Puff the magic dragon

It turns out these days that being called a geek is actually a compliment. It's a strange world we live in.

I had an odd moment of inspiration last night over dinner, and gravitated over to a bar someplace to tell my new friend (father of the Jedi Knight) about it, partly because said idea will require a venue.

I found myself unceremoniously being preyed on by a gang of women, one of whom was rather aggressive but entertaining in her own way; perhaps the funniest thing she had to say to me was that the best coping strategy in any breakup is for blokes to think of their ex girlfriend as a walking pudenda; I asked her if all her ex boyfriends become walking dicks, and she matter of factly said yes, in between promising to puff my pastries. Other observations were that I was clearly a geek, very quirky ideas, very funny, very charming, blahdeeblah. Shrug. I'll blame it on Jedi Dad, who keeps wandering around to whoever I'm talking to and declaring loudly what I do to them. It's starting to annoy me, in truth.

It was a good laugh for a while, but I dunno, I'm the kind of guy who'd rather chat with a familiar face than have my pastries threatened by a stranger I guess, so I abandoned the hormonally-deranged women after a while to head back inside where the music was.

*****
I remember a lifetime ago, back when I was in JC, when Kim looked at me in that way that she had, with those piercing grey-brown eyes of hers, and asked me if I enjoyed being unhappy.

I knew where she was coming from; I hated that even I reminded myself of the then-friend I had, who seemed to relish wallowing in self-pity and melodramatic love-from-afar. Essentially a variant of the high-school crush; the chap had all the symptoms and more including a stammer and tremor in his Goddess' presence, (tremor be damned, he shook like a leaf) and a propensity towards speaking to her in French. His poems about the beauty that glided in the night weren't actually too bad, but it touched a raw nerve in me somehow, belligerant closet-rebel that I was then. I found it ludicrous; he had everything going for him - the girl was right there in front of him, all he had to be was direct, and it would be over one way or the other; a shot to the heart or a shot to the head, cut dried done and dusted.

At some point I sold my friend out and told the girl; I just couldn't stand it anymore. In some strange way it made a mockery of my own situation, and I hated to think that I was in some way... like him.

The girl knew, but of course she knew -- everyone knew -- I knew that she knew already... but what the hey, at least someone said it to her face. She thanked me for my... strange kindness. Shrug.

So when Kim asked me if I enjoyed being unhappy, a hundred - or perhaps a thousand - thoughts and emotions flooded through my then-simpler mind but it was with dead eyes and an impassive visage that I tonelessly replied, "No."

No, Kim. I don't enjoy being unhappy.

I've always hated it with all my soul.