I'm kind of a chicken-shit

Things have been pretty tough lately. Half the friends I had at work were laid off which means extra work is piled on me with no extra pay, car problems have meant I am going broke trying to pass a damn inspection, and I can't find a way to interupt my boyfriends fantasies about us with the reality that his girlfriend is not quite "right." So when Anna called me and wanted to have some drinks after work on Friday, I was all about it.

We went to the old dive and had a few pitchers of beer with some deep fried seafood. I know I have been feeling stressed lately, so that beer called me harder than it usually does when I go out with friends, and before we both knew better, we were on number five. I guess she has been hating her job too. Interestingly, though, our conversation veered from hateful "She-Bitch" coworkers to other topics. Topics I have never broached with her in the past. We talked about my sexuality, on a level I hadn't seen coming.

I felt the need to tell Anna the truth, but part of me was still afraid. I did, however, mention to her that my boyfriend recently told me his friends had mentioned I seemed very "masculine" in my ideals, and that I had "gay tendancies" that he hadn't really noticed before. I asked her if she agreed. She told me she did...kinda.

I must admit, with all the emotional drinking I have been doing lately, five pitchers wasn't quite enough to get me to the "confess all" moment, so I did the only logical thing. I ordered another. We drank more, and I listened to her tell me how she thinks its not as weird as the bf makes it seem that I find girls attractive, and how she likes how I can be myself and not care what they say about me. She then asked if I ever find girls who aren't famous or cliché pretty.

"Like who?" I asked.

"You know, like...your friends or whatever," she coaxed.

I ordered another pitcher. I changed the subject, way to abruptly and guzzled my beer before she could say more. She kept trying to go back to the convo, and I kept bugging the strange drunk guy at the next table so she couldn't. When it was time to go, we stumbled out, arm in arm and hugged goodbye, making plans for our bbq the next day. She came too. But when she came up to me, grabbed my arm, and told me we needed to continue our conversation from the night before, I got scared. What, scared. I was chicken-shit. I grabbed another good friend and made her come outside with us, wouldn't leave myself alone with her, and ran inside the second a seat at the poker table opened up. I didn't want her to know. I am not really sure why I told her, but she can't hate me for it, right? Even, when she had to get up to leave, she kissed me right on the lips, in front of everyone. Sure, its a friend-kiss, and I get that. But why then? Why like that? I came that far, only to bitch out at the last minute. Story of my life. Part of me wishes I had never said a word; the other part wishes I would tell her everything. Ah, Sy. Stupid, stupid girl...

Starting to go BAT-SHIT INSANE!

This is crazy. Sometimes I wonder how the hell I have survived this long. Movies, TV, and the media, they all tend to glamorize the "double life" mentality. In any form, it is believed that if you have some secret hidden life that no one in your daily grind knows about, you are somehow cooler or superior until in some characteristically Hollywood fashion, you are taken down by your own demons or bad guys or, in family movies, a dog or a pigeon or some other retarded thing.

Wouldn't even be that bad if that was the only thing wrong in my life. Or if I were famous, or rich, or a doll baby of the public in some other way. Fact is, the rest of us have to deal with our daily bullshit as normal people are wont to do. In horribly dysfunctional, often increasingly problematic, and never helpful ways that lead to miserable breakdowns and alcohol dependency. Sure, some celebs go down the same path, but at least people recognize them when they walk down the street and throw money at them for no good reason. I don't have that luxury. Combine the craziness of a sexually-enigmatic-meets-self-loathing personality with problems at work, a confusing past, shaky future, and a new found addiction to twitter and you have the mess that is Sy.

Maybe I should be happy. Or maybe I should take five Zanex and rock it comatose for a few days. Perhaps then I won't spread the insanity. Shit seems catchier than the swine flu right about now. It does help to know that I am not alone though. Those of us who are bat-shit insane, unite! It is time to take over the world...