10:16 p.m. - April 07, 2002
be aggressive
There are times when I think my sense of self is excellent, and then there are times when I severely doubt it. Tonight I was driving home from my mother's house and I was thinking about Taylor, and where he is, and what he is, and when he was going to damn well fucking write me, when I slammed on the brakes for an unexpected red light at Davis and realized that, for today at least, I could wait. He can write whenever he gets time. I don't need his constant feedback, his constant presence, and although it is beautiful and nice, we'll be like that when it's time to be like that, and that.. well.. is that.
The light changed again and I hit the gas, feeling very satisfied with myself; passing Church, Emerson, Foster, feeling all nice and free and sunny, when the traitorous thought came to me that I should really write Taylor when I get home and tell him how nice and free and sunny I'm feeling now that I've stopped waiting for him.
Then the reality of the dual thought process all came down and I thumped my head down on the steering wheel, cruising to a stop under the L tracks at Lincoln. 'Sunny and free, right,' I mumbled against the fabric of my sweater, and I wondered madly how much of what's inside my head is an act put on by my brain for the sake of my mind's sanity.

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So last night I took advantage of my newfound 18 year old status to see an 18+ Metro show, which was a show put on by the funk band of one of my coworkers, who we'll call 'Max'. (I have to give these guys pseudonyms, Timothy and all, because I write so in depth about them and some of them are so fucking stupid ((as you're about to see)) that I need to protect their poor identities.) Among the audience as well were two other coworkers of mine, 'Chad' and 'Alan.'
Max's band's major stage prop was the huge psychedelically painted shape of a giant bong, sitting its 10 foot high inconspicuous ass right between the keyboards and the drums. It spouted green mist, which we think was just green mist, but we won't bet on that. They were actually great, either because of or despite the fact that one or all of the band members kept announcing how high they were in the middle of random songs.
Max played keyboards. But near the end of their set, he switched places with the singer and started singing a hilarious funk cover of 'Because I Got High' by Afroman. As Max was screeching, 'AND I'M SOOOOO FUCKED UP!!!', Alan, standing near the front with a cup of beer, a tad bit drunk, yelled, 'Everyone buy their instruments from our shop! That's our bookkeeper!' Then Chad, our road rep, who was insanely drunk, started singing old Sesame Street songs while wearing a floppy hat and pink sunglasses. Then he fell over, at some point. At several points, actually.
Needless to say, I have an interesting job.

We went across the street to Wrigleyville Dogs afterwards to grab something to eat, and as we sat down, an old lady came up behind Alan. 'Can I sit with you?' she asked. 'Sure,' responded Alan, (who's the nicest person in the world), even though every other table in the place was dead empty.
She sat there, next to Chad, for at least a full half hour, staring directly at Alan, not taking her eyes off him for a second. When we got up, she got up, and started walking with us out the door. We went toward our car; Alan and Chad went toward theirs. The lady followed them, her eyes still riveted on Alan.
I called him when I got home to 'make sure she hadn't dragged you off into the bushes and murdered you,' as I put it so nicely. As it turned out, she had asked to go with them, but even Alan had said no to that, so she just turned around and went away.

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B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.... - FNM

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