone has inappropriately left for me to clean just because I like to see things neat and tidy but not this time. That mess was there long before I came into the picture and while I'm not about to add onto it my own bit of sloppiness, I'm also not about to come up stained with someone else's blood on my hands.

I like to make things right -- I like to see things running smoothly -- but I can't fix this.

Hopefully, however, I did manage to oil a few squeaky wheels.

And now I sit on my ladder (Laura = 2, Her = 1), high above it all, with an apology in my hand and a glance now and then with a hopeful eye.

That's where she sees me, anyway.


(My mountains aren't blue so I'm rockin' a cup of beer ice, baby)

Considering the brevity of it all, I didn't think I was gonna come up from our momentary meandering and miss you.

But I kinda do.

I miss being asked after. I miss being looked at. Listened to. Listening. Pondered. Pondering. I miss being remembered for something. Something good.

And damn if I don't miss that kiss.

I don't know if it's something I really want but I miss having the choice. The option to say yes or no. The possibility of a kiss. The opportunity of a get together. The spicy bit of uncertainty coupled with that delicious fear of the unknown.

I always thought I would be so ready to reject all that -- the newness of meeting someone -- and you somehow made me question my readiness. Despite all the trepidation, it still felt good. It felt comfortable. It felt... right.

So now I'm just doing my best to pretend it didn't matter. To pretend it doesn't matter. 'Cause I don't have a choice. Or, rather, I do but it's a bad choice and Bad Decision Making Laura has exited the building. Granted, I'm still sitting on the steps just outside that building but I am trying to walk away.

I hate that.

I always have to just walk away.


So this kid who's been subbing in service for a week while Moto Marc is MIA gave me his phone number before leaving the shop today. All coy-like.


Makes me feel super awesome.

And he seems like a really good kid but, seriously, the emphasis is on kid.

I don't mind hanging out sometime, for sure, but perhaps it's about time that I check the sexual innuendo speech at the door. (Really, if I were a dude and these were all chicks I was working with, I'd of had a sexual harassment suit filed against me a long time ago -- but it's all I have, really, and it's all in jest so I roll with it.) I seem to be hinting at more than I can handle. But it's too freakin' funny to see a BOY, who's been handing it out all day, blush at the mere sight of me walking by. I love it. I confess.

Dude's like nine feet tall (delicious), likes to fish and has a penchant for fun so perhaps I shouldn't exclude the possibility. Besides, I doubt I'll ever see him again and, if I do, I'm pretty sure it will be on a strictly social level. Which is fine. I'm not expecting anything and I can't have what I truly want so it's about time I get things a bit shook up again. Since I've been back to work, I've been too tired for the social world.

Aboot time to make a little noise while I've still got some growl in me, eh?

F'ing Canadians ROCK!

Written at 6:35 p.m.