judypatricia

It's so difficult, sometimes, to sit through a meal that was already expensive and unimpressive enough, surrounded by other tables inches from your elbows, without having to witness attitude in its extreme, male, bisexual, New York form. I was with six other people for a birthday dinner of one of that six, last night, and only because I am an optimistic good friend. Every time I've ever been out with my friend and his friends from college, I am left staring at the little bits of tea that float around in the cup after I've squeezed the bag; counting the tiles on the restaurant floor up until there are too many people standing around on them to continue; going through a list of things that need to be done when I get home; and wondering if I were to crawl under the table, sneak to the door and exit, would they notice. Because they talk of things and people only they know, and maybe after introducing a topic I can relate to, I again get eased out of conversation not long after, since talk meanders to something else. I don't particularly mind being there, as my friend apparently likes my presence all quiet in a chair nearby, but I do mind when the others will turn to me and ask, "What's wrong?" Then I think they think I'm being a bitch, or I'm sick, or shy, or not social, and I hate that. Which was once more the way last night's evening went with them, coupled by the not-so-shocking display of pissy by one of the friend's friends. I really can't wrap my mind around how one person can be so miserable over every thing, big and small. I came home last night and imagined that night's dinner, as I ate cold cereal in my pajamas, and I visualized myself coolly bringing to light my dislike for that particular, unhappy soul, over dessert, with his mouth agape because nobody expects to hear the honest truth when they think you genuinely don't mind their nonstop whining.