Manic Monday Nights.

Disclaimer: It’s almost five in the morning now, I’m not sure if I can even write coherently.  Why does 5am arrive so quickly these days?

  Tonight was full of heartache and nostalgia.  After a long and boring day of selling stupid people things they don’t need on Union Street, I somehow made my way home with just enough time to check my email for pictures from my photo shoot the night before and to have an overly intense Gchat conversation with Girl of my Dreams about how she doesn’t think she can be intimate with me because of her past sexual trauma.

Fuck.

Now, I could go into a big fucking sob story about being sick of dating people who are unfuckable, but that would be insensitive, and I think there’s already a wealth of bad slam poetry written on that subject.  Instead, I cried a little (probably more to do with not having eaten in six hours than from heartache) and accepted these terms.  I informed her that as much as I respected and admired her choice to do the right thing for herself, I could not for MY own well being, be pursuing a relationship with someone who I was not having sex with. That’s just how I roll. Does this make me an asshole? In this amorphous world of polymorphous love affairs… I don’t really even know anymore.

After a good cry and a good energetic goodbye via gchat to the supposed “girl of my dreams”, I put on a pencil skirt they shade of a yellow school bus and made my way down the street to grab a burrito before heading out for the night.

I was on my way to see my high school friend, who I had not seen for 5+ years.  She was in a rockstar band these days, playing piano. She had recently married the super epic and hopelessly dorky drummer. They played at Kimo’s on Polk Street to a small but enthusiastic crowd, especially for a Monday night. I hungrily drank dirty martinis, drooling over the way her back would arch and dance while she played the piano, while I fielded texts from the photographer from the night before. “Come to the Make Out Room” he pleaded via text.

“I can’t” I replied. “I’m overwhelmed by nostalgia.”

He was persistent however, and promised that he was hanging out with a sea of single cute lesbians….I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, but I managed to stay put and committed to where I was.  No small task for me, since I seem to have social ADD.

After the show was over, the gear loaded out, and the merch purchased, we made our way to a bar down the street. It still had it’s Christmas tree up, and had paper Mache icecicles hanging from the ceiling. I ordered a drink that was so girly and sweet I dubbed it “The Walking Vagina” (recipe: peach flavored Absolut Vodka, sprite, a splash of OJ, and a cherry. Fuck yeah.)

I quickly developed a crush on the bass player, as I am wont to do. He could match me tit for tat in Beatles trivia and had cute glasses and an appropriately hairy chest. We exchanged hugs that lasted too long, but not phone numbers, which was dumb.

I was driven home by my budding Gay BFF.  He is the BFF of my most recent ex-girlfriend, so our relationship is complex. But by the end of the night we were cuddled in my bed weeping to each other.

“Who knew?” he said.  “I never would have guessed back in high school that someday you and I would be this close, and this gay.”

“I did.” I replied.

All in all, this is just the way I like to spend my Monday nights.