I was resigned to letting my Snowboard Hottie (SBH) go, having a quick hook up with her a week at a time on holidays and other bay area visits.
I had relegated her to what-if status. "I like her, but..." status.
And then a friend (married, natch) told me I was a coward. That I should grab it by the horns. Ask her. Feel her out. Find out.
Well, I did. I was genuine, and nice, and not Alfie. I was me. I called, I hugged, I felt, I engaged, and I fell.
How far remains to be seen. You never know what you got 'til it's gone, as that screechy voiced chick says. And the good version covered by the Counting Crows.
Tonight I left her, without tears, after a drama free whirlwind romance, after allowing myself to feel and showing up at her doorstep and just wanting to be with her instead of expecting to fuck, after showing the bad boy and then releasing the good.
Tonight I left.
"Talk soon?" she said. "If you want to," I answered.
But I won't call. And she'll call, once, on Friday, before she leaves town for the holidays.
She'll wonder how I'm doing, and I won't call back. Then we'll see each other two years from now, and she'll be with someone who is half the man I am, and she'll see me and want to fuck me, want me to kiss her, want me to embrace her, and want me to let my guard down like it was yesterday.
And I won't. And she'll always wonder.
I'm mad, now, because all you fucks who tell me not to play the game are full of shit. All you fucks who insist that being myself is not a bad play, that the sensitive, nice guy that is not Alfie can find a woman who appreciates him.
FUCK OFF. You don't know shit.
Because I could've fucked her for the next 2 years and loved her in my own way. I could have had her, and loved her, and been loved back, however distant it might be, and it would have been fine. I could have kept her at arms length, while I went home to the desert and fucked my red-headed engineer, my brunette nurse, and my blonde what-the-fuck-was-her-major-anyway, and loved her in a way that is not intense, almost real, and completely eaten up by 99% of the goddamn female population in spite of themselves.
But, instead, I got emotional, I got attached, I started to fall, and instead of fucking her brains out the moment I saw her, I asked her how her day was.
And tonight, she wanted to "have a quick drink". Great. Either she's pregnant or she's breaking up with me.
Turns out it was both. Until we went and bought a goddamn $10 stress-reducing test, of course. And then we were left with no stress, no cell division, no connection and a Dear John.
So, the next time you fuckers want to open up your goddamn mouths, the next time you want to approach me, and tell me to "let go", or call me a coward for not embracing a young lady I think I could fall for, or tell me that there are women out there that don't cheat, or say some bullshit like "quality women are at church", get stuffed.
And now, a little word from my good friend Alfie:
+ Women don't respect you for being nice, for getting the door, or for treating them well. They respect you for your car, your platinum, and you cock size. Put another way, it's all bullshit until you make them cum. Shut up and bend her over. That's the only way you'll make a lasting impression.
+ The smart ones cheat, the dumb ones are still dumb, the old ones are cynical, and the young ones don't give good head. Basically, just find the hottest, youngest tail you can find, because the quality ain't gonna change regardless. At least then your friends will respect you because they wanna fuck your girl.
+ The bad boy with a nice streak play works really well on late-20s cynics. Younger than 25 or slightly damaged, and just be mean. They say they want to be treated well, but that's a crock of shit. Fuck as fast as you can. Nice guys don't get laid. After you fuck, DO NOT STOP playing the game. You can take more liberties, but the moment you feel yourself getting attached, just rest assured that she's cheating on you. Then you'll start acting appropriately towards her, which, ironically, stupidly, categorically contradictingly, will make her more attracted to you.
+ Nice girls just cheat less. Or they're better actresses.
+ Yeah, I'm bitter. Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, shut the fuck up. Oh, and by the way, is your sister single?
+ Further to that thought, I hate you. I hate women, I hate married people, I hate happy people, I hate poor people, I hate rich people, I hate ghetto people, and I hate your mom. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE.
+ One day I will learn. One day I will actually take my own advice and stop hoping.
+ Do NOT spend the night and not fuck. EVER. In fact, unless you have to leave before she wakes up to get to the office where you make the money that got her to spread her legs in the first place, fuck her twice. I don't care if she's sick. I don't care if you're a nice guy. I don't care if you like her. If you have to do a gesture of goodwill, drop off some fucking Nyquil, get her a glass of water, kiss her on the forehead, and then take your happy ass home. Or, better yet, go out with the next girl on your list.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Just a quck something off my chest
Another family-derived hook up this past weekend. We'll call her Snowboard chick. We met three years ago, but I "always had a girl on my arm".
We slept together four days in a row starting thanksgiving night. I'm pretty bummed today, because I left her this morning with few words, wondering if I was going to get teary.
"Well. You live far away, and I'm moving god knows where in 4-6 months anyway, and even if you did live here we're both really busy.
"So I'm left with... enjoying our time together. Enjoying you, and us, today, and the experience.
"I mean, yes, call me, don't get me wrong, I want to see you again, and I miss you just thinking about it, but all we can do is enjoy each other for right now.
"Besides, you'll be back to the bay area before too long. Stay with me next time."
Yeah, she's awesome. I just can't help but wonder why it took so long to hook up. Why not this time a year ago? Heh.
So... I'm not teary. I'm bummed, to be sure, and obviously distracted (I have 20 hours of work to do in the next 8, but am I working on that!?), but not actually down. Not hopeful, either, but perhaps wondering if I should be. I guess we'll see, right...
--
btw, Ayla, Happy Birthday. I thought of you this week and wondered where you were and what you were doing. I hope that you had fun and that you're well.
We slept together four days in a row starting thanksgiving night. I'm pretty bummed today, because I left her this morning with few words, wondering if I was going to get teary.
"Well. You live far away, and I'm moving god knows where in 4-6 months anyway, and even if you did live here we're both really busy.
"So I'm left with... enjoying our time together. Enjoying you, and us, today, and the experience.
"I mean, yes, call me, don't get me wrong, I want to see you again, and I miss you just thinking about it, but all we can do is enjoy each other for right now.
"Besides, you'll be back to the bay area before too long. Stay with me next time."
Yeah, she's awesome. I just can't help but wonder why it took so long to hook up. Why not this time a year ago? Heh.
So... I'm not teary. I'm bummed, to be sure, and obviously distracted (I have 20 hours of work to do in the next 8, but am I working on that!?), but not actually down. Not hopeful, either, but perhaps wondering if I should be. I guess we'll see, right...
--
btw, Ayla, Happy Birthday. I thought of you this week and wondered where you were and what you were doing. I hope that you had fun and that you're well.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Childhood memories
The women from my childhood seem to be showing up in droves this year.
First there was Brandy, who I ran into at Starbucks right before I left the state. Was it two kids or three? Married for a decade. A little chubbier, a lot older, and a lot less flirtatious. Then again, I was a scrub that day -- it had been a week since I'd shaved, I was in gym clothes and a sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure I needed a haircut.
I do remember actively choosing not to ask for her number. I'd hate to ask for it and then not call. I do remember offering her the seat opposite me and telling her she should stay and chat. She was off to work, however. So far off the radar now (I knew she got married years ago), but it is food for thought in this context.
Then there's Presh. Boy was that an internal roller coaster ride. I haven't spoken or even traded email with her since that day I saw her. I suppose I just don't know what to say... not wanting to hide the feelings seeing her evoked, yet certainly not wanting to convey them.
I wonder if I ever really told her. Not like that, I didn't. Of that I'm sure. The one that got away, I suppose. It's a bit strange to realize that I have one of "those".
Then this week there's Mary jam (a nickname someone gave her years ago. it never really took in a way that, say, "aflie" did). I saw her on the train on Thursday, met for lunch on Friday, hung out with her last night.
It was great. The double-edged sword that is a lifetime of history created an odd dynamic. We got together, and it was like old friends catching up. Instead of "What do you do?", we had "Have you seen so-and-so?", "Do you still go to the same church?", and "How's your mom?" to work with.
We trusted each other right off the bat. There were no axe-murderer or Fatal Attraction worries. Everything bad that we both hold back was already out there. We knew each others parents already, for godsakes, and so the Hitler explanation (my dad) and the busybody mom (hers) were simply passing references that needed hardly an explanation. There were certainly no eyebrows being raised nor wondering about just how psycho the other party might be. We already thought one another insane; the reality of any interim maturation was an improvement over the memory anyway.
But the history was a negative, too. The rumor-mill repercussions, the opinions of relatives (who could care less about a date with a stranger/potential axe murderer, ironically), and the vague idea that any drama would be magnified ten-fold hung over our heads. She held back flirtation and I reciprocated. I was less agressive and she kissed pensively. I've no doubt that we've collectively had sex literally thousands of times, and yet our initial romantic interactions were, like two virgins, clumsy and tentative.
It was nice. Nicer than I thought it would be. Cloudy from history, certainly, yet intimacy was immediate from that same history. It was downright refreshing to just "let it all hang out", because, again, she already knew far worse than the reality of the present-day me could ever rightly convey, even abstractly.
Now, the rumors will traverse the network of relatives pretty quickly. At least 3-4 people on both sides know that we "hung out".
Hopefully I'll have left the state again by the time it circles back 'round. Hey, it could happen. Even if Thanksgiving is this week... (gulp)
First there was Brandy, who I ran into at Starbucks right before I left the state. Was it two kids or three? Married for a decade. A little chubbier, a lot older, and a lot less flirtatious. Then again, I was a scrub that day -- it had been a week since I'd shaved, I was in gym clothes and a sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure I needed a haircut.
I do remember actively choosing not to ask for her number. I'd hate to ask for it and then not call. I do remember offering her the seat opposite me and telling her she should stay and chat. She was off to work, however. So far off the radar now (I knew she got married years ago), but it is food for thought in this context.
Then there's Presh. Boy was that an internal roller coaster ride. I haven't spoken or even traded email with her since that day I saw her. I suppose I just don't know what to say... not wanting to hide the feelings seeing her evoked, yet certainly not wanting to convey them.
I wonder if I ever really told her. Not like that, I didn't. Of that I'm sure. The one that got away, I suppose. It's a bit strange to realize that I have one of "those".
Then this week there's Mary jam (a nickname someone gave her years ago. it never really took in a way that, say, "aflie" did). I saw her on the train on Thursday, met for lunch on Friday, hung out with her last night.
It was great. The double-edged sword that is a lifetime of history created an odd dynamic. We got together, and it was like old friends catching up. Instead of "What do you do?", we had "Have you seen so-and-so?", "Do you still go to the same church?", and "How's your mom?" to work with.
