Kitty Power

Rolls and Waves

Now that the hissyfit/spazzing is behind me (savor that while you can, I think I plan to be making some snips here and there…self-censorship rules!), back to the blahs…
I’ve resigned myself to finally getting around to fully unpacking from the trip circa umm…June. Why unpack for real when it’s so much more fun to do it leisurely, checking out everything I pull from the bag while dancing around to “Let’s Get Blown” and “Fuck Me On The Dancefloor?” Meanwhile, anyone want a stupid tall collection of electronic music mags and a pair of Technics dogtags? I’ve already promised the CDs after I rip and load the songs I want. The current MusicMatch playlist is reminding me how much “Wait” still makes me want to pop a blood vessel. The “clean” version was inescapable in South Beach and I would grit my teeth thinking, “yeah right…you may insert all the bleeps and/or moans you want, but it’s still the street rapist anthem of 2005!”
The rain threw a considerate shade over the weekend fun. Also a nice thing called utter poverty. The byproduct of paying rent upon arrival on an off week. Ah well. I got a million emails about this AMAZING PARTY deep in the heart of DUMBO and I was considering using the money that I should spend on sensible things like food in order to go when I got a phone call. It was a friend of The DJ who I guess I’m friends with now kinda by default like all the rest. This one and I had hung a few times down in Miami but I always assume everyone is flightly like me and forgets things like that once some time has passed. We chatted for a min and I said I’d definitely go. I got most of the way and said “fuck this, it’s cold and my bubble vest just isn’t cutting it!” so I went home. The next night, he called again to let me know about my fave friend of a friend band doing a show. I demurred because of the shit weather, but true to contrary form, I went.
What kind of fucking rock club doesn’t even have a real bar? No, I don’t want beer or wine. I’d like a whiskey and ginger, dammit! I drank red wine bitterly and ended up sharing a look with this chick. I vaguely thought she looked familiar, but then I thought it might just be the universal law of brown acknowledgement at work and went about my way. I sat down on a stool and looked up to see The DJ standing above me. Joy.
Now as typically when I run into him around town, it’d kinda slipped my mind that the possibility was there. But really, what should I expect going to a show of people I met through him? Ah well. In the week and a half since I saw him last, the longtime cooling ardor is hovering around subzero. He was a little peppy (drunk? high? all of the above?) while I was fighting back a “oh it’s you” and a yawn. The tables do turn eventually. He was downright chirping and I was grunting monosyllabically and playing with texts as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. That girl came over and sat next to him and I finally placed her: she was this cock-blocking girl I’d almost had a Wild West standoff with at a spinning night of his that I believe it or not did not blog. Miracles do happen sometimes! I remember her having the patience of a saint and me knowing damned well that I really wasn’t into him enough to pull a power play. With her there, I didn’t feel so bad about ghosting him and eventually just walking away. I just didn’t care enough.
And you thought I was kidding about the slash and burn? I’ve barely warmed up.

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