I start Aimee Mann's "Wise Up" and hope a post will come to me. I'm coming off a conversation that's made me feel small, and resented. Someone kept their anger in till the last minute, then let it out right before they had to go. Systematically.

"It's not going to stop till you
Wise up."

Anger's the wrong word there. I wish for anger. Lust for anger. Truly and deeply miss anger. "They say that anger's just love disappointed." It was, is, a toe on the line between disgust and disinterest, mixed with a little bit of obligation. The worst state of affairs.

"And it's not going to stop,
So just ,
Give up."

I haven't heard this song in ages-- downloaded it after watching Magnolia with Emily, who I've talked to today, who said "I love you" when she signed off. Like that with Jeremey, hers and mine is one of those relationships that has weathered enough that I've learned to trust it-- our roots, deep beneath the pavement of South street, mingle together, and so they always will.

Some people, you just love.

Jeremey and his girlfriend broke up, by her decision, and while my concern for Jeremey is has grown almost instinctual in the last decade, he didn't call me at any point with the news. I found out when I called on a whim four days after the fact, and I haven't heard from him since. Between that, and a comparison he made to me and some girl who's "like his sister", I've been so hurt by the situation that my instincts have gone astray. All this in the wake of my last post, a tribute to how timeless we are. Heh.

I've been missing people lately, but, with one exception, more as a whole than specifically. Since Petland, I haven't had access to a group of people or regular social outings-- I think, also, about a coworker from iWorx who had meant something to me but whom my relationship was, like my career their, short-lived I doubt it will be remembered. His name, like the Fish Guy, was Chris, and he had beautiful eyes, first of all. Everything else was the antithesis of traditional beauty, without being unnattractive-- he was gruff, tatooed and ex-military, but unexpectedly intelligent in almost any topic I could mention. He had an ego on him the size of Thailand, and day after day we harassed each other one of us-- usually him-- got pissed, but he was kind to me when all was said and done. He'd harangue me about his sales stats against mine, but reassure me whenever I thought about quitting. There are countless pictures of me on his cell phone, all taken by me when I was bored, but I'll probably be forgetting him within a few weeks. Impossibly depressing, really.

After the fourth play of Aimee Mann, I switch to Ben Fold's Five, Brick. When we bought the new computer (probably previously unmentioned), Zack installed a 60 gig hard drive, untouched since the disassembling of a computer I had about two and a half years ago. It's filled with the first MP3's I ever downloaded, conversations with Elorza and the drama surrounding my sophomore-through-senior years of high school. It's like a time capsule, so strange to dig through. These were feelings and thoughts I'd left behind. A coming of age, perserved in words and guitar riffs.

Charlie Parker's version of "Lover Man". "Maneater", by Hall and Oates. "Camera One", by Josh Joplin, which plays now (as I am playing me now.) The lines in it I never got over:

"The sandy-haired sun of hollywood,
Lost his faith in all that's good.
Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock.
Hung his clothes on the shower rod--
But he didn't get undressed."

I remember the first time I realized what those lines mean-- how suddenly I realized what was happening, how clearly I visualized it.

"And no, he didn't seem depressed."

As I get older, I let fewer and fewer people into my feelings. I write fewer and fewer of these kinds of posts. I lose a little more of candid humanity, find a little more reason to stay cold and reserved. (The playlist moves automatically onto Kay's Choice, "I'm not an Addict", a song that sends chills down my spine.)

"Sober now, I'm cold, alone.
I'm just a person on my own.
Nothing means a thing to me.
Nothing means a thing to me."

But nothing's changed. I've breathed out my youthful zest for self-expression and passionate angst, and inhaled the chilling reality: if I am the kind of person I think I am-- that inner-teenager, that sob story-- then, probably, no one needs to know. Probably, no one cares too much.

By the time I get where I'm going, will I seem depressed?

On with it.