We trusted each other right off the bat. There were no axe-murderer or Fatal Attraction worries. Everything bad that we both hold back was already out there. We knew each others parents already, for godsakes, and so the Hitler explanation (my dad) and the busybody mom (hers) were simply passing references that needed hardly an explanation. There were certainly no eyebrows being raised nor wondering about just how psycho the other party might be. We already thought one another insane; the reality of any interim maturation was an improvement over the memory anyway.
But the history was a negative, too. The rumor-mill repercussions, the opinions of relatives (who could care less about a date with a stranger/potential axe murderer, ironically), and the vague idea that any drama would be magnified ten-fold hung over our heads. She held back flirtation and I reciprocated. I was less agressive and she kissed pensively. I've no doubt that we've collectively had sex literally thousands of times, and yet our initial romantic interactions were, like two virgins, clumsy and tentative.
It was nice. Nicer than I thought it would be. Cloudy from history, certainly, yet intimacy was immediate from that same history. It was downright refreshing to just "let it all hang out", because, again, she already knew far worse than the reality of the present-day me could ever rightly convey, even abstractly.
Now, the rumors will traverse the network of relatives pretty quickly. At least 3-4 people on both sides know that we "hung out".
Hopefully I'll have left the state again by the time it circles back 'round. Hey, it could happen. Even if Thanksgiving is this week... (gulp)
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Back "home"
I thought of Texas today and felt sad. I wasn't sad because I missed her, or missed a certain feeling, or missed the place, the sensations, or the intimacy.
I felt sad because I can't remember. I remember words and vague images. I remember moments and I remember what it felt like to miss her when she was gone.
But I don't remember her.
I remember saying, a long time ago, now, "it doesn't matter that it didn't, couldn't work out. It doesn't matter if it was all a fantasy that was born, lived, and died in my head, and she just played along in my cast. It doesn't matter, because even if it's only fantasy, even if it was make believe, I want it. I want that feeling, and wasting my time with XXXX and YYYYY, with bitches who aren't the one, with slutbags and idiots, with anyone who doesn't at least come close to that, is just a complete waste of time and energy."
I remember where I was when I said that. I remember what CD was on. I remember who I said it to. I remember from where I came, and I remember the bite of the cold air and the wet ground that met me when I finished that conversation.
But I can't remember that sensation. I can't remember what it felt like to feel that good, nor can I remember how fruitless it felt when I came home to my brothel of women who wanted to love me and never could.
It's good in some ways, of course. I don't remember crying to Smile Like You Mean It, not able to help myself. I don't remember what it felt like to be out with my friends, talking to girls, and leaving, alone, to cry in the car.
But maybe it was worth it.
It was a year ago, this week, when I drove to Texas. I came with a voice mail full of messages from girls who called me from seven area codes and two countries. I left with a lump in my throat, a text message on my phone, and the soft eyes one gets when holding back tears.
I called one of those girls back a couple of weeks ago. It was like the intervening year never happened. But it still fell a little flat.
I'm listening to music, now, to try and cry a little. Seemingly foolish, I know, but sometimes I need to remind myself I'm alive. Where the capacity for a gallon of tears exists there lives a passion for life and love that I fear might be dead.
But songs about Lauren lack bite. Songs about Presh have carried that vague "I hope she found her way" sentiment for a decade. Songs about Slutbag are just annoying.
Amanda's songs still have a little power. Ahh, Jewel. But it's just a faraway memory about a memory. Like remembering a dream from a week ago, in which, in the first place, you watched yourself as if in a movie... so far removed you're not even sure it really happened.
The beauty of apathy is the power to go on, the lack of wallowing, the small joys of enjoying a good meal, of making old friends and complete strangers laugh, of a game of catch with your nephew. The beauty of apathy is that duty carries you, that the small joys of accomplishment in work or school are noticed and appreciated, even if not quite felt.
The horror of that same apathy is the severe, blatant, obvious, and detrimental scourge that is the absence of passion. The fear that kissing a pretty girl might, forever and always, simply be a calculated exercise of pressure and skill, a stepping stone to some sort of physical connection that might lead to a session of memorable pillow talk, rather than the take-your-breath-away experience when time stops and all that is the burden of life melts as if never there in the first place.
I'm not sure I remember passion at all. I think, mostly, I just remember missing those moments when I realized they were gone.
--
I don't think the answer is being contentment through acceptance. I don't think it's a matter of "wanting what you got" as Sheryl Crow says.
I want my passion back. I need it. I miss it.
Even if being older means I'm more chill, more laid back, more able to handle stress and life's wild cards... it's not worth it if it cost me my passion.
Fuck acceptance. Fuck the simple life. I'm already "simple" in my materialism and needs.
But give me back my passion, even if it comes with pain.
(gulp)
I felt sad because I can't remember. I remember words and vague images. I remember moments and I remember what it felt like to miss her when she was gone.
But I don't remember her.
I remember saying, a long time ago, now, "it doesn't matter that it didn't, couldn't work out. It doesn't matter if it was all a fantasy that was born, lived, and died in my head, and she just played along in my cast. It doesn't matter, because even if it's only fantasy, even if it was make believe, I want it. I want that feeling, and wasting my time with XXXX and YYYYY, with bitches who aren't the one, with slutbags and idiots, with anyone who doesn't at least come close to that, is just a complete waste of time and energy."
I remember where I was when I said that. I remember what CD was on. I remember who I said it to. I remember from where I came, and I remember the bite of the cold air and the wet ground that met me when I finished that conversation.
But I can't remember that sensation. I can't remember what it felt like to feel that good, nor can I remember how fruitless it felt when I came home to my brothel of women who wanted to love me and never could.
It's good in some ways, of course. I don't remember crying to Smile Like You Mean It, not able to help myself. I don't remember what it felt like to be out with my friends, talking to girls, and leaving, alone, to cry in the car.
But maybe it was worth it.
It was a year ago, this week, when I drove to Texas. I came with a voice mail full of messages from girls who called me from seven area codes and two countries. I left with a lump in my throat, a text message on my phone, and the soft eyes one gets when holding back tears.
I called one of those girls back a couple of weeks ago. It was like the intervening year never happened. But it still fell a little flat.
I'm listening to music, now, to try and cry a little. Seemingly foolish, I know, but sometimes I need to remind myself I'm alive. Where the capacity for a gallon of tears exists there lives a passion for life and love that I fear might be dead.
But songs about Lauren lack bite. Songs about Presh have carried that vague "I hope she found her way" sentiment for a decade. Songs about Slutbag are just annoying.
Amanda's songs still have a little power. Ahh, Jewel. But it's just a faraway memory about a memory. Like remembering a dream from a week ago, in which, in the first place, you watched yourself as if in a movie... so far removed you're not even sure it really happened.
The beauty of apathy is the power to go on, the lack of wallowing, the small joys of enjoying a good meal, of making old friends and complete strangers laugh, of a game of catch with your nephew. The beauty of apathy is that duty carries you, that the small joys of accomplishment in work or school are noticed and appreciated, even if not quite felt.
The horror of that same apathy is the severe, blatant, obvious, and detrimental scourge that is the absence of passion. The fear that kissing a pretty girl might, forever and always, simply be a calculated exercise of pressure and skill, a stepping stone to some sort of physical connection that might lead to a session of memorable pillow talk, rather than the take-your-breath-away experience when time stops and all that is the burden of life melts as if never there in the first place.
I'm not sure I remember passion at all. I think, mostly, I just remember missing those moments when I realized they were gone.
--
I don't think the answer is being contentment through acceptance. I don't think it's a matter of "wanting what you got" as Sheryl Crow says.
I want my passion back. I need it. I miss it.
Even if being older means I'm more chill, more laid back, more able to handle stress and life's wild cards... it's not worth it if it cost me my passion.
Fuck acceptance. Fuck the simple life. I'm already "simple" in my materialism and needs.
But give me back my passion, even if it comes with pain.
(gulp)
Monday, October 15, 2007
broken, gone, couch-surfing, and other news
I'm on a couch somewhere east of Sacramento tonight. It's a little short for me.
I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.
Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.
Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.
One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.
I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...
whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.
Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"
Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.
I told him I don't care what she thinks.
I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."
And that was that.
I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.
I hate her for taking that away from me.
And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.
I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...
Sigh. No, I don't.
I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.
I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.
And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...
Die.
--
I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?
Probably texas.
--
Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."
To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."
I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.
For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?
That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"
Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.
I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.
Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.
Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.
One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.
I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...
whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.
Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"
Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.
I told him I don't care what she thinks.
I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."
And that was that.
I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.
I hate her for taking that away from me.
And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.
I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...
Sigh. No, I don't.
I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.
I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.
And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...
Die.
--
I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?
Probably texas.
--
Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."
To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."
I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.
For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?
That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"
Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Few Preciouse Moments
I'm back in Cali as of last night. I had a good day, full of productivity, a good lunch with a (now) good friend, a reminiscent dinner with an old one, and a late night drink with a really old friend.
I talked to a girl from not so long ago and a girl I'd all but forgotten.
It was her. The her. The one that got away.
I'd forgotten. Or never really paid it any mind. Or something in between that a decade of time clouds, that the Amandas and Laurens obfuscate.
I remember telling Corban years ago, even as he was still sleeping with her, that I thought I'd marry her one day. It was a fleeting moment, when I'd just won my first "real job", when I still drove without a license, and when I tossed the word "love" around in the foolish way that young people do.
I remember not being jealous of my cousin, or of my other friends, the ones that all dated her in turn.
I remember seeing her in intimate places, but not so much for me, and knowing she loved me too, but that we just weren't "there".
I remember being with this girl and that, and she with this guy and that, and...
I don't remember forgetting her.
I always loved her, but I put it in quotes. "love", like a brother, or a friend, or a cousin. "love", like someone who could appreciate her and would always have her back, but would never touch her.
I never did. I wanted to, for sure, but I loved her too much to ever look at her in the way that a young girl responds to. I never saw her as an object to consume, or use, or take, or even have fun with.
I loved her in that way that makes you want to be a better man. And I would have, if she only asked me to.
And tonight was great... reminiscent, nostalgic, yet new and fresh. The shadows of the people we once were, yet very much the grown-ups we have become. And are, at least in my case, trying to reject.
And tonight, I drove home, or, that is, to the good friend's house with whom I'm staying, and I cried.
I cried in the car. I cry now.
I cry for the decade when she wasn't present.
I cry for the person she was, and the present-day me that she doesn't know.
I cry because I love her and I never told her.
I cry because she loves another.
I cry because I believe that, deep down, I always knew.
I cry because I forgot.
