Dumb

I want to delete my last blog but I won't. I will leave it for posterity and to remind myself how absolutely fucking ridiculous I can be.
Had a great dinner with J from my running clinic last night. I decided to walk to the restaurant and as I was heading down St. Georges (a lot of the streets are named after saints around here, which is a bit odd) I came across a couple of women that had apparently bumped into one another while running errands and were having a fierce, whispered and conspiratorial conversation. It jarred the cogs in my head and they slowly started to grind and wing out associated thoughts and concepts. Then I got sidetracked thinking about a concept for another short story involving my relationships with light poles. They seem to turn on and off around me a lot. It makes me feel special.
Got to the restaurant (early, as always). I had had a brief conversation with J when a bunch of us went out for drinks a few weeks ago and I had gotten the impression that she wanted someone to chat to. And chat we did. We talked about some pretty personal things, things that were so personal that Michael said to me (I called, kind of drunk, on the way home and told him I had eaten a steak and he said, "Yes, I know. You've told me like seven times") "don't you think that's a bit weird?". And I thought about it, and no, I don't think that's a bit weird.
What's weird is people that talk and talk and talk and have nothing to say. I am possibly one of these people, and if you think I am then by all rights tell me to shut up. But I think that that's what those furtive and illicit whisperers were collaborating about on St. Georges. They were out and away from their husbands and they had something to say to each other. They were comparing normalcies or commiserating about abnormalities. They were unloading. They were empathetic and seeking advice. They were reassuring.
So I think maybe that's what the conversation that I had with J was about. We all have these lives which are all so different and sometimes you just want to check in with someone and have them tell you that you're okay, that other people have done, thought, felt the same things as you. I don't want to hear about the great deal on pants that you got at the GAP, nor do I care what kind of car you have or what you do for a living (unless you love what you do for a living, it brings you joy or you own it). I do want to talk of the things that were bad that happened, of uncertainties, of amazing accomplishments and surreal experiences. I can only have my experiences and I've not had yours, so tell me about them.
When I got home last night my mind was still conversing, though it had no one to converse with. I went to bed and I suppose my mind wanted to keep on going to it created fictional circumstances and gave me equally fictitious answers. I dreamed that I emailed Typewriter and his response was perfect. That a colleague of mine wanted to have an affair with me and I was both surprised and not surprised. I dreamed that I confessed to someone my great regret of not visiting my grandfather in the hospital before he died. There was more, but it's all fading from my mind now, washed away by my second cup of coffee and buried under too much french toast.
I hate when I do the micro thing. I hate when I think so small. Oh fuck it. I haven't even put on my bracelet and I'm already complaining. I just hate when I disappoint myself and stay on that useless, ridiculous, linear train of thought that's not even worth any of my energy. It's that train of thought that perpetuates useless, frivolous conversations; the kind which, when it begins, you can already anticipate the verbal back and forths arriving at some inane, predetermined conclusion that essentially concludes nothing, as is really more of a cessation of talking until the next redundant conversation begins anew.
God. This is what happens when I don't get enough exercise and have too much sleep and use too much sugary syrup.
Good morning, sunshines.