Sunday afternoon. I can’t believe I can’t pull off a car pool from Pico-Robertson. I am a 43-year old loser who’s about to crash another JConnectLA event expressly designed for people under 40.
I am a pariah. I have no friends. Why do I even bother trying?
She emails back: “Lol,Luke this is funny…I feel like in a time machine! I think you asked me for a ride there in 08 and 09! I know,we’ve known eachother THAT LONG?!”
Sheesh, parking is going to cost $5. I’ll spend about $8 on gas. The wear and tear on my vehicle, probably another $10. Why go? I don’t eat meat. I can’t sing. I don’t play an instrument. It’s going to be a dark and lonely night. I’ll probably have an accident and kill a bunch of retarded people in wheelchairs.
So I go and I find free parking on Vista Del Mar and I talk to blokes and I lie on some sheila’s blanket and I look up at the sky and feel a cold wind against my cheek and people walk by and say, “That guy’s going to get stepped on.”
And so I walk off and I stand by the fire and I look at the party all around me and here I am, Mr. Verbal, and I’ve got nothing to say. Might as well go home, do a U-turn over the solid yellow lines and resolve to talk about it tomorrow in therapy.
A girl says to me, “You can tell someone’s health by their skin. Your skin is glowing.”
“Your heart is very open right now,” says another girl.
Damn, why did I have to eat three straight meals of four hardboiled egg whites, oatmeal with frozen blueberries and walnuts smothered in chocolate soy milk, and a mouthful of parsley?
I sense a great controversy in my intestinal tract and I fear the good guys are losing.
