So I've realized something about people I meet who aren't originally from Chicago. They sure do like to hear themselves talk. I mean they REALLY like the sound of their own voices. Usually, and by that I mean soberly, I'm a man of few words. So when I do talk it's usually sage like pearls of wisdom. Toot, toot, bitches.
Be it Dante from Miami, or Deejay from New York, I find myself tuning out a lot during one sided conversations. Blah blah blabbity blah blah turns into white noise. I couldn't help but notice this morning how Raven (of L.A.), a professional blogger friend of Dante's who moon lights as a dominatrix, went on and on and on and on and on about absolutely nothing while on speaker phone to confirm an emergency IKEA run to temporarily furnish Dante's new place.
Ok, I may be reaching a bit. I guess I'm just frustrated with Dante's incessant self analyzing of the most menial and minute issues lately. I'm trying to understand the whole anxiety thing but sometimes I just have to tell him, "Dude, chill the fuck out." As guilty as it makes me feel cause there's a part of me that questions EVERYTHING I do cause I'm worried how his mind will analyze it, sometimes I feel like sitting there listening to him rant and rant and rant can enable him. Like he's thinking and talking himself crazy. But then I don't know how a mind with a level of anxiety that high thinks. Maybe he needs to get it all out. Maybe I just need to man up and listen.
So I joined Dante and a group of his friend's for some Shakespearean improv show last night. Sucked balls. By definition the word improv should be no where near this place. Though kudos on the stiff drinks, it was a little suspicious how the annoying little bitch a couple rows down just quickly "suggests": things you would say to your dog and not your girlfriend, almost even before the request from the "improv" actor is complete. Even more suspicious is how the "suggestion" for the night's theme was instantly accepted before one word from anyone else in the audience could have be uttered.
I call Shenanigans.
I chuckled a couple times but I couldn't help notice how loudly and frequently the same chick who made the "suggestion" laughed almost as if to que everyone else on what was supposed to be funny.
But the shots of JB were awesome.
We walked over and danced at Roscoes after wards. It was crowded. It was loud. It was exactly what I needed.
On the train ride back to Dante's I vaguely remember having a conversation about The Incident. Dante knows. I didn't tell him. He claims to have figured it out on his own. He knows the signs, he said. Can't help connect the dots back to my good buddy Deejay who I confided in recently. And with a purpose. Guess if your friend's are gonna have faults you may as well exploit them for your benefit.
Speaking of which, couldn't help but to be put off by a conversation with Deejay earlier about some 21 year old piece of ass he had over last night. Ok, so he's not exclusive with Jose but he goes on and on and on and on about how he like's this guy and wants to partake in "girl" talk with me to analyze the slightest milestone. I was joking with Dante last night about Deejay baking Jose a cake to commemorate the anniversary of the first accidental fart they shared. A chocolate one. How honest are these feelings if he's telling me, explicitly, mind you, about banging this kid. And I didn't even bother to mention his schpeel about how he would never be involved with anyone under 25 because he's on a whole different level than that when we were discussing my relationship with Matt. Why is it so difficult for people to own what they say? I almost laughed as he told me the random bang made his realize how he wants to move forward with Jose. That is so twistedly Deejay. Just can't help thinking how desperate he seems to find someone.
But mine is not to judge. Mine is to listen to my friends and only put my two cents in when requested or if I deem it necessary. I hold it in, then I spill my guts out on these pages. So much more therapeutic than making me listen to it.