Not sure where I was or what I was doing

 

It may come to me in a bit, or it may not. I have vague recollections of being in a bar, or in some way or another associated with some bar that I would attend (shirtless, apparently). It was one of those situations where you are that comfortable that you can just go in and be yourself. So, I walked in, everyone greeted me and I maybe ordered a sandwich, I don't know. 

Someone was explaining to me about the latest drug they were on and why I should try it. I explained that, while I want to feel good as much as the next guy, my left brain doesn't like to suffer at the expense of my right brain's pleasure.

"This drug just makes your left brain and your right brain feel really good," the person countered, drawing me a crude picture of a divided brain with two happy faces inside it.

That seemed to be all the scientific evidence I needed and I set about to procure a sample. Or order a sandwich, I not sure which. In either case, I never did actually get around to the good stuff, drugs or otherwise. 

I seemed to be on some unending errand for the barkeep, who was a slightly pudgy middle aged black lady with long curly hair. She was someone I recognized from TV, but can't name without doing an IMDB search. Ok, fine, it was Pam Grier. Or someone who looked an awful lot like she does these days.

That's about all I can recall from the timeline. So, now I'll go on about how I'm slowly trying to win my way back into Lesa's good graces. I've been careful to not overstep, but gauging by her reactions to my tentative moves, she is warming up past the tepid climate of the friend zone. We've reinstated the midnight tucking in and cuddling messages. Emojis are starting to return to the dialogue, along with some of the familiar terms of endearment.

Give me an inch and I'll give her the whole, um, enchilada. So, the shirtless part does make sense, because yesterday I sent her a picture of myself, smiling, showered and shirtless, to which she responded favorably. I'm even less mature than I'd imagined, getting caught up in this texting relationship like a teenager, but as long as it's well received, I'll make no apologies. I'll wait to get slapped before doing that. 

Chicks dig confidence. Or so I'm told. Until you make a complete ass out of yourself. And even then, it's in how you manage to extricate yourself from your ass-ness that makes the difference as to whether you are just being sweet or if you are a genuine reprobate. I am probably both, but I'll work on convincing her otherwise.

So, as usual, this blog and everything else suffers as I pour my best work into creating the best possible persona to win this woman's heart. Part of that, though, also includes making some positive forward progress in getting my life back in order. 

I'm not allowing myself as much recreational slack or mopey downtime. I have to find things to do to improve my living situation. You know, to make the entire package more than just a facade. This means getting down to business and cleaning shit, decluttering and in general not living like I don't give a crap. 

So, that much is a healthy side effect of being pretty much in stupid, blind, hormone-crazed love. I at least will get a clean bathroom and trimmed hedges out of the deal. My lazy routine of "just get me through the day" has been replaced by "just get me through the day, and let me accomplish at least three things over and above maintaining the status quo."

Speaking of which, I gotta get up and get to some of that. I don't have a plan for today yet. I was hoping one would come to me. Now I'll have to engage my Aunt Carol technique of making a list of all the lists I need to make in order to know what goals I have and how I'm going to go about achieving them. And perhaps I'll tidy up a few things as I'm circling around the many projects and taking a whack at each of them while finishing none of them. 

Damn my ADHD and crippling OCD hording gene. Everything just seems either too sentimental or potentially useful to throw out. But clearly there needs to be some kind of a limit to my storage of things which I haven't used in over ten years and are probably obsolete or inoperable at this point.

Love you, Sharon, aka my LED angel. Still on. Still nagging me from beyond the grave. I don't know what she's actually saying, but I was with her long enough to have her most likely thoughts imprinted on my mind. Right now that thought would be, "Get up, lazy bones!"