Wounded Minnows

Wow, I just found this gem of confusion. Fortunately, I still remember what all of it means. You, poor reader, will think I took some sort of drug before writing it. Good luck…

*Names have been changed to protect the never-innocent*

She looks like Emily Dickenson. But no. A man? Never. Nonsense. #417. So blah. How the hell to describe? Friday was so incredibly insane it is virtually impossible to relay in words. It was. An experience. A vibe. A feeling. A chorus. Chaos. Utter and complete chaos. He says it is difficult for people to understand their own rating. They don’t see the stack. Steph’s way up here. Others way down. But Steph doesn’t see the stack so she’ll never know. And she’s humble enough to be skeptical when he tells her so. Dear gods let me not disappoint him.

So here’s what happened. Thursday after class, I was asked to join a group at the Minnow on Friday night for some drinks. I went, a little nervous about the awkward atmosphere that might very well be waiting for me. It was not. It was actually one of the kewlest nights I have had in a very long time. Humor was flying all over the place, but that’s what you get when you combine a bunch of tipsy writers in a bar. It was insanity. But not quite yet. The insanity came with aliases Kim, Sam, and Liz. When they walked in, the oddity of the situation hit us. It was great. Now we’ve got a drunk female bartender who knew Jack when they were in high school, a diet-coke drinking religious influence, and another pretty female. The gods either loved us or hated us. I won’t go into the details of the night, for they are so very fantastic that it would seem completely made up and stupid. What happens when you have an entire night of “You-had-to-be-theres?” So I’ll go back to my nonsense.

My ass is like whoa. Apparently. Bathroom struts and pause-turns. Ears bumping. Wives and soon to be wives telling secrets way too close to each others’ faces. Falling with two women on top, collapsing into the corner behind yet another under the table. Toilet paper perfectly placed for tall women. Like me. The cliche barely 21-er males getting in some fight and rashly exchanging words about mothers. Tabs unpaid.

On that I shall end, as it’s turning into Thompson.

Originally posted January 25, 2004

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