And I cry because after eight years, after a month of hiding my excitement, especially and foremost to myself, that I might see her, after thinking that it might not come to fruition, I got to spend a preciouse few 120 minutes with her, and that I don't even really know the woman she has become.
I cry because I see the age on her face, and she on mine, and the hurt and heartbreak we've both endured, and I love her anyway.
I cry because her embrace for me hasn't changed, and it's still the full, open, and completely trusting embrace that we shared half a life ago.
I cry because when her eyes meet mine, it's as if not a day has passed, and she didn't date my cousin, and we both didn't promise our lives to other people, and the last decade was but a brief dream, like clips in a movie trailer, there and gone before our souls touch.
I cry because she still, after all these years has songs that remind me of her, like Name (goo goo), and I don't care (back street) and I wish I was special (radiohead), and she doesn't know. No one knows, until just now.
I cry because, as I drove home, I thought about the now-cliche idea that you meet the girl you're going to marry when you're young, but you don't know it, and then, one day, you look up, and there she's been all along, and you're done. And it's wonderful.
And I stopped crying.
I love her more than my self-pity. I'm not even jealous of her man, nor longing of her attention.
I love you, Presh. I always have, from the first time I met you, when you were all of 14, when those 4 years made such a distinct difference, when Street Fighter was as fun as hanging out with girls, when I hid in closets so we could all tell the truth to our parents, when wine coolers were as evil as heroin, when Sunday morning meant dressing up for church, when painting your ceiling on a Friday night was more fun than anything, and when, no matter how smart I was, no matter my potential, my worth, or my faith, I couldn't spell the "L" word to save my life, and I didn't know how bright, nor how dark, the future would yet be.
It hurts that you were there for so long, and that now, now that I actually am the man I wanted to be, a man who could actually appreciate you, the man you always hoped I would become, I am but a footnote. The special friend you look up when you're in the states for the first time in years, the only male friend that isn't a relative that still gets a phone call... but yet, still a footnote.
And now, I feel like the cliche.
Because I'll always have your back. Whatever you need, wherever you go, no matter how old you one day look, or how far away you might feel, or be, or fall, whatever other man you give your heart or soul to, however more freckles on your face appear, however much your eyes bear the weight of the sorrows you've endured, whatever place you call your home, whatever children you bear, you'll always have sparkles in your eyes to me.
You'll always be beautiful to me.
Goodbye, again, P. I'm sorry I forgot.
I love you.
I talked to a girl from not so long ago and a girl I'd all but forgotten.
It was her. The her. The one that got away.
I'd forgotten. Or never really paid it any mind. Or something in between that a decade of time clouds, that the Amandas and Laurens obfuscate.
I remember telling Corban years ago, even as he was still sleeping with her, that I thought I'd marry her one day. It was a fleeting moment, when I'd just won my first "real job", when I still drove without a license, and when I tossed the word "love" around in the foolish way that young people do.
I remember not being jealous of my cousin, or of my other friends, the ones that all dated her in turn.
I remember seeing her in intimate places, but not so much for me, and knowing she loved me too, but that we just weren't "there".
I remember being with this girl and that, and she with this guy and that, and...
I don't remember forgetting her.
I always loved her, but I put it in quotes. "love", like a brother, or a friend, or a cousin. "love", like someone who could appreciate her and would always have her back, but would never touch her.
I never did. I wanted to, for sure, but I loved her too much to ever look at her in the way that a young girl responds to. I never saw her as an object to consume, or use, or take, or even have fun with.
I loved her in that way that makes you want to be a better man. And I would have, if she only asked me to.
And tonight was great... reminiscent, nostalgic, yet new and fresh. The shadows of the people we once were, yet very much the grown-ups we have become. And are, at least in my case, trying to reject.
And tonight, I drove home, or, that is, to the good friend's house with whom I'm staying, and I cried.
I cried in the car. I cry now.
I cry for the decade when she wasn't present.
I cry for the person she was, and the present-day me that she doesn't know.
I cry because I love her and I never told her.
I cry because she loves another.
I cry because I believe that, deep down, I always knew.
I cry because I forgot.
And I cry because after eight years, after a month of hiding my excitement, especially and foremost to myself, that I might see her, after thinking that it might not come to fruition, I got to spend a preciouse few 120 minutes with her, and that I don't even really know the woman she has become.
I cry because I see the age on her face, and she on mine, and the hurt and heartbreak we've both endured, and I love her anyway.
I cry because her embrace for me hasn't changed, and it's still the full, open, and completely trusting embrace that we shared half a life ago.
I cry because when her eyes meet mine, it's as if not a day has passed, and she didn't date my cousin, and we both didn't promise our lives to other people, and the last decade was but a brief dream, like clips in a movie trailer, there and gone before our souls touch.
I cry because she still, after all these years has songs that remind me of her, like Name (goo goo), and I don't care (back street) and I wish I was special (radiohead), and she doesn't know. No one knows, until just now.
I cry because, as I drove home, I thought about the now-cliche idea that you meet the girl you're going to marry when you're young, but you don't know it, and then, one day, you look up, and there she's been all along, and you're done. And it's wonderful.
And I stopped crying.
I love her more than my self-pity. I'm not even jealous of her man, nor longing of her attention.
I love you, Presh. I always have, from the first time I met you, when you were all of 14, when those 4 years made such a distinct difference, when Street Fighter was as fun as hanging out with girls, when I hid in closets so we could all tell the truth to our parents, when wine coolers were as evil as heroin, when Sunday morning meant dressing up for church, when painting your ceiling on a Friday night was more fun than anything, and when, no matter how smart I was, no matter my potential, my worth, or my faith, I couldn't spell the "L" word to save my life, and I didn't know how bright, nor how dark, the future would yet be.
It hurts that you were there for so long, and that now, now that I actually am the man I wanted to be, a man who could actually appreciate you, the man you always hoped I would become, I am but a footnote. The special friend you look up when you're in the states for the first time in years, the only male friend that isn't a relative that still gets a phone call... but yet, still a footnote.
And now, I feel like the cliche.
Because I'll always have your back. Whatever you need, wherever you go, no matter how old you one day look, or how far away you might feel, or be, or fall, whatever other man you give your heart or soul to, however more freckles on your face appear, however much your eyes bear the weight of the sorrows you've endured, whatever place you call your home, whatever children you bear, you'll always have sparkles in your eyes to me.
You'll always be beautiful to me.
Goodbye, again, P. I'm sorry I forgot.
I love you.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
So what does your iTunes playlist say about you?
Tonight, for some reason, The Beatles' "Help!" popped into my head. So I pulled up iTunes, and, as luck would have it, for some reason I thought to grab a bunch o' Beatles stuff at random back when I had terabytes of random MP3s.
It was a really unscientific grab, so I'm actually mildly surprised. All I know is I have way too much country in the damn collection. And Back Street Boys. Why on earth did I grab back street boys? I must've been looking at a directory and not gotten past 'C' or something. So I have Brooks, Garth, Back Street, and Beatles, The. Sigh. Oh well, at least I got Blink. My Coldplay is a little whack, though. I only have Rush of Blood to The Head, which I had on my damn iPod already anyway.
But whatever. No use crying over milk spilt almost 3 years ago. Oh wait, that's pretty much all I do in this blog, isn't it?
So anyway, I was looking for "Help!" today. And of course, I go to google first, which didn't give me any Beatles love until like link 23. And it wasn't even lyrics, it was some blog about nothing interesting whatsoever that just so happened to mention the song.
Crazy blog fuckers jamming their shit up everyone's nose and then doing SEO and external linking to Result-Page stuff. Damn it.
Oh, wait. I do that. Longer sigh.
So I think, hey, wait, I have a shitload of music I never listen to, and after typing in "help" into my "all music" list, I get:
Help! by The Beatles
With a Little Help from My Friends, Fab Four again
Heaven Help by Lenny Kravitz
Help Me, Mary by Liz Phair
Help Me Fall by Mark Wills (wtf? I don't even know who that is!)
Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones x3
Yeah, x3. It's on 3 different Stones compilations. Three version of Mother's Little Helper and not a Spidey soundtrack to be found. Only the first Matchbox 20 CD. And no Dave Matthews to speak of. And like TWO of the 47 U2 albums. Prince, Michael Jackson, Sugar Hill Gang? Nay, a tiny sample, and who the fuck is that.
Bleah! Where's my stinkin' iPod?
Argh, dammit. It has the same friggin' problem. Organized by a friggin' idiot with too many choices. Oh well. At least I got a bunch of Tupac.
And, as I've talked about (or should have, by now) in that other blog, choice immobilizes. Oh, heck. Guess I'll have to write that now. Next week. Or something.
--
I didn't go out tonight. Yes, it's happening. I did go to the gym. I did play some mostly-weak ball for a couple of hours. I miss Scotty and 24. Damn it.
So, yeah, it's happening.
I changed my zip code, my mailing address, and quit my job. Er... got myself fired. Details.
I moved to another state. I enrolled in classes that were supposed to be enriching and interesting. I've been to probably 30 parties and taken out 15 chicks. I've had several naked in my bed, in fact.
I've consumed more cheap beer than... well more than I ever have. In my whole friggin' life. There's a reason yuppies swear off macrobrews, boys and girls, and it's name is beer pong.
I've worked my ass off to engage, and opportunities abound. I can crack the code and hooking up with all the 19 year olds I want, of that I'm sure (it's actually been harder than I thought... damn virgins. My hit ratio has been like 40% so far! Fuck!). I can work out whatever it is I need to do to get good grades in the two classes I haven't dropped yet. I can somehow juggle all the other shit I have in the air.
And I can be the "token old guy" for awhile.
I don't know if it's helping though.
A friend of mine said recently something like "maybe you have to give up the things you cling to in order to get to where you want to be". And, in its own way, moving and changing my life is part of that. I'm forcing some sort of change, right?
But into what?
One thing that's always been true about me is that I've imagined the scenario I want before I achieve it. At 15 it was waiting tables and living on my own. At 18 it was being in charge of something. At 21 it was real estate, stock options, and working with really smart people.
At 25 it was finally hooking up with someone who wasn't a girlfriend.
Then, somewhere between "I'm gonna marry Becky, Alfie" and Slutbag telling me she loved me, it was a picket fence, a retriever, and furniture. No, not nice furniture. Having it at all. You're reading this... you know me, right? Heh.
I don't think I ever cared where. I just wanted the Kinkade-esque version of the American Dream.
I think I might be an idiot. I think the appeal of youth and college and... all of this... might have just been about the girl. That girl. The random one who doesn't remember my middle name who's older sister is not going to marry my friend, who is not going to look me up when she is in Cali next, and who I should probably delete from my facebook and myspace accounts. The one from that random state I'll probably visit again at some point to see my aunt/mother figure and my friend Joe.
