The Return of No-Fun Boy

Dear Diary,

Miserable day.

The title above is not self proclaimed. It is something my first girlfriend used to call me when, during an evening devoted to meaningless social pleasure, I derailed ease and grace if not just by my sullen presence, through malevolent intent. I see now that what she, and most others, crave from friends gathering in the public sphere is a low-intensity babbling that functions some what like a drug. I used to make a habit of getting in-between junkies and their inebrients, and the results were as sour as you'd expect.

Now, here I am, unable to sleep at an ungodly hour when I can't even purchase the drugs that might ease my burdens. The Hotsy Totsy opens at six. I pray that I am not still awake with these thoughts then.

G flatters me by saying that there is no small talk with me. I thought she was being generous in that appraisal, as I have spent the last six years cultivating a somewhat aggressively social public persona. Probably my 'transformation' had more to do with the generosity of my companions than my self-perceived charms. This year, however, has done a great deal to undo what half-assed intentions I once had. I bought off my anger, my distance, my essential awkwardness, with loud laughter and lots of drinks, I romanced it like a visiting friend, but I don't drink the way that I used to and I think it's gotten wise. Obviously it will be around longer than any one else, unless I die as early as my dreams profess, so I should, as a bit of tactics, come to terms with it.

I'm afraid also that I have bored to distraction the one friend I've been discussing this with, and set the terms of our friendship too strangely. That just the sort of thing no-fun boy would do.