It’s ok, little buddy
It’s ok, little buddy, you did it. Sitting on the couch watching space videos on the internet right after I got on my meds and getting a job at the music store and realizing I grew up to be a happy adult with a cool job and cool interests.
Who am I kidding I’m not tough?
I’ve got a friend in Jesus.
Been thinking about writing a Craigslist post to find a friend. Somebody to go to shows with. Is that a thing I do anymore? If I started going to shows again, would I see my old friends? Would we still be friends?
Lots of people who won’t even tip their head at the bar even though they comment on your stuff online. Lots of people you’ve slept with that you have to avoid. Well, not that many anymore. They’ve all moved away. They all moved away they were supposed to, but you are still here.
I read somewhere about how addicts have to reset their basal excitement levels. Spent half my life running from the other half, and the straw up my nose was honestly a lot more exciting than tea in the morning sun. I’m trying to love tea in the morning sun, but my apartment is really dark, you know?
What did I think life was going to be like from books? What did I think life was going to be like when I was using reference maps of Manhattan in an encyclopedia to write a story about a grownup lawyer? It hits me, sitting in my boyfriend’s mom’s kitchen and listening to Broken English and 99 Cents, what I thought the world would be like when I was 18:
Elbow patches. Grammar. Maybe growing my hair out. Respect. Ease. Reusable grocery bags (I was 18 a long time ago).
Stumbling. Accidentally saying Horace was Greek at a dinner party. Having some stupid argument about a Russian candy wrapper. Contempt as currency. Books.
Funny how I loved Marianne Faithfull when I was a virgin who had never done opiates. Did I see my future in her? Did I make my future in only the worst image of her?
What would I tell my younger self? Don’t go to college; just move to Ann Arbor. Meet great people. Meet horrible people. Sleep with many of them.
Find out the different names of God. Don’t blame all the stupid shit his followers do on him.
Go outside. Ask for help. Don’t lie. Don’t sleep with people just because you can’t figure out how to say no. Help people.
Got an email from my ex-best friend’s new roommate this morning about a phone I gave said friend two years ago. Our past gets nailed shut, shut up in a gun case. I get sweaty and sad and I go for a walk.
Then I text an old friend. We went to a show together a couple weeks ago. I’m not sure what it means. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But people don’t just forget you when they walk away. You’re not forgotten. Not yet, at least.