When she falls ill or he gets married. Neither of which will happen this year, but both of which will probably happen to them before it does me. In either event.
And I'll call, but her number will be disconnected by then, and she'll be graduated, and have moved to... Cali, probably. As luck would have it.
Sigh. Not that any of it is important. It's just where most people with an IQ more than... well, me, apparently, end up moving. One of the damn coasts. And she's got family out west, so why the fuck not?
But this is all tangential. I'm doing what I always do... babble on about some shit that really isn't all that important so that I can avoid actually thinking about that damn question that seems to rule my existence.
Why the fuck am I here?
In whatever context... typing at 4 in the morning when I should be passed out drunk with some dumb chick snoring next to me, here in the desert, which is absolutely gorgeous weather all of the time, but is singularly about underage drinking and not at all about the things I think about every day, like work, and tenants, and life, and what the fuck I'm doing here. Oh wait, I was on a tirade. Damn it, I ruined my series of rants-in-a-single-sentence routine.
It was good for me, to get out of town, to get out of Castro Valley, to get away from normalcy and the day job and the girls I could call if I really wanted to screw, and the fall back of old friends when I was really down, and that terrible little basement apartment I lived in for a year.
It has been nice to live with roommates again, especially those that have their whole lives ahead of them, for whom "going home" includes parents and dining room tables and private space that reminds them of being in high school, of their first kiss, of their first fight with mom, of that terrible english teacher they had in middle school. It has been nice to wake up at any time in the morning and go outside to bright-ass sunshine, because, yes, it's the fucking desert, and we don't get fucking fog here.
Unless it rains. In which case we get fog for about 20 minutes. It's more of "muggy" feeling, though, not really fog. Not cold, not water vapor, just... not sunny. And humid. And dark. Right. But it goes away. Monsoons last a whole friggin' hour. Weird, I know.
So, right, why am I here. The cosmic question. The procreation question. The purpose question. The happiness question. The fucking kill-me-now question.
And I look through all of these majors... all of these subjects. I want to learn a little more about religion because... so that I can argue with and alienate the friends I have less a little more? Ho-hum.
I want to study business so I can be frustrated by the mundaneness of it all? So that I can argue with the teacher and tell him he's wrong? And then work my ass off to prove it for a B+ because he can't flunk me, even though he wants to, so he gives me an almost-good-enough grade.
I want to study women's studies so I can land in a class that's 90% chicks? eh. Whateverrrrr.
And then there's history, and econ, and film, and art history, and philosophy... all things I'm vaguely interested in, but which won't answer the question.
And the more I articulate, the sadder I feel. Isn't this shit supposed to be cathartic? Aren't I supposed to come to some sort of conclusion, isn't this supposed to help me organize my thoughts, compartmentalize my feelings, understand myself and the world better?
But all it does is serve to remind how lost I am. How lost I feel. And how sad that makes me.
Harumph. "Daughters" by John Mayer just rotated in on my iTunes. There's a line in the song about how basically you can abuse the boys and they'll figure it out, but the daughters will grow up and ruin their relationships.
Well, I'm getting a little old for my quarter-life crisis, John. And you get to bang Jessica Simpson, so shut the fuck up.
Eh. It's a pretty enough song. Reminds me of Crazy Lauren, actually.
--
How about a statement that says how psycho I really am. I miss that chick sometimes. I mean, yes, even while I was in the middle of it, I knew I couldn't engage, because it would be crazy and codependent, but she was ironically really good to me.
The flip side of showing up at my house and keying the ex-GF's car, of socking me in the face when staring me in the eye as I crushed her devotion for the 27th time... the flip side is that she totally understood me. She was a freak, but she was my freak.
Anything I revealed to her didn't make her feel sorry for me. It didn't make her think I was crazy. It didn't turn her off or turn her on.
It just was. Because she had drama too. And she just understood.
There it is.
Epiphany time.
So I go through life, and I fake it, right? I fake interest in stupid girls, I fake a college degree to fuckers who think it matters, I fake being 23 to these undergrads all around me, I fake a healthy childhood to people who get close enough to touch, and I fake being over it for those close enough touch and care.
My life is one big facade, and despite not living in fear -- I really don't give a fuck, because I'm independent now and you can take your job/judgment/pussy/friendship and piss the fuck off -- it still is really draining to act all the time.
I like basketball for that reason. Because out there, I can just be me. If I want to cuss, I do it. If I want to get angry, I do. If I want to give it my all or be lazy, if I want to show off for some girl I don't even know, if I want to shut some guy down just because he's black, or thinks he's good, or used to play in the NFL, or because his girlfriend is watching, I do it.
The mask comes off. And I'm still cool for the most part, but it's ok because they all take it off too. You're just some fucker in gym shorts now. I don't care about anything except what you do with the ball. And neither do you. For those couple of hours, we're really equal, we're really the same, we're really not afraid.
For just a little while, it doesn't matter what I make, or that my parents never loved me, or that I hate you because you have parents and family. It doesn't matter that my childhood ended somewhere around 8 or that I was once so poor that I biked two miles to the next fucking train station so I could save 30 cents. It doesn't matter that my behavior basically says that I don't want to be loved.
And, most of all, it doesn't matter that my iTunes has something that sound pretty goddamn "bow chicka bow wow" sounding music bumpin' right now. (switches windows)
Whew. That's better. I was starting to look around for some big titted chick with a pussy the size of a grapefruit. Which is slightly hot in a really dirty sorta way.
I think.
So I was going to epiphanize (ooh, I like that new word), right? Well, if my life is one big audition, if I'm constantly faking it, but yet it's tearing me up, then what am I so afraid of?
What will I lose if I stop faking it?
I remember, once, when I wore "being real" like a badge of honor. I didn't want to be fake about anything. All natural food, I was also really anal. And I wasn't very much fun.
And then came the fake hair, the nice clothes, the schmoozing, the wit-development, the posturing, the prestige of titles, the BMW, and all of the things that came with it... including the princess (Amanda had one of those princess license plates).
I guess I am afraid. Not of what some schmuck says -- although that "token old guy" comment the other day is still bothering me, even if it wasn't meant to be negative and it's true -- but because I don't like that guy I used to be. He was a dick.
But that's the problem, isn't it. I don't like me very much at all. And achievement is no longer a fill-in. It's a distraction at best, now.
And the fact that I know that makes me not care. About... much of anything.
It's a weird... what's the term Faustian bargain mean? Something about a deal with the devil, right? (googling) OK, that doesn't fit. Never mind.
I was going to ponder goals. They're great for now... they fill in the blanks, because it's easy to work backwards from a goal and come up with a plan, an action, even a way of life.
But -- and here's why it's kinda sorta not really a deal with the devil -- it's just temporary. A go-between starting from something you're lacking and ending with not filling the void you were hoping to.
Nothing can replace, or atone for, the trauma I've endured. Nothing can give me back my childhood... not even trying to fake being 23. And so goals, at this point, are just passing the time. Achievement is not enough and never will be. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I save or how many awards I earn. Heck, I could be the anti-Hitler of the 21st century, and all I'll do is mutter something about letting history decide how to paint my person. But it's not because I don't, or wouldn't, enjoy it. Every single word of praise would be appreciated by the emotional black hole buried somewhere not all that deep inside.
I'd just still be hiding.
The problem is that I don't know how to fill it. Lauren wanted that contract. She promised to love me enough. I just knew I couldn't love her enough... and when it wasn't, I knew that she'd take it away. And oh how that would've hurt. I'd have missed everything about her, from her smell to her sense of humor. As it is, I just miss not having to hide. And vanilla lattes in the morning after hot shower sex. But I could've lived without that. That was just a nice perk. :-)
So there it is. How do I fill it? How do I fill that void that was made when I wasn't protected at 2? Or hit at 13? Or left out to die at 14? Or just plain hated by the very guy that was supposed to be my guardian and protector?
How do I take that away?
Sigh.
I feel a need to tell you you're full of shit now.
(1) Therapy. Yeah. Tried. Did. Seemed to work. Or not. I suppose I could go back and blow $120 a week for the next, oh, forever. And that would make me feel slightly better. Because someone appreciates my fucking checkbook.
Uh huh. Sure. Go ahead and recommend it. I did it for two years. I could do it for two more. And... it might even make me not type so much. But if the problem is actually solvable, why do I need some idiot to just sit there and not tell me what to do?
(2) Drugs. Um. Personally, I don't see this huge difference between cocaine and prozac. I mean, sure, we could go into the biological differences, which would actually be pretty interesting, but they're both mind altering drugs. One just has a regulated dosage and drug content per unit metric.
They both have side effects. They both fuck up your head so you can't think straight. And, frankly, if I thought drugs would solve my problems, I'd already be a fucking alcoholic. For real.
(3) Finding that special someone. I think that no woman could ever fill that void forever. If she's out there, great. But like I love to say, you tell me where the fucking book club where the attractive, intelligent, 20-something, emotionally available gym bunnies hang out, and I'll show up with 60 roses.
In other words, fuck off. If you're recommending this, you probably have someone and didn't work for it, which means you're basically a trust fund baby telling me to get a fucking job, even though I'm black, my dad beat me, I got busted for a felony 'cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I was twelve, and can barely read because public schools suck ass.
If I sound a little bitter, well, yeah. If you think I'm "missing the point", blow me.
(4) Self analysis. Finding myself. Meditation.
My other blog has had shit like this in it since '03. I've been writing this shit down on paper since fucking '93. It helps. I'm already doing it.
Suggesting it doesn't exactly help anything.
(5) Losing the chip on my shoulder.
Ok. That's like telling a blind man what the color red looks like. Care to elaborate on how?
(6) Going back to school, changing venue, moving, or otherwise shocking the system with some big physical change.
Ahem. You haven't been reading very long, have you?
(7) Fuck all and kill yourself.
Crossed my mind a couple of times. Next?
(8) Go have a chat with your dad. I'm sure he loves you on some level.
You know, I have friends from my adult life who have said the very same thing. Then they met the guy.
Hitler really was a better man. At least he rationalized his evil. If you started with the basic flawed set of rules, everything else fit.
My dad is a sociopath. The clinical definition. Go wikipedia it.
And yes, I'm sure he does. Hitler loved the Jews, too. Ethnic cleansing is an act of love, goddamn it. Any problems with your moral reckoning on that statement?
(9) You know, a lot of people have it worse...
Yeah. I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Been over that already. Or haven't you read through my archives?
So how do I take this achievement, this talent, this luck, this blessing, and actually make something out of it?
