Throwing Plates

It's confusing to want to kick in the teeth of someone you've technically wronged, rather than the other way around. Even if it feels like you're the one who got fucked. It's a sick mixture of anger and frustration and selfishness that makes one particularly ugly.

Check the time stamp: 9:22 on Monday, Nov. 17. I have tickets to see Built to Spill right about now, but I'm not there. Why? Let's recap.

Last night, Kevin came over less than an hour before my bedtime very depressed. He'd forgotten the paper he'd printed for me which was the reason for coming over at all. He'd earlier scoffed at me for saving the new Death Cab for Cutie CD I'd just bought to listen for the first time with him. I didn't *mean* anything by it; just we'd planned to drive to Olympia for some computer-fixing crap that night (which I was already unhappy about) and I thoyght I'd save it for that at first, but then he got up too late to do that, either... anyway. Kevin is seemingly depressed and back to his sleep-all-day schedule which is annoying to me and probably for him, too. He was just...so...I don't know, not right-seeming that I told him if he didn't feel up to it, I could probably find someone else to go to the show with me.

That was foolishly charitable of me. I gave him an out. He took it, as of late this afternoon.

And so, mad as hell, I began trying to find someone else to go with.

Why couldn't I just go alone, you ask? Well, I could. But (1) I'd have to take the bus (2) to a neighborhood that kind of isn't so great in the first place and (3) a club I've never been to. (4) The bus routes drop off about half a mile from the club and (5) may or may not run reliably into the night, meaning (6) I probably wouldn't get home until late late late (7) chilly and wet from the nasty weather and still pissed about being alone. Yeah, it's excuse-ridden, but I think I'm allowed these excuses. They are still better than my excuse for not seeing REM/Wilco at Bumbershoot when one girl gave me a wristband but we couldn't get one for Kevin.

So anyway, I told Aron to get to Seattle by 9. Jokingly, of course; the guy's in Phoenix and not exactly in a position to charter a flight or whatever. I posted to TUS with my petty bitch about the situation. Of course none of my housemates could or wanted to go. I emailed Jesse, which I'm sure he didn't get in time and is probably busy anyway. Or doesn't like the band. I have no idea. I IM'ed my old friend Rachel, who's down at OSU in Corvallis, Ore., telling her she should drive up to Seattle and see Built to Spill with me tonight.

Forty-five minutes later, I got an "ok."

Incredulous, a bizarre conversation ensued in which she told me she was going to come up that night, what the hell! She wants to see me. She tells me to go to the show, leave a ticket at will-call for her, and she'll meet me there. I'm like, well, um, how about you call me around 9 and say where you are, and I'll decide if it's feasible for you to get here in time. She said okay and took off.

Amused by the whole thing, I decided to go to Trader Joe's with Stephanie and get junk food. She's all about the frozen key lime pie and black soft licorice. I got no-pudge brownie mix and cappuccino meringues, thinking these fat-free items may be Rachel-diet-approved. And I wanted sugar.

I heard from Rachel as the brownies came out of the oven around 9 p.m. She was in Vancouver. We decided that she wouldn't make it in until after midnight, and that was ridiculous. But she is thinking of coming up tomorrow instead, which would be cool.

The Rachel thing had temporarily alleviated my anger, but I had to call Kevin and tell him what was going on, just to make it come back.

He told me I'd promised not to nag.

Ohhhh, fuck.

Well, I'm still angry. I'm out $40 for tickets and fees--at least some of the money supposedly goes to help Dub Narcotic's medical bills after their bus accident last month. At least it's not a total loss, I guess. And I've missed being around my otherwise pleasant boyfriend, who seems to be having a hard time. I just have a hard time being nice, apparently. Sometimes I just want things to go my way so bad that I revert to being a bratty 2-year-old.