It made me think about memory. I think that mine sucks. I can't remember shit. Childhood is all a blur, for example and each day seems to slide seamlessly into the next, leaving the path that I took to arrive at the Present cloudy chickenscratch. My sister says that she, too, remembers little. Why is this? Don't most people remember their childhoods?
My friend read me the riot act today because I failed to find the poker book that he lent me. When he asked for it at bowling, I told him that I had not been able to find it, had I perhaps given it to him last time I saw him? He fucking exploded. "I knew I shouldn't have gave you that book to read!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide. "Wouldn't you remember if you gave it to me? Why are you always in a haze?! I knew that you'd lose it or ruin it." I felt that he was talking to me like a fricking three-year-old and I'd been having a bit of a bad day, so I exploded in kind. "I just misplaced it!" I said. "I was just wondering if maybe I had given it to you already. Jesus!" He went on to say that I was acting like a crybaby and that I had the penchant for getting pissed off at the drop of a hat [while, he, seriously, is one of the most volatile people I have ever met and he'll explode over absolutely inconsequential things] and blah blah blah and whoop whoop whoop. Bowling sucked tonight. I could not have cared less about how I bowled; I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. [My scores said as much: 88, 102 and 116. Whoops.]
But...what was I saying? Oh yeah: memory. Mine is not so good.
Is it that I just don't give two shits about most things? Is it because I don't really care that I drift daily through life? Do I perhaps see things more haphazardly than most? Maybe, maybe and yes. I do know this, though: if I had lent him a book and he had misplaced it or lost it, I would have damn well not blown up at him when he told me of the misfortune. Shit happens. Buy a new book to replace the old. There is often a simple solution to most "problems."
Or is my memory bad because I drank my brain into pickle juice? Probably not. I guess I just have different priorities as to what is truly important. Maybe I have that off-the-beaten-path bend to my mind that creative people often have. You know what I'm talking about: absent-mindedness, illogical thinking, randomness, et cetera.
Later, when I texted my friend for the name of the book and asked again if I had maybe already given it back to him [I could have sworn that I gave it to him on the day of the Synryd concert] he texted back, "I double-checked. It's not here. Maybe it's in your sloppy house or in your car somewhere." No. And no. And no again, Marky-Mark. It ain't here. And my house is not all that sloppy. And my car? Spotless.
At the bowling alley, he intimated that my house was just plain dirty, making me feel like Pig Pen of the Peanuts comic strip. You know what, Mark? People are fucking different, man. Not everyone is as
miserly penny-pinchinggood with their money as you and not everyone is as analorganized and clean as you are. These are good qualities, for sure. But never let it be said that I would call you out for being yourself. Some people are cat people and some people roll with the dogs. I could not be happier to roll with the dogs.
Anyway, my memory ain't what it used to be and I'll be going to Las Vegas with this guy (and another guy) at the end of May. No drinking for me and I don't like to gamble and he and I will argue over the most inane things...um, why am I going again?
I reckon I forgot.