How do I keep from always being this way?
How can I be happy? It's kinduv a prerequisite before I can "realize my full potential". Whatever that means.
Then again, maybe I was the best man I was ever destined to become years ago. And all of this is just hot air outlining the fall from the great man I could've been if only I'd stepped into the wind on some road long since forgotten.
Or not.
(10) Dude. This is life. This is the way it is. You have what you have, you are what you are. Stop dwelling on it. Have some sex, learn some shit, help some old ladies across the street, and just hop from one fun experience to the next. Everybody gets depressed when they sit at home and blog for two hours straight.
You're probably right.
But that's not enough for me. I want more. And, btw, the "trust fund" clause from item #3 applies, too. How about you go have a chat with your dad about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to take your call and won't call you or your mom a mother-fucker/cunt, not even once.
Next?
(11) Your need to find Jesus.
See "trust fund" clause above.
I realized something about Christians the other day while reading one of my books on Islamic thought. It was describing ancient Mesopotamian religions and comparing them to ancient Egypt.
Christianity is the ultimate mind fuck because it serves both human needs. For the assholes that get shit on, it has Original Sin. You get shit on because you deserve it, bitch. Just be glad I'm, even holding out the option of heaven to your sinful ass, you piece of shit.
For the elitist imperialistic suburban soccer playing, gold swinging fucks, you have Grace. Well, you're inherently evil -- you know this because you happen to know your wife blew your priest back in the day -- but the Grace of god means you now deserve the butt warmers in the H2 that runs on the blood of dead Iraqi children. You deserve all of the "blessings" that have been handed to you on silver platters most of your life. Because you worked for this and that, yes, and because Jesus saved you. God is just like you in look, spirit, and culture, you elitist fuck.
So, if you're in the former group, go back to the barrio and keep selling your food at the farmers market. I really like your tomatoes. And yes, you should send little Pablo to community college so he can learn a trade. His tithe will be bigger, damn it.
If you're in the latter, you've never really considered god, because you've never had any hardship. And no, your wife blowing your priest doesn't count. I'm talking about how the fuck am I going to eat, I have no one to call on the planet, nor even a quarter to make the fucking call if I did kinda hardship. You better believe that fucker ain't gonna carry you. Life is not Footsteps. And you don't deserve that H2, bitch. Go trade it in for something that didn't cost 18 square miles of rain forest. Take your butt warmer money and send it Bono so he can feed Africans, you imperialist bastard.
If Jesus were so great, I wouldn't be whining about drama that started in the womb. He'd have carried me then, too. Free will? Blow me. We have a judicial system and we're fucking humans. We stop people from doing bad things through deterrence and direct intervention. So why can't god do that?
Because he doesn't exist, that's why. Or He's just a pussy. Either way, next.
It was a really unscientific grab, so I'm actually mildly surprised. All I know is I have way too much country in the damn collection. And Back Street Boys. Why on earth did I grab back street boys? I must've been looking at a directory and not gotten past 'C' or something. So I have Brooks, Garth, Back Street, and Beatles, The. Sigh. Oh well, at least I got Blink. My Coldplay is a little whack, though. I only have Rush of Blood to The Head, which I had on my damn iPod already anyway.
But whatever. No use crying over milk spilt almost 3 years ago. Oh wait, that's pretty much all I do in this blog, isn't it?
So anyway, I was looking for "Help!" today. And of course, I go to google first, which didn't give me any Beatles love until like link 23. And it wasn't even lyrics, it was some blog about nothing interesting whatsoever that just so happened to mention the song.
Crazy blog fuckers jamming their shit up everyone's nose and then doing SEO and external linking to Result-Page stuff. Damn it.
Oh, wait. I do that. Longer sigh.
So I think, hey, wait, I have a shitload of music I never listen to, and after typing in "help" into my "all music" list, I get:
Help! by The Beatles
With a Little Help from My Friends, Fab Four again
Heaven Help by Lenny Kravitz
Help Me, Mary by Liz Phair
Help Me Fall by Mark Wills (wtf? I don't even know who that is!)
Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones x3
Yeah, x3. It's on 3 different Stones compilations. Three version of Mother's Little Helper and not a Spidey soundtrack to be found. Only the first Matchbox 20 CD. And no Dave Matthews to speak of. And like TWO of the 47 U2 albums. Prince, Michael Jackson, Sugar Hill Gang? Nay, a tiny sample, and who the fuck is that.
Bleah! Where's my stinkin' iPod?
Argh, dammit. It has the same friggin' problem. Organized by a friggin' idiot with too many choices. Oh well. At least I got a bunch of Tupac.
And, as I've talked about (or should have, by now) in that other blog, choice immobilizes. Oh, heck. Guess I'll have to write that now. Next week. Or something.
--
I didn't go out tonight. Yes, it's happening. I did go to the gym. I did play some mostly-weak ball for a couple of hours. I miss Scotty and 24. Damn it.
So, yeah, it's happening.
I changed my zip code, my mailing address, and quit my job. Er... got myself fired. Details.
I moved to another state. I enrolled in classes that were supposed to be enriching and interesting. I've been to probably 30 parties and taken out 15 chicks. I've had several naked in my bed, in fact.
I've consumed more cheap beer than... well more than I ever have. In my whole friggin' life. There's a reason yuppies swear off macrobrews, boys and girls, and it's name is beer pong.
I've worked my ass off to engage, and opportunities abound. I can crack the code and hooking up with all the 19 year olds I want, of that I'm sure (it's actually been harder than I thought... damn virgins. My hit ratio has been like 40% so far! Fuck!). I can work out whatever it is I need to do to get good grades in the two classes I haven't dropped yet. I can somehow juggle all the other shit I have in the air.
And I can be the "token old guy" for awhile.
I don't know if it's helping though.
A friend of mine said recently something like "maybe you have to give up the things you cling to in order to get to where you want to be". And, in its own way, moving and changing my life is part of that. I'm forcing some sort of change, right?
But into what?
One thing that's always been true about me is that I've imagined the scenario I want before I achieve it. At 15 it was waiting tables and living on my own. At 18 it was being in charge of something. At 21 it was real estate, stock options, and working with really smart people.
At 25 it was finally hooking up with someone who wasn't a girlfriend.
Then, somewhere between "I'm gonna marry Becky, Alfie" and Slutbag telling me she loved me, it was a picket fence, a retriever, and furniture. No, not nice furniture. Having it at all. You're reading this... you know me, right? Heh.
I don't think I ever cared where. I just wanted the Kinkade-esque version of the American Dream.
I think I might be an idiot. I think the appeal of youth and college and... all of this... might have just been about the girl. That girl. The random one who doesn't remember my middle name who's older sister is not going to marry my friend, who is not going to look me up when she is in Cali next, and who I should probably delete from my facebook and myspace accounts. The one from that random state I'll probably visit again at some point to see my aunt/mother figure and my friend Joe.
When she falls ill or he gets married. Neither of which will happen this year, but both of which will probably happen to them before it does me. In either event.
And I'll call, but her number will be disconnected by then, and she'll be graduated, and have moved to... Cali, probably. As luck would have it.
Sigh. Not that any of it is important. It's just where most people with an IQ more than... well, me, apparently, end up moving. One of the damn coasts. And she's got family out west, so why the fuck not?
But this is all tangential. I'm doing what I always do... babble on about some shit that really isn't all that important so that I can avoid actually thinking about that damn question that seems to rule my existence.
Why the fuck am I here?
In whatever context... typing at 4 in the morning when I should be passed out drunk with some dumb chick snoring next to me, here in the desert, which is absolutely gorgeous weather all of the time, but is singularly about underage drinking and not at all about the things I think about every day, like work, and tenants, and life, and what the fuck I'm doing here. Oh wait, I was on a tirade. Damn it, I ruined my series of rants-in-a-single-sentence routine.
It was good for me, to get out of town, to get out of Castro Valley, to get away from normalcy and the day job and the girls I could call if I really wanted to screw, and the fall back of old friends when I was really down, and that terrible little basement apartment I lived in for a year.
It has been nice to live with roommates again, especially those that have their whole lives ahead of them, for whom "going home" includes parents and dining room tables and private space that reminds them of being in high school, of their first kiss, of their first fight with mom, of that terrible english teacher they had in middle school. It has been nice to wake up at any time in the morning and go outside to bright-ass sunshine, because, yes, it's the fucking desert, and we don't get fucking fog here.
Unless it rains. In which case we get fog for about 20 minutes. It's more of "muggy" feeling, though, not really fog. Not cold, not water vapor, just... not sunny. And humid. And dark. Right. But it goes away. Monsoons last a whole friggin' hour. Weird, I know.
So, right, why am I here. The cosmic question. The procreation question. The purpose question. The happiness question. The fucking kill-me-now question.
And I look through all of these majors... all of these subjects. I want to learn a little more about religion because... so that I can argue with and alienate the friends I have less a little more? Ho-hum.
I want to study business so I can be frustrated by the mundaneness of it all? So that I can argue with the teacher and tell him he's wrong? And then work my ass off to prove it for a B+ because he can't flunk me, even though he wants to, so he gives me an almost-good-enough grade.
I want to study women's studies so I can land in a class that's 90% chicks? eh. Whateverrrrr.
And then there's history, and econ, and film, and art history, and philosophy... all things I'm vaguely interested in, but which won't answer the question.
And the more I articulate, the sadder I feel. Isn't this shit supposed to be cathartic? Aren't I supposed to come to some sort of conclusion, isn't this supposed to help me organize my thoughts, compartmentalize my feelings, understand myself and the world better?
But all it does is serve to remind how lost I am. How lost I feel. And how sad that makes me.
Harumph. "Daughters" by John Mayer just rotated in on my iTunes. There's a line in the song about how basically you can abuse the boys and they'll figure it out, but the daughters will grow up and ruin their relationships.
Well, I'm getting a little old for my quarter-life crisis, John. And you get to bang Jessica Simpson, so shut the fuck up.
Eh. It's a pretty enough song. Reminds me of Crazy Lauren, actually.
--
How about a statement that says how psycho I really am. I miss that chick sometimes. I mean, yes, even while I was in the middle of it, I knew I couldn't engage, because it would be crazy and codependent, but she was ironically really good to me.
The flip side of showing up at my house and keying the ex-GF's car, of socking me in the face when staring me in the eye as I crushed her devotion for the 27th time... the flip side is that she totally understood me. She was a freak, but she was my freak.
Anything I revealed to her didn't make her feel sorry for me. It didn't make her think I was crazy. It didn't turn her off or turn her on.
It just was. Because she had drama too. And she just understood.
