Friday night we go out for
a well-poured Guinness and
and Brent remarks that I am
“the only one without love.”
I’m not. Two others are helping to row
that particular proverbial boat, and they
are far more conspicuous. (Read:
Ally is thirsty AF, Vien is notably absent,
and I am always leaving enough
careful breadcrumbs to give the impression
that I don’t need anyone.)
However, I’m familiar with the jibe.
Knowing as I do what love
does to people, I laugh and sink
a stripe; some asshat has queued up
Rebecca Black on the juke, and
the entire bar gives a collective groan.
“When do you wake up?” is the next question,
and again, this is meant to (not unkindly)
“Holy shit. And when do you go to bed?”
A look aghast.
“So, you never actually get
eight hours of sleep?”
I steal two glasses from the bar
as a “no” at the end of the night
and my body has a fit of pique.
She puts me to bed for 9 hours and
yes, I know a “fuck you” when I sleep one.
Dale accuses me of being a diarist, but I prefer to think of myself as a historian with a whimsical interest in revisionism. “Diarist” sounds dirty.
Names were changed.