(--sipping green tea and it tastes so fucking good--)
Maybe someone reading this can help me--what do the following symptoms signify;
1)One evening, I experience a very sharp pain on the left side of my maxilla. The next day, this pain is gone.
2)Now I have a very sore throat which has killed my thirst for vanilla coke. I'm also perpetually sleepy, my nose runs, and my eyes feel sticky.
3)My head feels like I'm wearing a tight rubber helmet.
(--this green tea is so fucking good--)
So what does it all mean?
Maybe it has to do with all the ravioli I ate to-day.
One of my grandmothers--this one from Tennessee--just came to town to-day, and she and I, along with my biological father and his, er, not wife in the technical sense, but in the practical sense, went to eat at Olive Garden, where I had the plate of ravioli that supplied me with all of the food I needed for the day.
(--oh sweet heavens how can the touch of green tea on my throat surpass all of the joy I've ever imagined I could feel?--)
As it happened, not only did we go to the same Olive Garden I went to on my twenty-third birthday earlier this year, but we were also seated at the exact same table. My grandmother sat where Trisa had sat, and my Bio-dad and his lady sat where my mum and dad had sat. And I sat where I and my sister had sat.
It made me apprehensive, but in a curiously sedate kind of way.(--another gods-damned sip of liquid ambrosia--) I half expected to see my Other Family turn up at any moment, and although this was 90% paranoid delusion, there was real chance of that possibility occurring. It would have been horrendously awkward. At least for me.
But my funny, funny brain was churning other, elsewhere type matters as well. I was thinking about the vow of celibacy I've been toying with the idea of taking. For some reason, this made me look keenly at every pretty girl working at Olive Garden, and there are quite a few.
When we were seated, I had a view of the outside through an emergency exit that looked out on a little alley between the Olive Garden and Fudruckers. I watched one pretty blond Olive Garden employee, who apparently had just gotten off work, walking with the arm of her boyfriend draped over her shoulder. He was a tall-ish, dark haired, red-shirted, homogenous looking fellow, and I watched him kissing his girl as she leaned back smiling on her car.
The envy I felt at that moment, that these kids had this groovy, simple, natural, amazing thing that they prolly took for granted, was enough to tell me how hopelessly miserable I would be made if I lived constantly reminding myself that I was celibate.
I was thinking also about Trisa, because 1)I was reminded of the birthday dinner where she'd been present 2)I'd spoken to her earlier to-day where she'd told me that she just wanted to be alone, and it wasn't because of something I did 3) She has had a lot more experience with relationships than I. I thought about how awkward it would have been if she had just so happened to come to Olive Garden to-day with a date and was seated at the table next to me, and I was made to overhear a flirtatious and magical conversation between herself and a great looking, charming, and genuinely wonderful guy. And I imagined watching her go off with her lovely beaux, into a natural stage of life wherein relationship problems she faced were those involving the manner in which she was connected with this person, and how well she's sharing herself with him, whether she shares herself enough, whether he shares himself with her enough, and what they give up of themselves to the other . . . Like I'd watched Cryptess and Richard go off on that, and my friend at his wedding . . .
Ack, fuck fuck. I'm such a sentimental twat. I get so tired of listening to my masochistic little fantasies sometimes . . .
Our waitress's name was Courtney, and she was very spunky and very cute. I thought she was even kinna making eyes at me, but then I decided it was just her personality, because my bio-dad spoke to her as if she were flirting with him, which is gross since she looked several years younger than I.
I'd been reading Brothers Karamazov on the ride over, and I'd read the scene where Fyodor Karamazov is revealed to have been connivingly coveting the girlfriend of his son's. So my imagination had some good raw material here.
Now I feel shitty. I think I'll just curl up with my incredibly good green tea and read some H.P. Lovecraft . . .