There it is.
Epiphany time.
So I go through life, and I fake it, right? I fake interest in stupid girls, I fake a college degree to fuckers who think it matters, I fake being 23 to these undergrads all around me, I fake a healthy childhood to people who get close enough to touch, and I fake being over it for those close enough touch and care.
My life is one big facade, and despite not living in fear -- I really don't give a fuck, because I'm independent now and you can take your job/judgment/pussy/friendship and piss the fuck off -- it still is really draining to act all the time.
I like basketball for that reason. Because out there, I can just be me. If I want to cuss, I do it. If I want to get angry, I do. If I want to give it my all or be lazy, if I want to show off for some girl I don't even know, if I want to shut some guy down just because he's black, or thinks he's good, or used to play in the NFL, or because his girlfriend is watching, I do it.
The mask comes off. And I'm still cool for the most part, but it's ok because they all take it off too. You're just some fucker in gym shorts now. I don't care about anything except what you do with the ball. And neither do you. For those couple of hours, we're really equal, we're really the same, we're really not afraid.
For just a little while, it doesn't matter what I make, or that my parents never loved me, or that I hate you because you have parents and family. It doesn't matter that my childhood ended somewhere around 8 or that I was once so poor that I biked two miles to the next fucking train station so I could save 30 cents. It doesn't matter that my behavior basically says that I don't want to be loved.
And, most of all, it doesn't matter that my iTunes has something that sound pretty goddamn "bow chicka bow wow" sounding music bumpin' right now. (switches windows)
Whew. That's better. I was starting to look around for some big titted chick with a pussy the size of a grapefruit. Which is slightly hot in a really dirty sorta way.
I think.
So I was going to epiphanize (ooh, I like that new word), right? Well, if my life is one big audition, if I'm constantly faking it, but yet it's tearing me up, then what am I so afraid of?
What will I lose if I stop faking it?
I remember, once, when I wore "being real" like a badge of honor. I didn't want to be fake about anything. All natural food, I was also really anal. And I wasn't very much fun.
And then came the fake hair, the nice clothes, the schmoozing, the wit-development, the posturing, the prestige of titles, the BMW, and all of the things that came with it... including the princess (Amanda had one of those princess license plates).
I guess I am afraid. Not of what some schmuck says -- although that "token old guy" comment the other day is still bothering me, even if it wasn't meant to be negative and it's true -- but because I don't like that guy I used to be. He was a dick.
But that's the problem, isn't it. I don't like me very much at all. And achievement is no longer a fill-in. It's a distraction at best, now.
And the fact that I know that makes me not care. About... much of anything.
It's a weird... what's the term Faustian bargain mean? Something about a deal with the devil, right? (googling) OK, that doesn't fit. Never mind.
I was going to ponder goals. They're great for now... they fill in the blanks, because it's easy to work backwards from a goal and come up with a plan, an action, even a way of life.
But -- and here's why it's kinda sorta not really a deal with the devil -- it's just temporary. A go-between starting from something you're lacking and ending with not filling the void you were hoping to.
Nothing can replace, or atone for, the trauma I've endured. Nothing can give me back my childhood... not even trying to fake being 23. And so goals, at this point, are just passing the time. Achievement is not enough and never will be. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I save or how many awards I earn. Heck, I could be the anti-Hitler of the 21st century, and all I'll do is mutter something about letting history decide how to paint my person. But it's not because I don't, or wouldn't, enjoy it. Every single word of praise would be appreciated by the emotional black hole buried somewhere not all that deep inside.
I'd just still be hiding.
The problem is that I don't know how to fill it. Lauren wanted that contract. She promised to love me enough. I just knew I couldn't love her enough... and when it wasn't, I knew that she'd take it away. And oh how that would've hurt. I'd have missed everything about her, from her smell to her sense of humor. As it is, I just miss not having to hide. And vanilla lattes in the morning after hot shower sex. But I could've lived without that. That was just a nice perk. :-)
So there it is. How do I fill it? How do I fill that void that was made when I wasn't protected at 2? Or hit at 13? Or left out to die at 14? Or just plain hated by the very guy that was supposed to be my guardian and protector?
How do I take that away?
Sigh.
I feel a need to tell you you're full of shit now.
(1) Therapy. Yeah. Tried. Did. Seemed to work. Or not. I suppose I could go back and blow $120 a week for the next, oh, forever. And that would make me feel slightly better. Because someone appreciates my fucking checkbook.
Uh huh. Sure. Go ahead and recommend it. I did it for two years. I could do it for two more. And... it might even make me not type so much. But if the problem is actually solvable, why do I need some idiot to just sit there and not tell me what to do?
(2) Drugs. Um. Personally, I don't see this huge difference between cocaine and prozac. I mean, sure, we could go into the biological differences, which would actually be pretty interesting, but they're both mind altering drugs. One just has a regulated dosage and drug content per unit metric.
They both have side effects. They both fuck up your head so you can't think straight. And, frankly, if I thought drugs would solve my problems, I'd already be a fucking alcoholic. For real.
(3) Finding that special someone. I think that no woman could ever fill that void forever. If she's out there, great. But like I love to say, you tell me where the fucking book club where the attractive, intelligent, 20-something, emotionally available gym bunnies hang out, and I'll show up with 60 roses.
In other words, fuck off. If you're recommending this, you probably have someone and didn't work for it, which means you're basically a trust fund baby telling me to get a fucking job, even though I'm black, my dad beat me, I got busted for a felony 'cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I was twelve, and can barely read because public schools suck ass.
If I sound a little bitter, well, yeah. If you think I'm "missing the point", blow me.
(4) Self analysis. Finding myself. Meditation.
My other blog has had shit like this in it since '03. I've been writing this shit down on paper since fucking '93. It helps. I'm already doing it.
Suggesting it doesn't exactly help anything.
(5) Losing the chip on my shoulder.
Ok. That's like telling a blind man what the color red looks like. Care to elaborate on how?
(6) Going back to school, changing venue, moving, or otherwise shocking the system with some big physical change.
Ahem. You haven't been reading very long, have you?
(7) Fuck all and kill yourself.
Crossed my mind a couple of times. Next?
(8) Go have a chat with your dad. I'm sure he loves you on some level.
You know, I have friends from my adult life who have said the very same thing. Then they met the guy.
Hitler really was a better man. At least he rationalized his evil. If you started with the basic flawed set of rules, everything else fit.
My dad is a sociopath. The clinical definition. Go wikipedia it.
And yes, I'm sure he does. Hitler loved the Jews, too. Ethnic cleansing is an act of love, goddamn it. Any problems with your moral reckoning on that statement?
(9) You know, a lot of people have it worse...
Yeah. I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Been over that already. Or haven't you read through my archives?
So how do I take this achievement, this talent, this luck, this blessing, and actually make something out of it?
How do I keep from always being this way?
How can I be happy? It's kinduv a prerequisite before I can "realize my full potential". Whatever that means.
Then again, maybe I was the best man I was ever destined to become years ago. And all of this is just hot air outlining the fall from the great man I could've been if only I'd stepped into the wind on some road long since forgotten.
Or not.
(10) Dude. This is life. This is the way it is. You have what you have, you are what you are. Stop dwelling on it. Have some sex, learn some shit, help some old ladies across the street, and just hop from one fun experience to the next. Everybody gets depressed when they sit at home and blog for two hours straight.
You're probably right.
But that's not enough for me. I want more. And, btw, the "trust fund" clause from item #3 applies, too. How about you go have a chat with your dad about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to take your call and won't call you or your mom a mother-fucker/cunt, not even once.
Next?
(11) Your need to find Jesus.
See "trust fund" clause above.
I realized something about Christians the other day while reading one of my books on Islamic thought. It was describing ancient Mesopotamian religions and comparing them to ancient Egypt.
Christianity is the ultimate mind fuck because it serves both human needs. For the assholes that get shit on, it has Original Sin. You get shit on because you deserve it, bitch. Just be glad I'm, even holding out the option of heaven to your sinful ass, you piece of shit.
For the elitist imperialistic suburban soccer playing, gold swinging fucks, you have Grace. Well, you're inherently evil -- you know this because you happen to know your wife blew your priest back in the day -- but the Grace of god means you now deserve the butt warmers in the H2 that runs on the blood of dead Iraqi children. You deserve all of the "blessings" that have been handed to you on silver platters most of your life. Because you worked for this and that, yes, and because Jesus saved you. God is just like you in look, spirit, and culture, you elitist fuck.
So, if you're in the former group, go back to the barrio and keep selling your food at the farmers market. I really like your tomatoes. And yes, you should send little Pablo to community college so he can learn a trade. His tithe will be bigger, damn it.
If you're in the latter, you've never really considered god, because you've never had any hardship. And no, your wife blowing your priest doesn't count. I'm talking about how the fuck am I going to eat, I have no one to call on the planet, nor even a quarter to make the fucking call if I did kinda hardship. You better believe that fucker ain't gonna carry you. Life is not Footsteps. And you don't deserve that H2, bitch. Go trade it in for something that didn't cost 18 square miles of rain forest. Take your butt warmer money and send it Bono so he can feed Africans, you imperialist bastard.
If Jesus were so great, I wouldn't be whining about drama that started in the womb. He'd have carried me then, too. Free will? Blow me. We have a judicial system and we're fucking humans. We stop people from doing bad things through deterrence and direct intervention. So why can't god do that?
Because he doesn't exist, that's why. Or He's just a pussy. Either way, next.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Title here
I missed Amanda tonight. I'm not sure what I missed, actually... I watched Spidey 3 tonight after I got home (or, rather, the 2nd half), and I remembered that the first Spider-man movie came out the summer I broke up with her.
I saw it twice in the theatre. Neither time was with her. I saw it with a big group from work. And I saw it with Destiny, the ex before Amanda. Nothing ever became of that... I had changed too much, and she hadn't changed enough. But that's another story.
It's a little strange living and interacting with people so young all the time. Everyone's world is so wide open with opportunity. There's such joy in almost everything. I mean, yes, people bitch all the time... people are people. But I can't remember the last time I talked to someone and actually got a real sense of cynicism.
Actually met someone like me.
I like that. But it might be the catalyst for thinking about old relationships. Especially the one where I was last like that. Where I was wide open with expectation and wide eyed with amazement. When being in a relationship with someone was new in every respect...
I'm not sure that I miss it, actually. Or her. I do miss being that way.
I don't think I'm going to learn it here. I don't think that any of these little girls can do any more than remind me of the boy I once was. I lose myself, perhaps, for a few minutes here and there, but it's just a fun game.
