Bird Shit Is Good Luck?!
So the bird shit story has elicited many responses of, “Ooooooooo, that’s such good luck!”
You’re all fucking crazy.
After the shit there was vomit. After the vomit there was a shower and a nap = good, BUT calling off of work means no money = bad. Then, boyfriend incommunicado since 10am which has never happened, so for the first time in my life I start to worry about someone = FUCKING NERVE-WRACKING!
I mean, I seriously thought he was dead. I knew he wasn’t having an affair because I saw him last night and he was acting normal. Was he having an affair, he would have had minor behavior modifications that I would have noticed after the fact. So I really tried to dig down deep to find a rational, logical explanation other than death that could be the reason for his all-of-a-sudden lack of communication.
The only thing I came up with was, 1.) He got called in to work a last minute job …but no - he would have called and let me know as we had plans tonight. 2.) He got arrested for driving drunk in the middle of the day …but no - he’s a white law-abiding citizen and would have at the very least called me from jail to bail him out. 3.) He told me he was going to the public library downtown to check out dvd’s on Danish to learn the language so maybe he was stuck on the subway during a strike, tunnel collapse or terrorist activity …but no - nothing on the internet or news informed me of any subterranean mishaps. 4.) A homeless man took him hostage with a knife or something because the sky is falling and the mothership is coming to take them home.
Then I went so far as to plan my exit strategy. I thought, “We’re supposed to have drinks tonight with a handful of casting directors and Michelle Jannone. How can I call explain my absence? I guess I’ll just call Michelle and tell her something came up and I’m flaking, and she can hate me if she wants. I don’t want to inform her of the current situation until I know what is really going on. So then I’ll have to go to the hospital. Which hospital?! I don’t fucking have a clue. So who do I call to keep me company that I can cry in front of and who won’t say stupid shit to me?! Who will have the answers and be resourceful and helpful? Magic Dan!! And then what?! I’ll move to Denmark and live with my mother and my life will be over!”
Brad, you can’t die on me.
Fast forward a few hours and I FINALLY GET A HOLD OF BRAD! He’s not dead HE WAS FUCKING TAKING A NAP and therefore not answering my calls. Whatever, asshole, I thought you were dead. (And if you know me, I can go days without hearing from you. I am not a worrier nor have I ever understood worrying about other grown adults - we all have lives and live them with or without checking in. However, Brad on a daily basis calls to tell me he’s going to the post office/dry cleaner/gas station so the norm is an inundation of details that I could care less about. Not hearing from him for 8 hours is definitely NOT THE NORM!)
I drive over to his place to pick him up for the trek over to Beverly Hills for drinks with the industry people and when he comes out of his house, I get out of the car to give him a hug and a great big fat kiss to celebrate the fact that he’s still alive. When I get back into the car, I ripped my pants as I sat down. NO I HAVE NOT GAINED WEIGHT! These were not tight pants - they just fucking ripped! So I had to drive back home and change. Fuck me running.
I swear - where is this Bird Shit Good Luck and when will it bestow its graces upon me?!