10:00PM. Watched Boondock Saints. Part of me wants to socialize, the other part wants to hit the sack.
Other part wins by convincing the first side that socializing for two more hours isn't going to do diddly. Sleeping for two more hours will.
Crap. The party, for all its drunken forgetfulness, has resulted in two more couples and one couple-to-be for me to look at. I get to watch even more people relaxing in the comfort of each others' presence while I wallow in my own self-loathing, waiting for someone to walk up to me and do all my redemption for me.
And goddamnit, now that I'm trying to stay away from X, she's friggin' everywhere! Thankfully, only in the mild sense of that term. I'd go even more batshit if she were in a deep relationship already. I need more time for that.
Uggh. My problem is that I never impose on anyone. People make friends by taking up someone else's space and talking at them until they're liked. I have always tried to respect the comfort of others, and so I try to never do anything that might force them into something they may find uncomfortable.
Aaaand there go the party people up into the loft to play some Blind Man's Bluff. I tried it once, because I figure it's one of those children's games that translates well into the college age, where things can "accidentally" get more serious (good grief, I really am pathetic).
I found out three things from that. One, the rafters are just a tad too low for me to walk upright under. Two, nobody is going to spark a relationship through a coincidentally-placed grab. Three, I suck at Blind Man's Bluff.
And since the currently scheduled programming is my evening lonely-funk, I think I'll refrain from giving myself an invitation.
I think I'm getting worse... Normally, my mood goes in a pretty smooth curve from "spring-in-the-step" in the morning to "emotional slum" in the evening.
But I noticed that I've lately been having some carry-over from the evening funk into the morning hours. That's not good.
I do have my good moments, though. I was sitting in front of a couple girls who were sitting with one of the guys from FnTV (I think he may be more girl-desperate than I am, actually), waiting for the film to get properly set up. Time passes while the assigned film-wrangler struggles with the controls. I notice my imagination is beginning to kick in.
Let me explain a little about myself. Several years ago, when I was a kid, I would get bored if I spent five seconds without doing something. I would have to keep up a constant stream of activities in order to stave off that creeping feeling.
Then, one day, I was in some situation where I did not have access to anything entertaining. I got bored. I had nothing to do. I got more bored.
Eventually, my boredom reached critical mass and began tearing at my sanity. My brain, in a desperate attempt to preserve itself, began working overtime in order to find some activity - any activity - that would help me.
I've never really been bored since. My mind is capable of keeping itself occupied in any situation, and with any object (or lack thereof).
It's nice, but it comes with a price. I will sometimes stare off into the distance while my mind retracts from the outside world and begins some serious thinking to pass the time. I will also sometimes find ways of entertaining myself which are mildly disturbing to bystanders.
So, anyways. I'm sitting and waiting. My mind is beginning to work its magic.
I look at my foot.
My feet are not really used to being in confined spaces. I've spent many years of my life walking around in nothing more than flip-flops, so my feet have grown naturally rather than spend their life confined by too-tight shoes. As such, I have 5E+ flippers which are remarkably dexterous (for feet).
I've also been spending a lot of time at the school wearing either boots or tennis shoes. I noticed recently that my feet had reached a stench that could qualify as a biohazard, and so I switched back to flip-flops for a while to let them "air out".
This means I have a dexterous and unhindered alien foot at my disposal. I am ready.
I nonchalantly kick off one flop and prop my legs into a comfortable ninety-degree cross (shin of one leg rests on the knee of the other). I then start cracking my toe-knuckles, and getting the kinks out.
But then my foot starts acting strange, and begins making its way towards my face (I'm quite limber). I try to restrain it, but it keeps on coming.
After a few seconds, I am locked into a vicious life-or-death struggle with my own foot, with me trying to hold it back and strangle it into submission before it rips my nose off (I'm really quite limber).
More tense seconds pass as I wrestle with my own appendage for the pleasure of my miniature audience. Eventually I gain the upper hand (ha) and put my foot down (ha ha).
Then it's time to pull the folding theater-seat next to me out from the back a couple inches and peek behind it. I quickly slam the seat back into place and begin edging away from it, throwing wary glances back at it all the way.
Next show, I make a point of looking for something else to toy with.
The movie has finally been figured out by this time, and is just about to begin. For my final performance, I settle for giving my head a light flick and turning it into a metronome as my head ticks back and forth from the force of the blow.
Well, looks like I've almost used up one of my extra sleep hours. Bugger.
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Topic: Sandy Fjord (Read 96317 times)