Depression, Uninterrupted

I needed an awesome weekend. Wednesday is when justice failed me; Friday was a double whammy in that Derek Fucking Bastard’s insurance company said that they would not pay for the damage done to my bike, or to me. On the way home from work, on a brand new route that I hadn’t ridden before, I ran over some piece of accident shrapnel and got a flat on my rear wheel. Front wheel flats I can fix in five minutes, but rear wheel flats take at least an hour. Fucking deraileurs. Anyway, so my week was a good small window onto my month, which reflected the year to date; it was pure poo.

But there was a wedding or this weekend! Friends united in matrimony! Good food! Open bar! Let the healing begin!

Of course, there is the fact that I don’t really know the groom that well, and had met the bride once before, and that it was going to be hotel food, and that I had just gotten into all that broo-ha-ha with my brother about his alcoholism (when I find it funny, I’ll tell you about it), so I wasn’t in the mood to drink. Honestly, the only thing that sounded like a good idea was to step in front of at least one of the Metra trains taking me to the wedding. Painless, messy and loud; what can I say, it’s how I want to go out.

But I reined in those thoughts and proceeded. And you know what? It was…okay. I like it when a couple is enthused about getting married, and these two were. I attended the ceremony because my ride/host & hostess attended, and it was a quick and painless little thing. Had a cute moment where the groom and bride weren’t too sure about who should give a flower to the groom’s mom. It got a chuckle.

Then there was a brief hotel drinking fest, where I had two glasses of vino and started to feel a little queasy.

The reception was not at all like “Wedding Crashers,” which was disappointing because I really wanted to take advantage of a drunken bridesmaid. But no woman there was single that was also not someone I have known for ten years or more, or not what I would go running for. So I tried to be wingman for a young fella, a promising rookie with a lot of potential, but won’t step his game up to the big leagues. Kinda like Ryan Leaf, but without the petulant whining. Which would make him better than Ryan Leaf.

Then I find out that I can’t go home because the info on train schedules was misconstrued. So I crash at the home of Ren and co. and wind up feeling as intrusive as prison rape. No Benner, either. But Cash and I wound up being cuddle-buddies on the floor, so that was pretty sweet. Seriously, the highlight of my week was getting the chance to cuddle with something alive on a friend’s basement floor.

I thank Dave and Ren for putting me up, and I feel like shit that I forced myself into their house while she’s not feeling well and he was exhausted from being best man. It might be time for me to get a car.

What stopped me from stepping in front of the Metra at 0835 on Sunday? Several things: a long-standing fear of death; inside knowledge of how much that fucks with train conductors; leaving my mom with the two excuses she has for sons; a curiosity as to what the future holds; and that I was not about to waste the $3.80 cup of whatever fancy-schmancy cinnamon-flavored beverage I purchased from Caribou Coffee.

-Zeepdoggie