So. The following are the first 5,800 words of the epistle I wrote Sunday when I was so fritzed. I am publishing it unedited so you can witness the unraveling synapses of an ADHD-addled brain. I cut it off before the really crazy parts because I said some things in anger that I didn’t mean. Check this shit out.
So. What a weekend. SAC Ellen and I went to this really fun party Saturday night called a “Creative Party”. Artsy-fartsy persons of many ilks partied for awhile, while doing arts and crafts stuff, if desired. To finish the party, there was a performance period.
People sang and read and showed artworks of the visual kind, and danced. And stuff. SAC Ellen secured us an invitation so that I could read some of my new book to an audience. I discovered this fact ONLY as we were arriving at the lovely home of the party’s sponsors.
Wait. What do you call the persons responsible for holding a party? Party throwers? Party givers?
For the last several weeks before Creative Party night, I had been bitching to myself about, as stated by me to my therapist in Saturday morning’s “regular” psycho therapy session, “I don’t have any earthly idea why I agreed to go to this silly fucking party dealie.”
“Well, Mooner,” began Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and therapist, “This is the second time you have mentioned this today and maybe the fiftieth in a couple weeks. Maybe this is an issue we should investigate more deeply.”
“Wait a minute, this is the first time today I brought the subject up,” I told her. “Stop exaggerating.”
This got me the “Mooner is a moron and I’m his long-suffering therapist” look, and a reminder that, “You brought it up not thirty minutes ago in your ‘special’ therapy session.”
“I did not,” my best retort to all of this looking and reminding. “You make me very uncomfortable when you do that to me– that silly look shit with a near scold chaser.”
Sammie went all calm and shit and looked in my eyes. “Oh, for the love of God, Mooner. Are you developing early onset dementia to play ball with your ADHD and obsessive-compulsive disorders?”
Then it was my turn to give my best “who’s the moron here?” look to the good doctor. “I didn’t say I didn’t have any idea why I agreed to go to the party earlier. Since my special session therapies are dealing with my whole uncontrolled sexual fantasies thingie, I was addressing this party with those perspectives in mind.”
Then I got the “why me, why-the-fuck-me?” look. “OK, mister smart guy. Exactly what would be the sexual aspects of your having said, “I’ve got to go to that stupid party tonight.”
“Well,” my opening gambit, “think of it this way. You know how artsy women and me are either like oil and water, or we’re like I’m the flypaper and they’re the fly. Within fifteen minutes we’re either engaged in a fistfight or SAC Ellen will have her badge and matte-finished Glock 9mm shoved in the lady’s face because she’s making a move on me. Either way, arty women and I are a combustible mix.”
“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner, you need to grow up.”
Ugh, I’m digressing into Nowhereland. Let’s all go back to the car Saturday night.
I was trying to say that after weeks of thinking I was going to a really stupid party just to be supportive of SAC Ellen [and, admittedly in hopes of realigning myself to score some serious poontang], I discovered, arriving at our party sponsors’ home, that SAC Ellen was doing this for me.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re doing this for me?”
“Why would I be attending a creative party where you are the participant, for myself, Mooner? What would I do to show my creativity, reenact our first meeting and stun you into petrified rock, then arrest you?”
Then she laughed. “Or maybe I could do a dramatic reading of the Miranda…. ‘You have the right to remain silent, motherfucker, and if you say one word I’ll drill you.’”
More laughing, hers plus mine this time.
I’m thinking I’m touched that she is doing this for me, she wants to help me promote my book. I’m winding up to say thanks in just the right way when she says, “Mooner, sweetie, I can’t tell you what it means to me to think that you were doing this for me.”
She reached across the center console of the GTO and squeezed my hand. “And you didn’t bitch about it a single time. You really are getting better.”
Now most of you, my sane readers, are saying to yourselves, “Mooner, you blind-assed lucky sumbitch.” Right? You are thinking how fate handed me a pitcher of lemonade.
And if I had managed to keep my big mouth shut, I’d have enjoyed a long, deep pull of freshly-squeezed lemons. I didn’t. I missed lemonade time because I said, “Well, I have been bitching about this party in therapy ever since I agreed to go.”
I did, however, enjoy the party. Even in her anger at me, SAC Ellen read most of a chapter of my new book to the gathered artsy-fartsters. My ADHD prevents me from reading out loud with comprehensiveness, so SAC Ellen read for me. They laughed, the desired response, and often [a bonus], and I somehow managed to avoid both fistfights and over-amorous artsy ladies.
I also avoided sex, a not desired response.
“You can drop me off at my place,” were my instructions when I started the car after the party.
Why am I crazy? Bad question. I know why, I’ve got ADHD, that’s why. I mean why was I blessed with ADHD and why was I so fucking blessed? My ADHD has got ADHD. My distractions are distracted.
Anytime someone starts on me with that “it’s all God’s will and He is a benevolent God” crap, I want to puke. A god who cared that much would not have inflicted the ADHD on his look-alikes.
Which brings up another point. Why is it that some people can say that they can “tell” things about a person just by looking at that person. I hate when a guy says, “Oh, he’s gay. I can tell just by looking at him.”
I really hate that shit. I think that maybe I’m a hater myself and not a peace-loving lover of stuff. Now my brain hurts. I wish my pecker hurt from too much sexing. My ego hurts, but not my pecker.