Ever get the feeling you're watching someone else's life, when really it's your own?

We got our wedding photos back. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed. There are some where I feel like I don't look good, some that are in black-and-white that I think would've looked better in color (and probably vice-versa), and some that I know were taken that are flat-out missing (like the one of me & Suzy pretending to be golfers, something that may not have made sense to the photographer, but that really means something to us). Of course, I've only looked at them once, quickly, with Lui and my brother Joey, and should really look again and start focusing on the good ones, the 50 "chosen ones" that will go into the real album. But still. I expected miracles.

I had a brief moment on Tuesday, where I decided that Irish's girlfriend is not dead at all, that the girl he showed me pictures of is actually living with Irish's crazy-non-roommate, just a few blocks from here. Since then I've decided that I can't be kept up at night wondering whether myspace reflects life or life reflects myspace, and that to question the sanity of my only friend at work would be tantamount to self-sabotage (thanks, Mon). Besides, I've done this before - gone all Nancy Drew, made assumptions, made accusations, and then been proven totally wrong. And besides, if he really was fabricating his entire life (and not just to me either), he'd have to be stupid to keep hanging out with me, for fear that I'd figure it out eventually. So obviously there's just something I'm missing here.

At work yesterday, I'd mentioned to Irish that Lui was going down to the pool hall again, and that I'd be left at home to look at myspace all night (which I'm pretty sure qualifies as self-destructive behavior).

"You can come play volleyball with me," he offered.

"Yeah right, I haven't played volleyball since middle school, and I'm pretty sure I sucked."

"Well, you can come watch, if you want. I mean, it might be a little boring, but you'll get to see my really competitive side."

"Isn't that what I saw when we went bowling?"

"No, ten times worse."

So then it occurred to me that if I was going to skip the gym to go watch some guy play some sport, maybe I should tag along to Lui's pool match instead. Because as my cousin/voice of reason put it, "going to watch some guy play volleyball just screams girlfriend." I asked Lui, and he told me that actually, last night wouldn't be a very good match for me to go to, and that I could go with Irish if I wanted, and that we'd take a raincheck on the pool hall. So I did.

I can't say it was super-entertaining (basically just a pick-up game of people that knew how to play - maybe more exciting than pool), but it was nice to be out doing something different. And Irish was showing by far the most bravissimo of anyone on the court, cussing and punching the ground when he missed a shot, once even throwing his hat across the room into a trashcan, so that was kind of, well, funny.

On the way home after asking, "Do you trust me?" and then proceeding to take the S-curved on ramp at 65mph ("Usually I go like 80"), he gave me a tour of his music - mostly country - and kept admonishing the fact that I didn't know the words to the songs. "I wanna find one you'll sing along to!" he pouted, still not satisfied after I'd known the chorus to "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" (presumably because that's more shouting than singing anyway). Then he found Carrie Underwood.

"Okay, you wanna hear me sing?" I asked. "Let's go." And I sang the whole song - every word, every note, pretty much just as she does (except, as I explained to him during a musical break, I lack her breath control) - I should know it well enough, I've listened to it on repeat enough since Sunshine burned me the CD over a year ago.

"Damn, where'd you learn how to sing?!" he asked, impressed, midway through the song.

I was so fucking pleased.