We Are Not Perfect But We Should Try

Keeping my fingers crossed to sell my motorcycle this evening. Some guy's coming over with a bunch of cash and, presumably, a pick-up truck. He said he'd buy it if it's the way I described it on Craigslist. Selling that thing would be a huge step in the right direction-- slightly less credit card debt and a temporary allotment of cash in my wallet. Sweet.
On to yesterday...
The Kevins and I got back to my place from the bar around 5:30. The sky was gorgeous, but it was time to go to bed without setting an alarm. Oh, and Sarges was tending the bar, so he charged me $5 for two shots of Jameson and two beers.
I woke up around three, shaved my face and cleaned my apartment in some pathetic attempt to salvage any remaining scraps of dignity that may not have gone rotten with my guts that put up with that monsoon of bad beer and malt liquor, then sat outside with a smoke and some coffee.
Aaron stepped out and joined me on the porch as my gaze was transfixed on some distant high rise and we sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke,
"Wanna drive to Alaska?"
"Yeah, I do."
So that's the plan. It's in the most rudimentary of stages and most of it is based on hope.
Aaron left and I went inside, read for a while. then watched the Sox game.
I was looking forward to the party that night-- I don't often go to parties and the girl who invited me is cute and fun to talk with. Somehow, though, despite sleeping so late into the day, my will to go became begrudging.
After over-thinking some awkward intervals between responding text messages, I got in my car, went to the liquor store, left because I didn't want to exceed the $10 credit card minimum, drove to Hahn liquors to find it closed, drove back to the first store and added a Red Bull and a lighter to my purchase of six Rolling Rocks, bringing the total to $10,25, then drove to Wayne St. and found parking. Still hesitating, I stopped a few buildings away from my intended destination and slowly smoked a cigarette.
The first five minutes of awkwardly standing in the kitchen and bearing witness to people trying to break into the bathroom to free a girl who locked herself in was intimidating as I thought the rest of the night would involve me being checked on by the two people I half-know. This was not the case, though. See, when I used to go to parties, they often happened to be DePaul or Loyola students. The first few times it seemed like a good idea, then I picked up on something unsettling: what at first I attributed to THC-induced paranoia, I soon decided was happening in reality-- the cold shoulders, disapproving glares, and general iciness towards me because I was obviously out of place. I still didn't quite understand why, though. I mean, I was white and not terribly dressed, just like the majority of the people there. I don't know. It must've been that they already knew each other and, recognizing that no one else seemed to know me, were not willing to make conversation with people who existed outside the safety of being a fellow student. Regardless, last night's party was not the case at all. One girl took it upon herself to interrogate me in a friendly manner. I wasn't made to feel like a spectacle, but I also wasn't cast off as some kind of passing villain.
I talked to her friend the whole night. She's living in Denver now, but she's back for the summer. It was strange, talking to this girl; she's smart and witty and funny and pretty and skinny. And tall. But the thing that really got me was how many things we had in common. I got her bad That 70s show reference, but then she told me about David Lynch movies I haven't yet watched. And she likes dogs, not cats, and thinks that, though the Beatles are great and experimental and cool, it's much better to listen to the Rolling Stones on repeat. And we laughed at the irrelevance of some drunk socialist burning an American flag, and how riled up it got one girl. And she's kind of passive anti-religious and thinks smoking's ridiculous, but chain smokes when life gets boring. And she wants me to teach her to drive stick, and said she'd buy my Pet Sounds album.