I’m torn. Although she did not feel it necessary to come to our little event a couple of days ago, I haven’t determined whether or not to go to the marathon. Actually, scratch that – I’m going to go regardless of how certain I am it is a terrible idea. Really, short of an avalanche of cow dung swallowing me as I wade through traffic on my way home from another delightful day of pride swallowing and humble pie eating at my computer (read: programming), I’ll be there Sunday morning, praying the effort is noticed. Because I can’t sacrifice the chance to see her, to be there for her.
When I was in high school, I went to every dance. Every one. Not because I had spectacular times at all of them (or any of them, really), but because I had the feeling that the one dance I missed, because I wanted to stay home and tend to my Belgium soda-pop bottlecap collection, or something equally satisfying, would be the event where A Tribe Called Quest appeared, put on a show, and other even more unlikely and fantastically too good to be true things would occur in sequence, resulting in the spontaneous lifting to heaven of the attendees. Every dance I attended just resulted in pimply faced teenagers making the letters of YMCA over their heads, because we all knew what it meant, and though it counter-culture to embrace it. Every single one of us. Pretty damn strong of us, all so willing to be uncool and not go with the crowd.
And this is like that, only with an even more hormonal, emotional wreck of a person at the center of his own tornado. Or at the edges, if the center is the quiet spot.
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