"If you go straight long enough, you'll end up where you were"
28 April 2009 at 1:51 pm

The boy and I, we're just hanging out. We're just having fun. I don't know if he knows that yet, but that's all anyone does until somebody says something different, right?

Sunday night and the shift was never going to be worth my time to work, but I'd made a commitment, so I spent the day with the boy and we cooked and danced and he kept trying to get me to talk about myself, but Esp knows, it's just not something I like to do (anymore) (that's what this is for), and instead I'm just like, can we make out some more? But instead of saying that, I just, like, make out with him some more.

The machine shop bosses say they have a surprise for me, and it's their new dog, a sweet little pit mix they want me to train. Sure I can! Busy little life with visitors, Suzzi last weekend, Sam this weekend, and jobs and jobs and jobs and jobs and workouts and phone calls and emails and my day is a little bit longer than yours, apparently.

The machine shop boss, she asks exactly what that is that's on my neck, and wants to know if the new boy just wants to get in my panties, because she worries about me and wants me to date good boys. I don't know one way or the other, and I don't really care. We'll keep having fun as long as we're having fun, and when we stop having fun, we'll stop hanging out.

My brother says, proceed with caution, in bold just like that, because he doesn't want me to be one of those fuckwit girls, but when I'm talking to my boss, I'm blushing and giddy and, she says, "smitten," because I used the wrong stamp on the checks.

Sunday night, and this guy comes in. He's a sustainable fish farmer, but he was also an econ major at UC Berkeley, made gobs of money in banking and bought himself a pad in Sausalito while he tries to figure out how to make fish farming profitable. He was stranded at the airport, but made his way to the cafe on the beach, and the bartender there gave him a ride to our place. He walks in and is madly in love with the place, and we end up chatting all night long, playing Trivial Pursuit, and he's so grateful that I know who Phyllis Dillon is -- "You can go ahead and keep on playing awesome music;" "Don't mind if I do!" -- while I make matchbooks, and he asks if he can take two and says that if anyone tries to use them for their intended purpose, he will be very angry.

When I comment on how angry he must have been having been stuck at SBA for three hours only to get booted from his flight, he says he wasn't, really, but that his friends call him Furious George, which I think is hilarious.

He compliments my work ethic and I let him buy me a drink. We're still chatting mildly all the time, the perfect bartender-customer relationship, very vaguely flirty but it's also very clear that I am his bartender and he is my customer.

He passes out on the couch, even after I warn him that it's a black hole, and I try my very best to get him out of there, exhausted, I contemplate dumping water on his head but don't want to get the couch wet, so I dump water on his foot, and hit him with pillows, and eventually have to grab his collar and shake him awake. It's hysterical, this little girl trying to make this giant man wake up, and I'd be furious Georgette if I hadn't decided to give up my anger issues last year.

He's, like, my only customer all night, and it's 3am, and I have to be at work at 9:30am because I promised, and I'm glad I was there for this guy I'll never see again, and it's not the massive tip he leaves me, but after he's more fully awake, he shakes my hand and says, "Thank you so much," very sincerely. He's grateful I'm good at my job.

The day after, the boy texts me, 'How are you?' and I say that I'm ultra productive, three hours later because my phone died and my charger was at Kristie's, and he doesn't text me back and I don't care.

I'm still having fun with the boy, but I know I can do better.


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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.