Where do I begin? Here, I suppose. I mean, it's not like there's anything pressing on my mind (partially true), and there's definitely nothing trying to jump through my hand onto this text writing space thing.
The expression "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" is so vague and annoying, yet, in my current predicament, is as spot-on as a horoscope one reads to mean exactly what they're feeling. Does it make sense that, to keep my distance from certain people, I have to divulge my biggest ulterior motive? Something doesn't add up.
So here I am, trying to sift through these papers of mistakes and regrets before I add anything to the pile. That's reasonable, right? I'm trying to avoid certain poor, miscalculated decisions made by my brother and sister.
Things can get hairy when looking for a balance between courtesy and honesty. I've already stated in plain terms that I am, in fact, an asshole. I guess that's the out I'm looking for: say whatever comes to my mind.
Aside from the death of a friend or family member, the closest to tears I can remember getting was being overly frustrated when closing down the coffee shop one night several months ago. Lucy was waiting for me, which added to my tension. Actually, this is all irrelevant for the story I'm trying to segue into.
Up to the age of 13, I had never gone to a White Sox game that they didn't end up winning. Once, when I was 9 or 10, my friend's dad invited me and my dad to a game. We left early because it was late in the game and the Sox were losing. We could hear the crowd inching towards the edges of their seats as we walked out the gates and into the parking lot. The bases had become loaded and Robin Ventura was batting when the radio in the car came on. We were almost on the expressway when we saw the fireworks.
The 200 level may be my favorite at Comiskey Park. It's the one that hangs below the skyboxes; just a few rows suspended at the perfect level for each sitting spectator the see every inch of every play that takes place. On a particular, warm, possibly August night in 2001, the Orioles were in town and my dad and I were in attendance. I remember pieces of the conversation we had with the scalper who sold us the tickets. He referred to these as the "drop-down seats." My memory of the actual game is too hazy to discern, but I was speechless once the final out was made. Literally. My dad grew frustrated with me to the point of making threats that I have since forgotten. We stayed for the post-game fireworks show, which the team didn't earn. There was no need to celebrate. The mortality in the face of opposition was now real to the point that it glowed and I couldn't help but assume they'd lose every game I would ever attend from then on.
The same feeling came over me in circumstances that were completely different. When the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, I thought to myself, "Now what?" The first occurrence shook my identity of "sports fan" to the very core. The second merely reinforced the idea that nothing really matters. What's the point of playing towards an achievable pinnacle? I suppose it's good and healthy to be goal-oriented, but what's the point if, once the winter passes, you start back at the beginning and hope for the best? Maybe it's because I don't get it that I no longer find sports to be fascinating; they now serve as a diversion from being productive. I am no longer capable of leaving a sporting event with an irrational sense of elation as I have no vested interest.
I've been experiencing a certain tightness in my chest and I don't know why. Well, it could be the excessive coffee intake, as it could be the cigarettes I've recently taken up. Or maybe it's nothing. I guess I'll have to wait and see. And it's not on my heart's side, so who cares? Not me, that's for damn sure.
Huh. I'm just barely halfway through this shift. Nine and a half hours is a long time to be in a coffee shop-- I don't know how some customers sit here nearly all day on a daily basis. I'm supposed to get a drink with Emily tonight and, lemme tall ya, I ain't too enthused. One of the most awkward feelings that I have ever experienced is that of being hit on by someone you want to remain friends with but have no interest past that. It's happened with Bella and it's happening with Emily. But what's a man to do? I've made enough girls cry in my life that I can't bare to be too blunt (which also risks being presumptuous in the case that I'm completely vain and that I'm not being hit on... unlikely, but plausible). This is a reason for my tendency to curl up in my room in the company of books, far from human interaction.
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