Eleven

Arya once got so drunk when we lived together in Sherman that, when asked when I should make sure he was awake in the morning, he responded by very loudly whispering the word "eleven" ten or so times. He would laugh and laugh each time. He didn't remember this.

Right? Is that how it went?

Anyway, I talked to someone much more drunk than that this morning. At my work. On the phone. Apparently this woman decided to get up from her bed in Bronxville, NY, have a fifth (or three) of Scotch, and call Despair to place an order for a few custom calendars. She rambled for a while about a woman on the phone who knew nothing about politics. She gave us her blessing to raise our prices if we needed to. She asked if "Enhancer" was a demotivator she could put on her calendar (it isn't.). She said "inevitabable" a few times. She told me she would talk to my supervisor about how outstanding I was on the phone. I passed on the offer.

America!

I don't want to work in customer service forever. Honestly, I don't want to work in customer service a day longer, but a job is a job and God knows how important that is right now.

I woke up this morning thinking about the day Marcia told our entire debate class that I had a crush on Celia -- in front of Celia. This was in Buenos Aires, of course. I also got into business school, in case you didn't know that, either.

Jesus.

Anyway, I think that day perfectly summed up the "suffering builds character" model so many nerds, geeks, and pariahs become closely affiliated with in their adolescence. I remember just weeks prior being approached by Marcia during a break between classes. I was looking out at the River like the emo bugger I was (AM!) when she sat down on a bench next to me.

She had this smug little grin on her face and flatly asked me how long it had been that I had a thing for Celia. I was surprised, I guess, but more defensive than anything. I think I asked her how she knew -- like it was some conspiracy, like my phone had been tapped or something. She said "It's so obvious." I guess I've never been good at hiding those kinds of things.

She asked me if Will, Celia's boyfriend and my very good friend, knew about this. And he did -- Marcia seemed to think that should be awkward or threatening, but truthfully Will was never threatened by this. I don't think he ever entertained the idea that I could be competitive with him. Can't blame him.

I was pretty terrified that Marcia would spill the beans, but she surprised me and ended up keeping the secret for a full two weeks before she wrote it on the white board in the middle of our debate class.

I don't think I ever really confronted Marcia about it after the fact, though this act convinced me of her hatred toward me. I think I still believe this, despite the fact that at one point I was speaking with her on the phone an average of an hour per night.

So yes, suffering builds character and all of that mess. Not that you asked. God knows you need another Buenos Aires story like I need another neuromuscular disorder/like Rhianna needs another elbow to her face/like Kanye West needs an extra mouth.

I just have so many dreams about the building, the school, that I start thinking about exactly what happened there. I can't figure out if it's the experiences that make me dream or if it's the dreams that make me think of the experiences.

This blog post was brought to you by my Xanga, circa September 2004. Holy Christ.

Sleep well! Elizabethtown soon!




"This Is Your Life"
The Killers