More on George...

A short happy life is certainly better than a long, unhappy one. But what about a life that hasn't been going on very long (though it feels that way sometimes) and possibly could keep going on for at least as long again, that is constantly being thrown between ecstatic highs and mind tearing lows with no sign of ever leveling out? Where the hell does that sit in the equation?

This is what's rumbling through the back ends of George's skull as he pokes at the double shot of whiskey on the bar in front of him. He's not really trying to figure out the answer, it's just a fun little exercise, something to keep him amused while he waits for enough of the whiskey t get into his system where he doesn't have to think about anything at all, at least not consciously.

George has learned to keep these sort of musings to himfuckingself because nobody wants to hear that kind of shit- nobody even wants to think about a bunch of depressing crap like that. He learned this by having it told to him over and over again by everyone from random assholes in the bar to women who he could have sworn were in love with him, and probably would have continued to feel for him if he hadn't turned out to be so needy and bat shit crazy to boot. Very little of went on outside of George's head ever made sense to him. Most of the stuff that was going on all the time on the inside didn't really make sense either, but he felt he at least had a fighting chance with that stuff. A mile in someone else's shoes was something George was always attempting and failing. He wanted to understand other people (especially the women) and to some extent he did, if only by blind instinct. But he could never get other people to see what he was looking at when he looked out at the world. This always led to a massive breakdown in communication with George realizing that what he thought the other person was thinking was not what they were actually thinking.

~IRMA THOMAS~