Which sort of begs the question, can I actually love again? Can I give my all like Amanda got? Can I have the faith that Laura squandered?
It makes me sad to say it, but I don't think I can.
I say that I value intelligence in a date/mate/counterpart above all else. I don't know if that's true anymore. In a world where your wife is your best friend, where she becomes a part of you, where that "one flesh" business is actually true, then I hold "her" to the same measure I hold myself to -- which is, to say, she has to work at being perfect. Pretty much constantly.
But it's not. No woman could ever be all of those things. No one could. And no matter what some guy named Paul said, in today's world, I have no business putting faith in some girl. One flesh? Humph. That just means sex without a condom and falling asleep in coitus. Intimate, wonderful, and probably the single most content any man can ever feel, but really, nothing all that hard to accomplish.
Nothing all that special.
I wish I could have it back. I wish I felt it when I took these little girls out. But they're no different than any of the other silly girls. They just haven't moved to the city yet. Heh. The funny part is that I'm actually serious. The last date I went on? Her plan after graduation is to move to San Francisco.
Sigh. So, what then?
I read something recently about three levels of peace. I think it was during some research I was doing for my class on Islamic thought. (I'd try to go find it, but I haven't the foggiest on what keywords to search for -- I only remember my paraphrased version, and that's spotty.) In the first, people find pleasure/respite/purpose in some activity or thing. The example given was sports, but it could be anything -- from chess to mountain biking. One finds pleasure in the act of doing and purpose in the refinement of that act. My skating, dancing, and basketball have all fulfilled that for me. So has work, and even, , to a certain extent, dating women.
The second level is investment in a person or persons. Apparently, people find pleasure and purpose in giving themselves to another person -- a wife, and later, children.
No comment.
I'm pretty sure the last one was god. Or, rather, "God". Devotion to something greater than yourself, giving back to the community, etc., were in there, too, I think, but basically, it was about submitting and contributing.
I don't really remember the last one all that well. It wasn't pertinent to my paper and I was on a mission. Besides, I kinda snorted at the second paragraph and lost interest. Heh.
So, basically, since I don't believe in a god and I don't believe in people, I guess I better start making a list of goals I want to accomplish in the next century.
'cause that's about all I got.
--
So I kinda lost the point of the 3 levels of purpose. I think that I miss Amanda so much because it was the last time I was anywhere near that second level. Maybe the only time.
And I'm still looking for that, aren't I?
No matter how much I repeat this little exercise of telling myself I don't have hope, that no woman is worthy of faith, that this is the way the world works, so just deal...
I'm not trying to teach anybody. I'm trying to convince myself.
It would be easier, I think. I'd be a little dead inside, sure, but that part of me has been beaten up for years anyway -- the death would be a respite from the turmoil. And then I could just have fun... there wouldn't be as much of a chip on my shoulder. There wouldn't be any ulterior motives other than having fun and having sex, which are so much easier to accomplish than "being happy".
The problem with squashed hope, you see, is that it hurts like hell. And I always hope... even if it's only just a little bit. I tell myself it's stupid every time I feel it -- so yes, 326 times every day -- but it's still there. Lingering. Pestering. Annoying.
Painful.
--
I emailed Amanda the other day. She has a new boy. Or maybe not a new boy. I don't know. She said he was new, so I'll assume it's not that old. Whatever.
She sent me photos of them. He's a good looking guy. They -- or rather, she -- looked peaceful with him. Not with the stars in her eyes I imagine when I see photos of us from years ago, nor the posing I remember from her solo photos. Guess she aged some, too. Heh.
I wonder what happened to those photos she and I took on that cruise ship. We paid a lot for those as I recall. I don't remember them at all... I just remember taking them with her. And how mad at her I was. I don't remember what about, specifically, but I remember looking at her with disdain when we shot those.
Maybe Amanda saw that in those photos and that's why she kept them. Or tossed them.
Weird. I haven't thought about that trip in five years. I do remember that we were dressed to the nines, though. We must have looked amazing. I wish I could remember.
--
Anne -- my date the other night, who is about as fun as a glass of water (gift from heaven at certain times, but overall not that interesting) -- talked about Disneyland for a minute over dinner. She talked about going there while in high school. I remember thinking "I fell in love there once" while she talked about cutting in line on Space Mountain.
I didn't feel old. Not envious. I didn't miss anybody. I just noticed. I suppose that I vaguely wondered how Anne would react if I said that, but that was mostly just self-amusement.
--
Wow. Talk about Peter Pan complex, huh? I so don't want to grow up that I packed up my shit and moved away from everything I knew just so I could pretend.
I am a fucking nutball.
Too bad it's too late. I'm fucking old. I don't get angry much, I have experience all over the place, I've lost whatever faith I ever had, and I know how to eat pussy.
I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do now? Don't normal people marry the chick they always knew they would and get saddled up with a mortgage around this point?
What do people do at my age when they don't have those options? I mean, aside from going back to college so they can hit on 19 year olds, of course.
Well?
--
There's this one little ache I have. In the section just above, I referred to "marrying the chick they always knew they would".
That really bothers me. Because I have no candidates. Everybody I know who is married knew the girl for years before it happened. Maybe they didn't always know, but there was always something.
And I don't have one of those. (Unless you count Alicia. And that's not bloody likely.)
Maybe it's one of my ex GFs. Maybe one of them will come back into my life someday and it will just click. Let's see... Jeanette probably still smokes, so she looks 40 by now. Des has to be crackin' 200 by this point. Amanda... well. I don't wonder about her at 4 in the morning for nothing. Chrissy... kinduv a long shot there. Laura is, and ever shall be, Slutbag. Crazy Lauren disappeared off the planet.
Ok. One of the short-termers, then? Alicia? Sarah? Tejas Lauren? Jill? Jamie?
Yeah... not so much. Guess I have to relive my 20s after all. Heh.
I saw it twice in the theatre. Neither time was with her. I saw it with a big group from work. And I saw it with Destiny, the ex before Amanda. Nothing ever became of that... I had changed too much, and she hadn't changed enough. But that's another story.
It's a little strange living and interacting with people so young all the time. Everyone's world is so wide open with opportunity. There's such joy in almost everything. I mean, yes, people bitch all the time... people are people. But I can't remember the last time I talked to someone and actually got a real sense of cynicism.
Actually met someone like me.
I like that. But it might be the catalyst for thinking about old relationships. Especially the one where I was last like that. Where I was wide open with expectation and wide eyed with amazement. When being in a relationship with someone was new in every respect...
I'm not sure that I miss it, actually. Or her. I do miss being that way.
I don't think I'm going to learn it here. I don't think that any of these little girls can do any more than remind me of the boy I once was. I lose myself, perhaps, for a few minutes here and there, but it's just a fun game.
Which sort of begs the question, can I actually love again? Can I give my all like Amanda got? Can I have the faith that Laura squandered?
It makes me sad to say it, but I don't think I can.
I say that I value intelligence in a date/mate/counterpart above all else. I don't know if that's true anymore. In a world where your wife is your best friend, where she becomes a part of you, where that "one flesh" business is actually true, then I hold "her" to the same measure I hold myself to -- which is, to say, she has to work at being perfect. Pretty much constantly.
But it's not. No woman could ever be all of those things. No one could. And no matter what some guy named Paul said, in today's world, I have no business putting faith in some girl. One flesh? Humph. That just means sex without a condom and falling asleep in coitus. Intimate, wonderful, and probably the single most content any man can ever feel, but really, nothing all that hard to accomplish.
Nothing all that special.
I wish I could have it back. I wish I felt it when I took these little girls out. But they're no different than any of the other silly girls. They just haven't moved to the city yet. Heh. The funny part is that I'm actually serious. The last date I went on? Her plan after graduation is to move to San Francisco.
Sigh. So, what then?
I read something recently about three levels of peace. I think it was during some research I was doing for my class on Islamic thought. (I'd try to go find it, but I haven't the foggiest on what keywords to search for -- I only remember my paraphrased version, and that's spotty.) In the first, people find pleasure/respite/purpose in some activity or thing. The example given was sports, but it could be anything -- from chess to mountain biking. One finds pleasure in the act of doing and purpose in the refinement of that act. My skating, dancing, and basketball have all fulfilled that for me. So has work, and even, , to a certain extent, dating women.
The second level is investment in a person or persons. Apparently, people find pleasure and purpose in giving themselves to another person -- a wife, and later, children.
No comment.
I'm pretty sure the last one was god. Or, rather, "God". Devotion to something greater than yourself, giving back to the community, etc., were in there, too, I think, but basically, it was about submitting and contributing.
I don't really remember the last one all that well. It wasn't pertinent to my paper and I was on a mission. Besides, I kinda snorted at the second paragraph and lost interest. Heh.
So, basically, since I don't believe in a god and I don't believe in people, I guess I better start making a list of goals I want to accomplish in the next century.
'cause that's about all I got.
--
So I kinda lost the point of the 3 levels of purpose. I think that I miss Amanda so much because it was the last time I was anywhere near that second level. Maybe the only time.
And I'm still looking for that, aren't I?
No matter how much I repeat this little exercise of telling myself I don't have hope, that no woman is worthy of faith, that this is the way the world works, so just deal...
I'm not trying to teach anybody. I'm trying to convince myself.
It would be easier, I think. I'd be a little dead inside, sure, but that part of me has been beaten up for years anyway -- the death would be a respite from the turmoil. And then I could just have fun... there wouldn't be as much of a chip on my shoulder. There wouldn't be any ulterior motives other than having fun and having sex, which are so much easier to accomplish than "being happy".
The problem with squashed hope, you see, is that it hurts like hell. And I always hope... even if it's only just a little bit. I tell myself it's stupid every time I feel it -- so yes, 326 times every day -- but it's still there. Lingering. Pestering. Annoying.
Painful.
--
I emailed Amanda the other day. She has a new boy. Or maybe not a new boy. I don't know. She said he was new, so I'll assume it's not that old. Whatever.
She sent me photos of them. He's a good looking guy. They -- or rather, she -- looked peaceful with him. Not with the stars in her eyes I imagine when I see photos of us from years ago, nor the posing I remember from her solo photos. Guess she aged some, too. Heh.
I wonder what happened to those photos she and I took on that cruise ship. We paid a lot for those as I recall. I don't remember them at all... I just remember taking them with her. And how mad at her I was. I don't remember what about, specifically, but I remember looking at her with disdain when we shot those.
Maybe Amanda saw that in those photos and that's why she kept them. Or tossed them.
Weird. I haven't thought about that trip in five years. I do remember that we were dressed to the nines, though. We must have looked amazing. I wish I could remember.
