Christ my feet hurt. My sciatica has been flaring up in this raw, damp weather - fog, sulky clouds and spitty rain here in New England, and all of it seeps into my legs and turns my muscle meat to heavy pewter. Getting old is fun. Listen to me, griping about my aches and pains. In other news, I had Jello with fruit in it and may yell at a cloud later.
I have long since returned to work, where things remain pretty much the same. Although, without the presence of the smug drug dealer. Alas, he has finally been banned after being caught in one lie too many. And his doctor cut him off cold. And Trump lost, Man, it's been a shitty week for him. * cue evil laughter - Look at all of the fucks that I give. I have the weekend off, a bag of white cheddar Cheetos, a box of hair dye and sleeping pills. What else do I need? Oh yeah...money. I need money. My panic attack cost me a cool $2,000. And the bill cost me another panic attack. It's a vicious circle.
So anyway, Matt. My best friend from 1995 to 1997. I found him on Facebook and, because I never learn, sent him a friend request. Which he accepted. Why, I don't know because he totally ignored me. I sent him a couple of messages, to which he never responded. So after about three weeks, I sarcastically thanked him for a brilliant conversation and deleted him. I'm getting used to rejection.
Still, as I spent my day at work rearranging enemas and colonoscopy supplies (I lead a glamorous life, fuckers) a memory floated up from the darkness and surfaced briefly through the pond scum of my usual daily bitterness and barely tamped down disgust. One night, Matt and I went to Shakespeare In The Park. They were doing Hamlet, and as Matt fancied himself an urban Prince of Denmark and I could quote the entirety of the play from memory, we went. It wasn't a bad production, but the girl playing Ophelia had to lay on the lawn in front of the stage for the entirety of the finale, and it was a bit distracting. Sword fights and dying declarations and the whole time, this dead chick just chillin' on the lawn. When Matt brought it up later, I pointed out that it probably would have been much more distracting if she'd gotten up and walked offstage posthumously.
About halfway through the play, I saw a comet streak overhead. The sun had only just gone down and the horizon was still red-orange as a pitcher of sangria, but the sky above was pure night-blue and the comet was bright gold, with a tail that sparked like tinsel on a Christmas tree. I spotted it immediately but kept quiet. A second or two later, Matt caught sight of it and pointed it out to me, and I smiled. For some reason, I remember thinking that letting him see it for himself and point it out to me was the definition of love. Not romantic love - I never felt that way about Matt - just nice, simple love between two people, uncomplicated by physical desire, insecurities or jealousy. I just loved him in that moment, and it was a perfect night, and we were happy.