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Chapter 10/Page 3 |
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Blessedly, it was around then that I discovered I had some much needed friends. I’m talking about the kind of friends who comfort without judgment -- the kind who are there when you need them, but give you space when you need that. I had a couple of the best friends a person in my situation could ask for. I’m talking about, of course, Fuck Buddies. I could go on an on extolling the virtues of Fuck Buddies. A Fuck Buddy is the most giving, understanding person on the planet. They understand who you are, who they are, and what you are to each other. They don’t ask for any more, nor do they want it. Fuck Buddy is the most honorable title a person can hold. More than jury duty, it’s everyone’s civic and moral obligation to act as a Fuck Buddy at least once when called upon. Without hesitation I have repaid society for the kindness shown to me by my Fuck Buddies. Thank God (let me say it again) THANK GOD for inventing Fuck Buddies. Hallelujah! Mine came into my life when I needed them most. They got me through those dark ages on the days I could handle company, and on the days I couldn’t, they left me alone. But for all they cured, there were a couple things wrong with me no Fuck Buddy could fix. I still dreaded staying at home for any length of time. Too many hours in my apartment caused my chest to tighten to a claustrophobic fit. My insomnia was raging. I’d fallen into a bad pattern of lying on the couch watching television until I finally felt sleepy. The simple acts of turning off the T.V. and climbing into bed let me wide-awake. The Brain would simply not shut the fuck off. The shrink delighted in my tales of the mental gymnastics I performed every night, my mind switching on to this weird multi-tasking mode: I would replay conversations that had occurred previously; act out conversations I anticipated in the future; visualize the words of those conversations in block letters floating past in the dark space of my personal universe; hear songs that I had written being performed by famous artists; hear famous artists perform popular songs they had never recorded; break down records I knew into their individual components, isolating a guitar part or drum beat on a particular record. None of those individually is all that amazing. What the shrink found interesting was that I was doing several simultaneously. That was seriously fucked up, though she put it a little more eloquently. I averaged two to three hours’ sleep a night. The dark circles under my eyes put years on my face. When I was in high school, eczema left scars on the insides of my elbows. People who should have known better, including my sister’s best friend’s little sister who sat next to me in homeroom, swore that I was a junkie. The same shit was happening again. Questions were not so subtly raised. Certain parties were perilously close to pulling an intervention on me. At least if I couldn’t stay in the house, I gained the comfort of knowing that when I did venture out I was under no great pressure to hit on chicks. A Fuck Buddy was a phone call away. Finally, I could just relax and have a drink in peace. Girls, in turn, picked up on my newfound calm and stopped bolting the minute I opened my yap. Though the raging storm that was my life had calmed somewhat, I was still haunted by fears that I could not yet articulate. That’s the worst part about not knowing: the not knowing. The Fuck Buddies and the relative stability of my day job took care of me like an over the counter cold medicine that masks symptoms but does nothing to treat the illness. Whatever was chewing at my insides was still in there, festering. I could feel it, but I did nothing to investigate. That my life had stopped heaving so violently was enough for me, for the time |
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