*An entry liberated from draft mode about events on or close to 8/05/04*
Instead of blogging, I've been chained to my desk and being a masochist. Farmer Attack has been in full effect much of the past two weeks. The symptoms included emotional rollercoasters, dramatics, self-hatred, moping, and occasionally moments of bliss. Life, however, moves on and I've been doing the pen and paper writing thing to process.
But what I'm really supposed to be doing is littering downtown with flyers for The Closet. A major hinderance to that has been a) I've been depressed b) I hate people, so going up to strangers and shilling up my event wasn't looking so promising. Last night though, I sucked it up and dealt (?dealed? My English major brain is failing me!) because it's my job.
The irony of last night was that yesterday at work, I had been working on a "men on the streets are shits!" post. I dragged my carcass out of my warm and comfy bed around 11 and really had to force myself to go forth and publicize. I felt miserable with so many I sat down in a corner seat on the J and took out my old black & white to pass the time during the ride. Since the MTA tends to be dicks after 10, that train was out of service and I sat on a platform bench to wait for the next one. Up walked a transit worker bursting out with game which put a smile on my face but left me cold because dude was like older than Ms. Mommy and stuff. I pleasantly chatted for a while, then the train pulled off and another one got on at the next time and picked up the mantle. I raised an eyebrow and noncommittedly chatted with him also. Was there something in the air? Were their latent animalistic senses picking up the "not fertile" pheromones? Who knows. I went back to writing.
I got off at Essex and strolled up Rivington with the thought of chatting people up and handing them flyers turning my blood cold. I beelined for Sapph and hung out with the folks. Everyone was clowning poor Fizzie for the week before. I chuckled and hung out for a while building up some liquid courage before going on flyer duty. I tested my nerve by sprinkling some around the bar and found myself casually and confidently responding to questions. So far, so good.
I went out into the big bad world and gave them to cool looking folks on Stanton. A group of 3 guys with vaguely Euro accents crossed my path and one took a flyer and asked if "I'd be there." I smiled patiently and replied in the affirmative. He was all "wonderful! I'll be there!" and gave me goodbye kisses on the cheek that were just a little too enthusiastic. Back up off me, stranger.
I wandered down Ludlow where I ran into two guys talking in front of some bar or another. One started chatting me up and I was neutral yet amused by him. Sometimes that's all it takes really. He was enthuasiastic about the event --and me -- and we exchanged numbers, somewhat unwillingly on my part.
I'm a big resistor which is why I end up having nothing happen or being in hot water. I've been trying to figure out for the past year or so where this pseudopassive thing developed. A byproduct of opting out of the game and being unsure of how to proceed outside of those boundaries I suppose. Underneath a fairly easy-going nature hides eyes that take everything in and a brain that hates to let go. I'm a type A- in disguise, the low-grade control freak.
But that night, I gave the number and I shut the probabilities and calculations off for a min. Even if I lost interest in him by call 1.5, there's nothing wrong with a little possibility now and again.
Posted by Candicissima at August 16, 2004 11:45 PM