Here's to never finding love and happiness, maybe next week.
No, wait, fuck that noise.
Because today I heard a man tell the story of how he was almost completely burned alive when he was nine years old, and the doctors all thought he would die, and he didn't, and he went on to live a good life and snag himself a hot wife. He likened life to giving birth: even though the contractions hurt like hell, you have to push since you know there's a beautiful baby waiting for you on the other side.
Because I went to my comic book store and discussed the Brubaker Daredevil run with one of the guys there—the one I had probably talked to more than anyone else there, the only one I thought maybe actually remembered me but I wasn't sure, the one to whom I finally formally introduced myself on Saturday—and he was really excited for me to get to the end of the run and was being careful not to spoil anything for me. And then after I spent a lot of time chatting with another of the guys about bad comic book movies, he pointed out a comic that they were giving out free and addressed me by name.
Because Dan (incidentist), who lives on the other side of the block, invited me to come over for dinner, which was an amazing chicken pot pie from Bakesale Betty's, along with cornbread and the Rice-a-Roni Spanish rice I made. His new roommates are cute girls, and one of them has a boyfriend (?) who really liked my rice, and we all played Scattergories. And I lasciviously read a description of cherry pie and made a hilarious joke about chiropractors being crack dealers that took the other girl a few tries to get, and she didn't want Dan's Jew hands to touch her plate, and we all laughed so much our stomachs may have burst. And then we watched Gummi Bears. GUMMI BEARS, YOU GUYS. This is my life.
So a(n albeit extremely) cute girl I talked to for a couple hours doesn't think I'm worth making time for. It is not la fin du monde. I am an awesome fucking guy, for fuck's sake. Let me believe that, just for tonight.