Had yet another wedding this weekend, and I am so not allowed to do weddings anymore.
In my drunken stupor, I had the audacity to compare myself to Pagliaccio, which is just fucking stupid because I'm not a clown who loves his cheating wife, and in fact have never been in love, cheated on, or married, so I can totally relate to his heartache. I just felt his operatic fictional unhappiness was relevant to my nonfictional unhappiness.
Weddings are lame, because there are hook-ups abound, and I inevitably will wake up alone in my car in the hotel parking lot with tears on my face and a sweltering can of PBR in the cup holder.
And The Dude Who Blows My Mind With His Face was there, laughing, hanging out, being all honest, "Rossi, you are hilarious, let's dance, and later I will sleep with your friend. Har har." And then I say something like, "Shut up Dude, you are so unfair and delight in my misery," except with much less finesse and more swear words and giggles, and he smiles, winks, spins me and says, "I know." I hate/love ambivalence.
The Circus makes my life difficult. It's hard to stay sane around them, because by nature the Circus is aggressive, hilarious, completely bipolar and ultimately the greatest show on earth. Around us, the most rational of humans require high doses of Lithium.
For example, before the wedding, the groom sat down his parents and warned them about the kind of riff-raff his future wife ran wild with in college. He was honestly afraid his mom would have a heart attack.
It's not that we party like rock stars, get all coked out and have group orgies, because we're not like that, not even remotely.
I think it's just that we're all so fucking in love with each other that our pheromones magnetize and go crashing into each other in mushroom blasts. The tension immediately rises, and strangers can see it hovering in front of them, and they're either automatically infected and drawn to us or they run away scared, incapable of comprehending all the laughing and living going on around them.
It's like constantly rubbing your feet on the carpet and giving everyone little joy zaps, and some of them taste it and know it's delicious and vital, while others get pissed at you for being so electric.
And the Boyfriend Squad is doing well, being the mates of the Circus. They're all gay for each other too, and should prolly take camping trips together where they make out and give each other purple nurples and talk about belt buckles, Jager, Nascar, and their crazy Circus girlfriends. But even though they went off and did their secret Boyfriend Squad shots without me, they always grabbed me to head outside for a smoke, thank god, before going back to their girlfriends. As much as I love being drugged by the estrogen of the Circus, I can't handle it for too long.
Then I watched my single friends pair off with other singles and the taken friends couple up, and as always, I was left alone. I don't pair off, ever. So I cry. This was a much more difficult cry than at the last wedding, because last time I was crying for others, but this time...this time I was crying for me. It was fueled completely by jealousy and amplified by the manic first eighty percent of the night. But because of the damn wonder of the Circus, it crashed like internal World War Three.
Being emotional in public is becoming a habit of mine, so it's time to suppress it. I have to shove it deeper inside until it never shows, because I've already spent years establishing myself as someone who laughs at the sentimental and cries at nothing.
That's not very healthy, is it? I embarrass myself.
So I will take out my aggression this week on SHARK WEEK.