Monday, November 2

Back to the Future.

These past few days have been quite the blast from the past. On Friday, a friend of the Minimalist’s, Toolman, came for a visit. He had visited I believe the third weekend I was here, the same weekend Twin visited. Orginally, Toolman was supposed to go after me and the Minimalist was supposed to go after Twin (I suspect due to height). We all see how that worked out.

He came for a visit, and it could have just been because his girlfriend was with him this time, or I could really be maturing, but I saw him for the douche he really is, not the goofy-but-endearing guy I thought he was. Don’t get me wrong, on a purely platonic level he’s fine. But he continued pursuing me IN FRONT OF HIS GIRLFRIEND! Smacking my ass so hard it left handprints, telling me he’d “tear that up” and, the piece de resistance, reaching between my legs while his drunk girlfriend is not two feet away falling on the floor and bleeding. Talk about douche.

The next blast from the past came Saturday morning as I’m lying in bed. Everything is fine, until I sit up and reach over the Minimalist to grab my phone. Everything goes black and I can barely hold myself up. I regain my sight, but can’t stop shaking. I do a mental inventory of my body. That’s when I notice my breathing, which is short and labored. And my heart, which is beating far faster and harder than it normally should.

No, I wasn’t having sex and not realizing it. I was having an asthma attack. At this point let me paint you a picture:

Me, completely naked crawling over the Minimalist, off the bed and across the room to my purse. From my purse I pull my bright blue inhaler and begin attempting to take several slow deep breaths off of it. Remember, all of this was done silently and completely naked.

Maybe a bit scary, because of the silent part, but I certainly don’t blame the Minimalist for laughing. That’s better then hysteria or unneeded concern.

I eventually got up and Roomie-Dearest drove me to pick up my prescriptions. I then began heavily medicating myself in preparation for the big night…Halloween.

At a little after 9, Roomie-Dearest, Westchester and I, dressed to the nines in our sexiest black “clothing” and garter belt gun holsters, made our way over to the Devil’s Dance Party, which included 3 kegs, countless shots, a DJ, black lights, and two bands. Needless to say, it was a grand night, minus Toolman’s behavior, a slight rumor about some supposed indiscretions on my part (completely not true and not worth repeating) and my inability to smoke. When all the cool kids were puffing on their cigarettes, I was puffing on my inhaler.

Sunday passed with little excitement. Monday started bright and early, except I wasn’t feeling so bright. My asthma had not improved as it should have, in spite of my constant medicating. Mother was picking out hospitals and practically demanding that I admit myself. Papa was repeatedly offering to drop everything, drive down and tend to me. I refused both and instead made the same trip I’d made many times in my life—to my neighborhood doc-in-a-box. The diagnosis: the early stages of pneumonia. The treatment: two more prescriptions to bring my total to four and a full day of bed rest (which really means laundry, sleep, and an Alfred Hitchcock marathon).

And now, for the last blast from the past, which is not quite fully blasted yet. I recently got on Myspace (don’t judge, it’s almost retro) and saw a message from an old friend who I have quite a history with—Mr. Mayhem*.

A brief synopsis: we met when we were 15 (though few knew how young he was). He was the lead singer in a band, the apple of every scene girl’s eyes, and in with the “cool” kids. Moral of that story—everyone wanted to be him, be friends with him, or fuck him. I wasn’t excluded from that first group, but I wasn’t nearly as a part of it as others. One night he introduced me to his newest band mate, Mamills (who I’m still dear friends with). I became friends with Mamills. I hung out with Mamills. I didn’t know Mr. Mayhem had a thing for me. Mr. Mayhem believed Mamills had a thing for me, which was not true, but it caused some tension nonetheless. That tension caused Mamills to leave the band, which caused the band to end. Not long after Mr. Mayhem moved back to Florida.

Fast forward. The message he sent me informed me that his band was going to be playing in my adopted city Tuesday. We chatted a bit and he kept saying how “stoked” he was to hang out with me. I must say, I’m a bit “stoked” as well. After so long without seeing each other (about 3 years), it’ll be interesting to see what’s changed.

All I have to do now is make sure I look hot as hell.

*Mr. Mayhem-a nickname he gave himself. Other include Omaha and the Kid. He did cause quite a bit of mayhem when he swept in from nowhere (aka-Florida) and took the town by storm.

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