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Heart? Only if you mean the band. I can't shake the feeling that the only love I've ever known or will ever know is that of an audience. And they don't even know me. Those who know me do not love me. Not the way I would have them do. And those who believe they love me do not know me. Not as well as they think they do. I went out last night to Bar for the first time in months, and actually pretty much had a blast. There were loads of people with whom I'm acquainted but hadn't seen in awhile there, and they all seemed quite genuinely excited to see me. I also had the chance finally to meet Patrick's ex, who's in town. He's very cute. (I'm a little jealous.) I don't know if it's the kind of cute I'd want to wake up next to every day for the rest of my life (That's damn hard to find, and I'm not really sure it exists, and I was trying to be casual and not look at him too much. He's said to be quite smart, too, but we scarcely exchanged ten words between us, and he was pretty drunk (Patrick was apparently not in such great shape himself, but then, they're both lightweights. I swear, if you can't party with the big dogs...Well, you know.), so I wouldn't know. In any case, based on past experience, you certainly can't prove his intelligence by me just now.) I went because I sort-of know the guy who was guest DJ'ing last night, and I think he's cute and cool and talented, so I wanted to show some support...and flirt, of course! I hung out with him a bit after I got there around 10.30 or so (largely pointedly avoiding Patrick and his boy), but I didn't want to interrupt his work (I want to interrupt a DJ who's spinning about like I want somebody trying to carry on a conversation with me in the middle of a song.), so I went back to socialising with others 'til he was nearly done, then went back up into the booth and hung out with him as he got ready to leave. We talked a bit, mostly about music and DJs, and he drove me home. Maybe we'll do dinner next week or something. (For record, I was greeted with a hug, and we parted with a handshake; I was disturbingly well-behaved...Until I went for a walk and a smoke a little later and caught some hot guy's eye has he drove past. He pulled over, we talked a bit, and I was going to invite him over, as I'm pretty sure, based on what he was saying and the way he was eyeing my crotch (not that I was wearing anything particularly provocative, 'cause I wasn't -- form-fitting short-sleeved black button-down DKNY shirt from a few years back and a pair of off-white Banana Republic linen trousers -- but okay, yeah, I looked good), that he wanted to get fucked, but it seemed a little weird, so I didn't. He said he'd been at Bar, too, so we determined we might cross paths again there. The only other notable of the night was a final-year CompLit grad student who spoke very good French. That one I'd really like to see again. We'll see. The trouble I seem to have with these social situations is that they're so vapid. Of all the people I talked to, I can scarcely remember any conversation of substance. And I was stone fucking cold sober; for a change, I kept the drinking to a minimum: a quick slug of gin before I left home ("Another shot of courage," indeed, thank you to the lads from Breathe), a gin & tonic when I arrived at the bar, and a martini later in the evening. Fuckywumpus. (I have no clue where that came from, but we all know my fondness for words including "fuck", so there you go. I believe this one's meant to indicate something that's all kinds of out-of-whack.) Ah, a point of amusement: Yesterday was a rather rough day in the office. I had two computers being very, very uncooperative, an electrical circuit that kept being blown because a copier was on it (I, of course, figured this out pretty quickly; unfortunately, I was also responsible. Cut me some slack; I'm not an electrician, and the wiring in this place is totally archaic.), and my hard drive had corrupted the day before, so I had no functional computer on which to work and no time in which to fix my own fucking machine (not to be confused with "fucking-machine", though I've been called both -- "a fucking MACHINE" 'cause I can drink most anyone I know under the table and get away with it, and the other...well, if you've read enough of this stuff, you already know why). So to continue with my story and end this tangent, someone came to my desk to tell me that the power had gone off in the back loft, and I muttered to myself, furiously frustrated and quite without thinking, "Fuck me in the goat ass!" (a phrase in learnt from a frat-boy buddy of mine in college). And then I looked up. And directly in front of me, where normally sits the most foul-mouthed partner in the office, sat instead his 11-or-so-year-old daughter. Who found it hilarious. And asked her father, who also found it hilarious, what it meant. Obviously, I think she's a great kid. I apologised profusely, natch, both to her and to her father, both of whom seemed to find it even funnier that I was apologising after saying such a thing. I am most thankful and relieved. After rehearsal last night, I didn't have much chance to go to the gym before Bar, so hopefully, it was sufficient that I carried my dry-cleaning, twelve pairs of trousers, across town, occasionally switching hands. Pants are seriously heavy when you're walking a mile or so in hot weather while carrying and trying not to wrinkle or drop them. I did lie on the floor and do a shitload of crunches of three different varieties and a few push-ups, though, just so I wouldn't feel too much like a slob, and I must say I ended up looking pretty good. I went out to make a point -- that I am better-looking and classier than the vast majority of the assholes around here without really thinking about it. And the point was made, based on comments I got from the police lieutenant, the hairdresser, Patrick's adorable ex...Ha! Sometimes, you've just gotta go out there and lock everything away behind a mischievous enigmatic smile. I keep my heart locked in a box next to the piano, thanks. No, there are not any duplicates of the key. r
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