Stuff for the book to be written

The girl I described yesterday was pretty seriously anxiety ridden. She had trouble with meeting people and being around people she knew. I had been hanging out with a family whose son worked the same kind of job I had at the printing company. The guy was my age, but he had barely finished high school- we didn't have much in common other than being the same age and working the same place. The type of work made muscles and we were encouraged by the printing guys to arm wrestle at lunch. Sometimes he won, sometimes I won. We boxed a little on the weekends, went sail boating out on Lake Pontchartrain and bowled some. He had a sister that was interested in me, but I didn't like her too much. I had been sort of interested in his divorced aunt who was six or seven years older, but he told me to leave her alone. The family, an extended Italian blue collar group wasn't going to put up with some Irish (me, I guess) kid trying his hand at her. Anyway, I was invited to a bowling birthday party and was going to bring the girl- we were living together by this point. So she spent an entire afternoon getting ready and when she was ready she looked like the girl above. I was kidding around and said the wrong thing. It just blurted out- because it was so obvious. She had a panic attack and wouldn't go. And I had to cancel because now she was in deep ulcer pain and was afraid she would have to go to the hospital.

I'll probably use a variation of this as back story -flashback for the book I'm spinning in my head- about the hooker going to Illinois to run her mother's cometary. I've often wondered what it might have been like if I hadn't opened my mouth and told her the truth. She had come to the printing company one day to meet for lunch, just dressed like college girl hippie and all the guys went ape over her.

I ended up dropping out of socializing with the family. The writers and artists took over in my life.