You should know that everything and nothing has happened since I spilled my jumping beans about retarded werewolves five months ago.
I fell in and out of like with a few people on my accidental quest for a new teammate in life. The good news is that I’m pretty sure that only One Third of that bunch is still harboring adverse feelings toward me. I regret leaving a grubby little snail trail of feelings behind me. Don’t think I haven’t slid around on them myself.
You could trace them all the way back to Six Flags Over Texas circa 1995. That was the time my internet boyfriend from AOL Teen Chat: The Half Pipe was going to meet me, Daisy1356, in the flesh for the first time. I can’t believe there was actually a time in which we had to rely solely on strangers’ descriptions of themselves, and man were they idealistic. I’m pretty sure mine was wholly inaccurate, too. And by “pretty sure” I mean I was at least four years older with a tan just a smidge lighter than Idi Amin’s. Anyway, Adrian was unsurprisingly nothing close to what he’d described. Instead of respectfully explaining myself face to face, I tucked tail, ran the opposite direction toward all things Mommy and Daddy, and changed my screen name upon returning home.
That was a very long path to something I wanted to address: the fact that explaining undesirable feelings in person doesn’t seem to have a more positive effect. But I’m an adult and I can’t go on letting just everyone assume I’ve been disemboweled in a freakish amusement park accident (or can I) never to be seen or heard from again.
However painful and embarrassing, I want to remember the moment in which the aforementioned One Third said, “Normally I’d say that’s a beautiful sky, but right now it just looks like a shitty watercolor” while gazing upward. That was obviously immediately after I spewed some unpleasant feelings aloud. There is no smooth way to tell someone that you’re not the right fit for them, but that was definitely the smoothest way anyone has ever called me an asshole.
A couple days later I met with the manager of a local Italian market where I was hoping to score some weekend catering work (this was all part of my grand scheme to gather extra funds for traveling and so far it’s granted me one ticket to Chicago come September where I’ll visit with an extraordinary friend and wangle my very first tattoo).
I was instantly distracted by a handsome vision behind the deli counter. He was back lit bright, nestled between cheeses, and stood tall beneath a dangling halo of authentic Italian meats that swung slightly in the recycled air.
I was hired on the spot and it took a dreadfully (probably karmically deserved) long time for Meat Halo to even notice me, let alone ask me out.
After one of our first dates to a Thai restaurant he left his pineapple fried rice with extra cashews in my fridge. Realizing this the following day, he sweetly offered the remnants to me. I accepted the offer and sent them directly to what I’d originally thought to be a quaint home, the inside of my growling tummy.
I hadn’t eaten a cashew in a couple decades. In fact, the last time I’d eaten cashews was quite memorable for everyone involved. My parents had taken me to some boring wedding where I’d taken the liberty of emptying an entire bowl of these complimentary, oily, tropical treats into my seven year old gob. I brought that reception back to life by tossing them right back up on the pool deck about a half hour later. At least I was able to shout, “I THINK I’M GONNA…” beforehand.
A similar feeling washed over me this time, Hulk-like in its particular shade of green coupled with abnormally high body temperatures. Just imagine that instead of raging super human strength, Bruce produced raging super human puke and there you have me. I snuggled my water conserving toilet all night long. Go green! Awesome, I did.
I visited a local allergist after this episode, apparently through a super secret worm hole to the year 1987. Could it be that I’d died and gone to mauve heaven? The examination table was newborn baby bulb syringe blue and while the nurse dutifully demonstrated how to use an epipen I noticed the top supply drawer had a label on it that read: FACIAL TISSUE. Frightening! Phew. The drama I’d longed for in her performance was found there instead.
On my way out, clutching epinephrine prescription and pamphlet advertising medic alert bracelets with MOOD CHANGING BEADS, I noticed a lunatic, framed photo above the hand washing station. It captured a mystery person from the waist down, top portion of their body covered by the full branches of a tree they stood behind. As I stepped closer to inspect what I’d originally thought to be a foggy spot on the glass caused by moisture damage, I realized that the tree in this photograph was on FIRE and the foggy spot was actually a cloud of smoke billowing forth.
At the time it didn’t make a lick of sense, but I realize that the joke was on me and this mystery man is what one might warmly refer to as a Tree Nut.