Poor Little Me: 3
I miss every girl that I’ve ever known. I genuinely do. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about most of the women that I’ve known in my life.
Most women that I have ever met silently accuse me of being a misogynist — some of them loudly. I’m not. I’m just an asshole. Except for my sexual attraction to them (which is, at best, lethargic most of the time) I treat women exactly like men. The problem is 1) I don’t treat most men I meet very well, and 2) at this point I’m not sure that most women want to be treated exactly like men. I think maybe they want to be treated equally, but differently; and I don’t know what that differently is. Or something. Or not. I don’t know.
But none of that is to say that I deserve any sympathy on that point. I’m still a lumpy crap of a person with a very-likely dysfunctional brain. Which is what, deep down, I think that most people with an alcohol or drug problem think of themselves: that they’re missing something in the chemistry of their souls they can supplement with something else. But unlike them, I’m pretty sure that I probably can.
Sitting at home I find myself pulling two, three beers from the refrigerator and bringing them into the other room with me. The reason for this is that I now drink a bottle of beer so quickly that if I only bring out one, I will be constantly running in and out to get another. Even with three beers, I can finish all of them before the last turns warm. Lukewarm even. Hell, it’s nearly ice cold.
Given the chance, given the challenge, I think I would do almost anything for my friends. I’m so bothered by visions of my funeral where nobody comes, that I’m tempted to draw up a will stipulating that all of my money go toward food, alcohol, and travel money for anyone who wants to come. But, then again, what’s the point? I didn’t buy anyone’s love in life. In general, I’m closer to a dog than a human sometimes; eager to please to the point of annoyance, content with the scraps of human affection, but not to be trusted as part of the family.
After typing that last part, I realize it’s not fair, accurate, or particularly true. The thing about the dog, anyway.
Every time I talk to someone I really like I’m painfully aware of how inadequate I am to be their friend. When I hug someone I do so with a steady grip and my eyes closed, because I love so much to be close to another person. Every time I sit down to write, I know how unimportant what I have to say is. Every time I get on stage I feel almost paralyzed by the mediocrity which wafts off of me. Even walking down the street, I feel like an outsider and an outcast, with this one exception: I’m not that special. But you knew that.