Because I love desperate people, people who are in dire need of belonging to Something: a group, a party, a conversation. They’re simply fascinating to watch in public because they have no radar for ridicule.

My money's on the guy in the yellow shirt.

Enter: Me. The Radar.

I’m not always “in your face” about things, but it takes all kinds, I know, and I respect those who are. For me, I’m much more like a Dorothy Zbornak; I like to fight with my wit, when I have any.

Like that girl, last night, whom I’m supposing I met thought I don’t recall an introduction. She was one of the beautiful and desperate people I’m referring to. They always make such good stories. And she, you see, had Something To Say.  And she was going to tell whoever was listening, or, as it were, not listening.

But, let me set the scene.

I’d decided to treat myself, yesterday. And I fully intend on doing much, much more of that in the future, as a means to “get through the day.” It’s a nice goal to focus toward, as in, God I hate this job but I’m getting a fried green tomato sandwich and peach mango martini when I’m through and that’s going to be just fine, you know that sort of thing.

Next on my list is a massage.

I get to the restaurant before the rush. It’s practically empty. I love this. I love having a huge restaurant entirely to myself. It makes me feel gauche and worth it.

I sit at the bar and place my order. The bartender looks awful. He’s aware of this and begins to tell me this horrible, god-pitiful story about botulism, that he acquired at an Olive Garden in Florida two weeks ago…he assumed I was going to ask, I guess.

Not your usual entry point into a conversation, I know, but as it just so happened, I, too, had a botulism story to share, and it also involved the Olive Garden, but this one was in Tuscaloosa. I’ve been hedging my bets on going back to the Olive Garden, convinced it was more than likely an isolated event. I do not feel this way anymore.

I will never eat in an Olive Garden, again, ever.

He, the bartender, had been hospitalized, then confined to bed rest, and now, though he was able to be mobile, he was unable to eat. He couldn’t keep anything down, not even crackers.

Not even crackers.

I knew too well that feeling. He’d lost almost twenty pounds, already, he said. (I felt that was just rubbing it in my face, but whatever).

It was at this juncture in our exchange that a body appeared and plopped down right next to me. She was, in fact, too next to me.

“God, dude, you look like sh*t.”

Clearly, she could have sat elsewhere.

Whatever happened to hello? Then, I realized she wasn’t even talking to me. She was talking to the bartender. She was merely sitting almost in my lap for funsies, I guess. To be fair, there were only twelve other empty bar stools available. I should cut her some slack. Though it would also have been fine if I could have just cut her, period.

She launches into such a casual tirade of swear words that I’m fairly certain I blushed. I used to blush all the time when my Grandfather Lee would curse, out of embarrassment for all tri-state listeners. Yet, it was like an art form, how effortlessly he interwove harsh language with typical parentheticals and everyday How Do You Dos. Just like this Wandering Dandy of a Thick-Calfed Girl.

I’m not sure if I blushed out of respect or fear, with her, though.

Still, on she went, stating the very obvious in the most colorful of terms. I excused myself and went to the bathroom; I felt the need to wash my hands.

When I returned, she hadn’t left.

I was determined to enjoy my treat, though, and I wasn’t about to shovel this delectable sandwich down my throat…so, I did what we all do down South. I grinned and bore it, all the while telling myself that I would just blog about it later.

After several PBRs (at least they were in the bottle), she seemed to mellow. Thankfully.

Now, in my own experiences, I’ve discovered that people who “cuss” excessively are either socially awkward geniuses or functionally retarded. Not mentally, and I’m not trying to belabor an ill-conceived joke, I mean they have been slowed down in the state of being able to function, independent of coarse conversational skills, in an effort to hide this truth: they’re mainly idiots. Well-intentioned, perhaps, but nevertheless.

I was eager to discover which category she fell into.

The TV above the bar was, as you can guess, turned to sports, which I’m strangely growing fond of watching (this is more than confusing to me, but I’m open to it, I’m open to it). During a commercial break, a trailer for the newly released (and artistically brilliant, it seems) movie Where The Wild Things Are popped across the screen.

We'll try another time, my dear.

She said, “I can’t f*****g wait to that g*d**n movie.”

I swallowed, “Yes, it looks like a good one.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “I just bought the book. I want to read it first, you know, then go see the movie…but I’m only halfway through it.”

And then, I knew. I’d made my discovery.

I said, “Yeah, page 10 is a real killer.”

She nodded, “But the pictures are nice,” and ordered another PBR, oblivious.

I excused myself, again, to go laugh in the bathroom.

I almost didn’t come back out.

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