Nothing's gonna change my world
22 November 2004 at 11:35 pm

Ah, the city life. The energy of people who have better places to be. The smells of exhaust and homeless persons clogging nostrils. The sounds of sixteen cop cars swarming a two-block radius. THE two-block radius I happen to be on while walking home from Aaron's restaurant. Excitement abounds! I saw a cop dislocate an alleged criminal's shoulder tonight! Details at 11.

I've been busy living the life I was desperate to lead, but for what? Just so I can ignore you, dear Diaryland? Is it really worth it if I can't document it verbatim?

Random friends drop by -- musicians, no less, desperate to be in my company (and in the company of my internet access when the library is having a fire drill). I have Grown-Up Dinner Parties that start off supremely awkwardly (just like that phrase) and end with me drunk off my ass from red red wine, the absolute highlight of my very own party (though at that point I am alone and dancing to Franz Ferdinand or my big band cd in front of a full-length mirror in work-out pants and heels). I entertain, I let people sleep on my couch because I have more to give than they, I volunteer my precious weekends to accompany guests on a tour of Haight Street yuppie shopping. I rehearse my stories for maximum amusement, I store up jokes to tell various people and mentally document who has heard them already. I'm With It, I'm Mature, I'm Popular, I know my way around the city and back again and know a few bars to stop at on the way.

So why is it that I have to grasp white-knuckled onto a bus stop sign to keep from hurling myself into oncoming traffic?

I get a call from a downhearted damsel, having just broken up with her boyfriend, and whisk her off to a bar where the bartender ignores other customers to help me, me! I've finally found a bartender to replace an otherwise irreplaceable Becca (of Hurricane Cafe fame), to whom I can tell my mood and she will whip me up a drink. Supportive friend? "You need something intelligent. Jameson and ginger ale." Bring it. Feeling flimsy and just need a drink to get me home? A French martini, and keep the Chambord on hand, my friend. A confidante? She'll one-up you on breakup stories: she flew halfway across the world, from New Zealand to Boston to have her heart broken by a boy (named Aaron, no less!). I love her.

Also, the plastic surgeon they have for The Swan [which was the only thing on tonight]? Should be sued for malpratice. He makes those perfectly attractive girls, albeit in need of some moisturizer and mascara, look like monsters. Plastic monsters. Their noses are ridiculously fake, their breasts monstrosities. And the dentist gives them horse teeth. This one girl wanted to look 20 years younger and ended up looking like a 40-year-old trophy wife with too much money to burn on plastic surgery. Shame on you, nay, me, for bearing witness to such unholy shenanigans.

You see how I do that? Jump from the suicide, the what's-really-going-on-in-my-mind talk to flippant, superficial conversation? I am a master of deception, but mostly at deceiving myself. The audience is no fool, or I can assume as much.

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.