.:||:. Controlled Spin .:||:.

::7.08.2004::

Life’s a bitch and there is nothing that you or I can do to change that.

Good goo… I’m really fucked up right now. This should be interesting. Since my last entry my life has managed to do a complete 720, and left me praying to the porcelain gods of my proverbial life.

It all started with my being accepted to the University of West Georgia. I was stoked; I get to get my sorry ass back into a class room, and I don’t lose the one person that means the world to me, Tiff. Then about three days later I get a letter from West Georgia saying that they made a mistake and that I technically don’t qualify to be a ‘frosh’ because I didn’t take a math above Algebra 2, but they tell me that they’ve enrolled me into their advanced transfer program and will still be able to attend their school. The catch you ask? Well, since I’m not technically a freshman at West Georgia, I’m unqualified to apply for student housing. Solution: Get an apartment.

I never thought it possible to feel both elation and misery, but I think that’s the only way to describe the way I felt in that moment and it is a feeling that I’ve very recently become all too familiar with.

I began doing an unfathomable amount of the most dangerous thing any person could ever do; think. I soon crunched the numbers and realized that despite my past year of working seven days a week I hadn’t saved near enough money to be able to afford my own apartment, cover all the things that my scholarship wouldn’t and not have to work come this fall. This was rather depressing to realize that I’ve spent the past year devoid of any semblance of the social life that I once had, looking to be able to head off this fall and gain it all back ten fold, and it still wasn’t enough. All of it for nothing, a year wasted, unless, yes, I hadn’t thought about that, a roommate would make it much easier… but who?

You recall my quoting that thinking is the most dangerous activity that any person could do, well proof of said theory is as follows:

Tiff pulled an interesting stunt a few nights before all this occurred. I was on my way to the movies with my buddy Taylor, when I get this text message from Tiff. I park my car and start fumbling with my phone trying to figure out what it is she wants (I don’t mess with my phone when I’m driving, or at least try not to.) After a handful of menu’s I finally get the text message on screen, “HELP ME” is all it says.

I started, yeah that’s right thinking… that she’s probably in trouble (flat tire, drunk and needs a ride, emotionally distraught, and you know general things that one would start worrying about). I tell Taylor to head in and that I’d catch up with him later. Immediately I called her back, wanting to know what was wrong, to which she replied “Oh I don’t want to talk about it now, it’s personal.” Alan’s happy tie rope round ankle, jump off bridge. I’ve a question to all you females out there; do you do this shit intentionally? Seriously, I mean here I was thinking like she was stuck in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night and there are rabid animals closing in, then when I call she shrugs it all of like nothing. I seriously began contemplation if it was really a girl in the old tale of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”, NO GUY IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD PULL THIS SORT OF SHIT.

Anyhow that whole paragraph is of little importance to the grand scheme of this story, other than you need to remember the fact that I was thinking, and it all went to hell very, very fast. This whole thing (the ‘HELP ME’ portion of the story) reminded me that she was going to West Georgia, and that the housing application deadline was still two weeks off. I’d found a candidate for a roomy.

Now most of you are probably saying, “Wait, you asked your ex-girlfriend, whom you still have feelings for, (and she knows you still have feelings for her) to move into an apartment with nothing in the way of supervision??? Better still, you believe she might say yes??!!” (In fact I can grantee that most of you are saying it, because it is well known that most people mouth things that they are reading due to a proficiency at auditory learning.) Allow me to reiterate the status of things between Tiff and I, it’s been two and a half years since we ended it, and as of June 28, 2004, I will have known her for exactly six years (how I possess that knowledge and can’t for the life of me remember anything I learned in the class rooms of good old’ Roswell High is another tale). She was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s over now and I know that, but I can’t help but want only to see her happy, or so I thought.

On the fourth I was at Sarah’s new David’s for a house party (She and Holt ended it I want to say about three weeks ago, but don’t quote me on that) and I’d told her about it. Also at said party was Paul, who recently got out of a bad relationship (his gal turned out to be a dirty ho, and had been cheating on him for about 3 months), Paul is a great guy, he’s funny, and can out drink an elephant. Unfortunately Paul hasn’t had sex since he broke up with his girl about 3 months ago, and has since vowed that he would “fuck anything with legs”. At this point I think you can guess what happened that night. She and Paul got friendly and all I could do is sit and down the next shot of tequila that was handed to me. Around midnight (alcohol count: 6 beers, 3 hits of tequila, and 2 hits of rum) I couldn’t stand it anymore and started packing up my shit to leave. Paul and Tiff were curled up on a couch under a blanket talking. Next thing I know I’m standing by my car, finishing up my seventh beer when who do I see step out of the house but Paul with Tiff in his arms. I couldn’t even watch, and I knew I couldn’t drive, at least to where I wouldn’t get pulled over.

She walked past me, then stopped asked “where are you going?”

“Home, you?” was all I could manage to say.

“The same.”

“What no, stay, you and Paul seem to be having a good time.” I choked out.

She said something, but I don’t remember what exactly.
Now, odds are it was the tequila and not the rum (though it was more so just the general amount of alcohol that I had in my system), but for some reason I decided to bring up my needing a roommate. After that I don’t recall the rest of the conversation, but knowing my luck and how things generally tend to work out for me I’m going to have to place my money on one of the non-positive outcomes.

I do, however, remember her getting in her car and driving off not long after that.

Looking back at it now, I’m a little appalled at my reaction. In the two and a half years since we broke up I’ve dated and fooled around, but I guess I never considered the same of her, I guess I never thought about the fact that she probably hooked up with other guys in that stint of time. Of course I was no where near prepared for any of this and it all decided to kick in right then and there while I was standing in the street.

Promptly I rifled through one of my bags and found a couple codeine I’d stashed for nights like this and went back up to David’s house, and proceeded to down the pills with another shot of tequila. Burnout Alan had made his glorious return. I told Paul about my past with Tiff, and he played the gentleman, apologized, and said that if it wasn’t cool with me he wouldn’t pursue anything with her. I of course played the same, telling him that it was fine with me, but I saw that this wasn’t a good idea, and I’m currently trying to get in touch with him to tell him that I do have a problem. I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, only that the next morning it was comforting to feel as bad physically as I was emotionally.

The days and nights since then have been a haze, the days spent trying to work and recover from the night before, and the nights spent giving me a reason to hate myself in the morning. I’m not looking forward to my shifts at Freeland’s this weekend; I don’t really want to even see Tiff. I’ve no idea how I’d react or what I’d say. I don’t know which bothers me more though, the fact that I thought I was over her, but it turns out that I’m not; or that I actually have proof that the game is over and I’ve lost.

Thus concludes the evidence that thinking is the most dangerous of things, odds are that all too often you’ll over think things you shouldn’t and not think about the things that really matter in life. Now, if you’ll excuse me there is a bottle of vodka calling my name.

>> Alan spun round and round on 7/08/2004 03:03:00 PM

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