On going out and staying in touch

Tonight was the first night in more than a week that I've spent more than half an hour outside my apartment. In fact, I went a week straight without seeing the light of day. My best excuse is that my lungs have started a revolt that's put me on antibiotics, narcotics, and a nebulizer three times a day. My second-best excuse is that I'm depressed as hell. ... And it's not even a good reason to be depressed. Plenty of people breathe through a tube more than three times a day without complaining.

I'm great at kicking myself when I'm down.

Anyway, tonight was the last night of the Charleston Comedy Festival, so Paul dragged me to a show. We had half an hour to kill before the doors opened, so we booked it a few blocks away to Starbucks. And that's where I saw Seth. Or at least I think it was Seth. We made eye contact, then he took his grande whatever to the condiments station, and that was that. I saw him again as I was leaving but didn't have the guts to stop and say hello.

Memphis is the biggest small town on Earth. If you've lived there, you know what I mean. You run into people you know everywhere you go. I've left Memphis ... but that mentality has stuck around. I swear I've seen a dozen people I know since I've been here. And deep down, I know there's a 99.9 percent chance it isn't them, and that sort of makes me sad ... but it's sort of a relief, too. I can be a lot choosier about the people with whom I stay in touch. (Oh, I guess I should mention that I would stay in touch with Seth if I knew how to reach him anymore. It's not like I was avoiding him or anything, just too shy to brave a case of mistaken identity.)

It's on my list of resolutions to answer my phone more often, listen to voice mail, and return more phone calls. Not exactly my strong suit, as you know if you've ever tried to call me. But it's a work in progress. We'll see how it goes.