Yes, so I often come home after a Saturday night and spout my alcohol-tinged thoughts. This may not be an admirable thing to do, but at least I don't delete these blog entries afterwards -- which would be worse, I think. As though I were ashamed that I drink booze, I come home, I think, and I crash.
I can't even begin to put "tonight's thoughts" into a convenient package. Suffice it to say that it was the last weekend of Oktoberfest, shortly before Hallowe'en, and me expecting -- at any moment -- the yearly "explosion" that tends to happen when somebody doesn't like me. An aggressive attack. Something nasty. The last one happened a year ago and I find myself waiting for the next occurrence.
So there I am in my "Ilsa on Ice" outfit, playing into the Oktoberfest-ish-ness which I outwardly disdain but inwardly understand. Drunken boys are picking up drunken girls. I'm at Club Abstract, MY safe place, MY dancing place, and as always a part of me is wondering: why do you people have to come HERE? Aren't there OTHER places you'd rather slum? I end up yelling insults at a guy in a tracksuit who is quite gracious, and who turns out to be PERHAPS a nice person (or a very good actor) as other people (not me) yell "NICE TRACKSUIT!"
The point is not the tracksuit. The point is the desire to have a GOOD place to drink and relax and have fun, without some jerk being...well, a JERK. This, I think, is the theme of my life: trying to find a place, some place, any place. And I can be nasty if I feel my place is invaded.
But anyway, fast-forward the hours through many WONDERFUL experiences to me coming home, and discovering that my suspicions were true: with windows closed and vents open, my neighbour's cigarette smoking is very much obvious. The first floor of my apartment smells like her f*cking ashtray.
So what do I do? The SECOND floor smells okay (in fact, better than it used to), and since I SLEEP on the second floor -- and she tends to smoke at night -- that's not such a bad situation. But again, I want the "good place," a place where I don't need to worry, a "nest," a happy spot.
Then it occurs to me: a person can CHOOSE not to be upset about a situation, right? I can DECIDE not to let this bother me. I mean, that may be unrealistic, but MAYBE I can sit here and DECIDE that my neighbour's inconsiderate behaviour is just...human, right? And that *I* bother her in other ways -- by listening to Electric Light Orchestra while getting ready to go out -- and that SHE might be tolerating ME, right? Because this is my pseudo-resolution: to acknowledge that all people (including me) are thoughtless, and to RESIGN myself to that fact, and just get on with my life...right?
Oh, it's so sad. Now I can smell the smoke upstairs too. I'm breathing her second-hand smoke and there's no way to get around it. I dunno. I need Out. I need Thomas Dolby. And for that reason, I'm posting one of the most beautiful songs ever written: "Airwaves."