Hello blog and God,
This week has been a nightmare mountain of stress, in ways that I can’t publicly express, because it would rip the Fiction Mask off The Miniature Golf Network and suddenly everyone in the industry would know exactly where I work. Which is sad because there is a lot to tell, and maybe I’ll be able to tell it six to eight months from now, because it is kinda funny and ironic in a God Sure Is One Funny Mothertrucker kind of way, but not now.
Perhaps I can draw a comparison. On Tuesday, I went to see a local band play a set at Key Club. I’ve seen them before, they’re interesting, if a bit whiny voiced, and I was looking forward to hanging out in the back in the dark and people watch, perhaps coming up with new script ideas, or bits of dialogue, or who knows what.
Because the day was so awful, I end up arriving halfway through the set. I got my drink, staked out a spot, making sure I didn’t block anyone’s view, and stood by a column which was pretty perfect to see the band. I did get to hear my favorite song so that was all good.
And then a pack of people, two guys, two girls, cross in front of me, see more people they know, and stop directly in front to talk to them, now blocking my view.
They’re seriously, like, two inches away from me, they elbow my boob as they go to hug each other, so they know they’re in my way. There’s a perfectly good empty spot if they just keep moving to the right, but no, they start blabbing away two inches in front of me.
“Uh, excuse me?” I say, gently pressing on the guy to move him away from me. They look at me, “You’re kinda in my way.” I say as politely as possible.
“Hey, it’s a club” the douchiest guy says. They take a half step away, ignore the perfectly good empty space to the right, and keep on being douches.
I want to tell this douchepack that they are douches. (Hey! A new word! Douchepack!) I want to tell the guy in his douche hat, who’s doing the whole I know every lyric to every song because I’m that big of a fan and I’m gonna dance douchily and point at the singer like we’re best buddies during the songs! that he’s a douche. I want to tell him that the two girls are not going home with him, because he’s a douche, and I can tell this after observing them for all of two seconds.
But I don’t do any of that. Because I’m not that big of a bitch. Not on the outside, anyway. But I am on the inside, and thus am convicted by my thoughts, I’m a sinner, a bitchy bitchy sinner, blah blah blah.
Instead, I’m the one that moves, and fifteen minutes later, the set’s over anyway. A lousy day made lousier, mitigated slightly by the fact I got to hear my favorite song live.
You know that douchepack wouldn’t have stopped in front of me if I had been a guy, or if I had a guy with me. But no, I’m alone.
And after the wreck of the day I’ve had, as I’m driving home alone, the aching Touchy Feely Amy need sweeps over me again. God, I’m a loser.
See, in stressful times like these, when I can’t dive into a pool of Patron because I have to be sober in the days ahead, the only thing I want is to be held in the arms of a Big Strong Guy. I don’t need the Big Strong Guy to solve my problems, because I already know he can’t, and the problems are going to work themselves out anyway. I don’t even need the big strong guy to murmur sweet nothings in my ear like, “It’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be fine.” I know it will, I know I will.
I just need him to fucking hold me. Like, seriously, all I need is maybe 5 to 10 minutes. And no, I’m not saying I need to be held because then I need to be kissed, and then I need to do some other stuff. No, I’m way too stressed for all of that. Just me, Big Strong Guy, held, done.
God can’t hold me the way I want to be held. Sure, He can arrange my circumstances, and I personally think He’s laughing at me right now, but He can’t send a pair of disembodied arms down from heaven to wrap themselves around me. And I’m so freaked out these days that I would still take the Disembodied Arms Option, creepy as it would be.
If I’m not getting what I so desperately want, the obvious answer seems to be that God doesn’t want me to have it, or doesn’t think I need it, or thinks I don’t deserve it because I judged the Douchepack to be Douchy or is trying to teach me that Being Held By Big Strong Guy doesn’t compare to what God has for me.
Which is, um, what? Better Circumstance? Future Blessings? How does that help me now, in the car, as I’m driving home, and feeling another layer of numbness and despair forming around my heart (and my back, for some odd reason.)
I talk to God. He doesn’t answer. And on life goes. God help me. God help me all over.