--
Anne -- my date the other night, who is about as fun as a glass of water (gift from heaven at certain times, but overall not that interesting) -- talked about Disneyland for a minute over dinner. She talked about going there while in high school. I remember thinking "I fell in love there once" while she talked about cutting in line on Space Mountain.
I didn't feel old. Not envious. I didn't miss anybody. I just noticed. I suppose that I vaguely wondered how Anne would react if I said that, but that was mostly just self-amusement.
--
Wow. Talk about Peter Pan complex, huh? I so don't want to grow up that I packed up my shit and moved away from everything I knew just so I could pretend.
I am a fucking nutball.
Too bad it's too late. I'm fucking old. I don't get angry much, I have experience all over the place, I've lost whatever faith I ever had, and I know how to eat pussy.
I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do now? Don't normal people marry the chick they always knew they would and get saddled up with a mortgage around this point?
What do people do at my age when they don't have those options? I mean, aside from going back to college so they can hit on 19 year olds, of course.
Well?
--
There's this one little ache I have. In the section just above, I referred to "marrying the chick they always knew they would".
That really bothers me. Because I have no candidates. Everybody I know who is married knew the girl for years before it happened. Maybe they didn't always know, but there was always something.
And I don't have one of those. (Unless you count Alicia. And that's not bloody likely.)
Maybe it's one of my ex GFs. Maybe one of them will come back into my life someday and it will just click. Let's see... Jeanette probably still smokes, so she looks 40 by now. Des has to be crackin' 200 by this point. Amanda... well. I don't wonder about her at 4 in the morning for nothing. Chrissy... kinduv a long shot there. Laura is, and ever shall be, Slutbag. Crazy Lauren disappeared off the planet.
Ok. One of the short-termers, then? Alicia? Sarah? Tejas Lauren? Jill? Jamie?
Yeah... not so much. Guess I have to relive my 20s after all. Heh.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Uh oh. It happened.
I'm sad today.
I got drunk with my roommates tonight playing baseball pong, a slightly altered version of beer pong. I thought it would help the comraderie aspect of my housing situation.
It probably did.
But I got drunk and tired, and now I'm sitting in my room coming down from the inebriation, and sappy music is on, and there's no naked girl in my bed to distract me.
And I missed (gulp) Texas again a couple of minutes ago.
And then I thought of home, a little, and I missed Jupiter with Sam and Banana Cream pie with Ayla.
Neither are that bad. I'm not that sad. But the feelings are there, present, and I don't feel at liberty to call anybody.
I kinda just wish I had someone in my bed right now so I could cuddle. I know, gay. Fuck off.
She'd fall in love with me, and I'd feel good for just a little while. And tomorrow I'd make her a cup of coffee and bring her a bowl of cereal in bed before going to class. It would be oatmeal, but I just ran out. Oh well.
sigh. Tomorrow, I will get up at 8am and do Calculus. Then I will go to class and try not to fall asleep. And I will grab the one hot girl in the class (the other one dropped) and make a study date with her.
Then I will find the Lauren in my Religion class and get her number. Lauren from Prescott. I know, I know. Whatever. She's a cute, petite brunette. Imagine that.
And then I will go to lunch with Jenny from psych and sweep her off her feet. After which, I will come home, work for four hours, go to the gym, and then go to one of the 15 parties on my facebook event list.
Ok, it's not 15. It's more like 4. But whatever. I invited like 40 girls to this frat party my bros are throwing, only to have them "cancel" the party over some bullshit non-endorsement policy. It's a house party thrown by the people in my frat, but we can't call it a frat party. So the president of my frat cancels the event because of the powers that be, and I look like a schmuck to every vagina on my friends list. But whatever. The fucking moron didn't put the address on the invite anyway, so no one will show up.
Which means that, instead, I will probably bail on the frat party at 10:09 and head over to either a sorority party (for one of the greek groups who actually throws fundraisers and shite) and have some pancakes and meet hot 19 year olds. Yeah, it's a pancake fundraiser party. I don't know, don't ask.
Or, I'll go to... oh hell. I don't remember what the other event was. But there are a bunch of my girlfriends (the kind I don't fuck) going, and so the odds are good that I won't be writing this kind of shit tomorrow night in either event.
bedtime. If my goddamn roommates will shut the fuck up. sigh...
I got drunk with my roommates tonight playing baseball pong, a slightly altered version of beer pong. I thought it would help the comraderie aspect of my housing situation.
It probably did.
But I got drunk and tired, and now I'm sitting in my room coming down from the inebriation, and sappy music is on, and there's no naked girl in my bed to distract me.
And I missed (gulp) Texas again a couple of minutes ago.
And then I thought of home, a little, and I missed Jupiter with Sam and Banana Cream pie with Ayla.
Neither are that bad. I'm not that sad. But the feelings are there, present, and I don't feel at liberty to call anybody.
I kinda just wish I had someone in my bed right now so I could cuddle. I know, gay. Fuck off.
She'd fall in love with me, and I'd feel good for just a little while. And tomorrow I'd make her a cup of coffee and bring her a bowl of cereal in bed before going to class. It would be oatmeal, but I just ran out. Oh well.
sigh. Tomorrow, I will get up at 8am and do Calculus. Then I will go to class and try not to fall asleep. And I will grab the one hot girl in the class (the other one dropped) and make a study date with her.
Then I will find the Lauren in my Religion class and get her number. Lauren from Prescott. I know, I know. Whatever. She's a cute, petite brunette. Imagine that.
And then I will go to lunch with Jenny from psych and sweep her off her feet. After which, I will come home, work for four hours, go to the gym, and then go to one of the 15 parties on my facebook event list.
Ok, it's not 15. It's more like 4. But whatever. I invited like 40 girls to this frat party my bros are throwing, only to have them "cancel" the party over some bullshit non-endorsement policy. It's a house party thrown by the people in my frat, but we can't call it a frat party. So the president of my frat cancels the event because of the powers that be, and I look like a schmuck to every vagina on my friends list. But whatever. The fucking moron didn't put the address on the invite anyway, so no one will show up.
Which means that, instead, I will probably bail on the frat party at 10:09 and head over to either a sorority party (for one of the greek groups who actually throws fundraisers and shite) and have some pancakes and meet hot 19 year olds. Yeah, it's a pancake fundraiser party. I don't know, don't ask.
Or, I'll go to... oh hell. I don't remember what the other event was. But there are a bunch of my girlfriends (the kind I don't fuck) going, and so the odds are good that I won't be writing this kind of shit tomorrow night in either event.
bedtime. If my goddamn roommates will shut the fuck up. sigh...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Barely Keepin' It
So I was feeling the urge to write personal stuff without alpha-male humor (the other blog) or business lessons (the other other blog) and yet I found myself not wanting to come here.
There's so little positive stuff in here to-date that I can't help but associate this blog with only the deep dark skeletons.
But whatever. I'm not gonna go start yet another personal blog.
So I'm having trouble with work. My problem is that I'm working too much. It's so hard to say, "no, I have to go to class" when clients call and ask for things. I mean, everyone is great -- it's not like I'm getting external pressue. It's all internal. It just seems, well, more rewarding to write up architecture docs or fix bugs. I like being the hero, and I like being good at what I'm doing, even as I'm learning on the fly.
It's a weird sensation. Like, when I talk to the few friends I have here who know how old I am, I feel like the same guy -- older, but still young. Cool because I'm older, not in spite of it. Then, on the other hand, I have the youngsters who think I'm one of them and I'm just... normal. Still attractive and smart, sure, but the things they value are different, and the very things that I'm proud of -- about me -- I can't even disclose.
...
Got distracted. Too busy socializing... sorry for the truncated post.
There's so little positive stuff in here to-date that I can't help but associate this blog with only the deep dark skeletons.
But whatever. I'm not gonna go start yet another personal blog.
So I'm having trouble with work. My problem is that I'm working too much. It's so hard to say, "no, I have to go to class" when clients call and ask for things. I mean, everyone is great -- it's not like I'm getting external pressue. It's all internal. It just seems, well, more rewarding to write up architecture docs or fix bugs. I like being the hero, and I like being good at what I'm doing, even as I'm learning on the fly.
It's a weird sensation. Like, when I talk to the few friends I have here who know how old I am, I feel like the same guy -- older, but still young. Cool because I'm older, not in spite of it. Then, on the other hand, I have the youngsters who think I'm one of them and I'm just... normal. Still attractive and smart, sure, but the things they value are different, and the very things that I'm proud of -- about me -- I can't even disclose.
...
Got distracted. Too busy socializing... sorry for the truncated post.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
How's It Gonna Be
...when you don't know me? Anymore...
How's it gonna be... I'm only pretty sure that I can' t take anymore...
I listened to that on the way home tonight, from my final hurrah with Spencer and Sammy. Brian was there, and my little bro, and various other folks that mean a lot to me.
It was fun.
And of course, a little Purple Rain and Third Eye Blind, and some chick named Lauren pops into my head.
It wasn't Tejas Lauren this, time, though. Crazy Lauren was there, with memories of morning coffee and shower sex. It was she that got me hooked on Peet's, because I was too good for Starbucks in her eyes.
If only she were sane. Heh.
As I listened to Third Eye tonight, I wondered about the future even as tried to remember the past. Wondered vaguely how all of the various Ls were doing, mostly wishing them well, sometimes fearing for them, usually hoping they were remembering me as well as I remembered them.
I even wondered about Slutbag. I don't miss her, nor anything she ever did (or didn't) for me. I did wonder how she was doing.
I wondered if she missed me, and if every time she did she felt a little guilty. I guess I hope she does.
And then I wondered about crazy Lauren, about if Purple Rain made her think of me, too, and about how I hope she's found her way and stopped using sex as a way to feel affection. I hated that part of our relationship, even when I loved her.
I wondered about Texas Lauren, about how she taught me so much by just her being her, because I was open and ready, because she caught me off guard, and because it was just time for me to find something new. I wondered if she ever thought of me at all, if I had had the privilege of teaching her just a fraction of what she taught me.
Now, as I write this, I wonder about Amanda, and if she's doing as well as she always says, if she's happy and healthy, if she feels loved at least as much as I loved her. I wonder if she gets adored the way I adored her, spoiled like when she was my princess. I wonder if she mutters, "I'm the queen," on a random Thursday night after Scrubs as someone she loves rubs her shoulders.
And I even wonder about Des, if she's really happy becoming her mother and marrying an accountant. I wonder if she set out to be her mom when she was 5, or if she always wanted something more. Maybe I was a representation of her "something more". Then again, maybe I was just hot and there. Who knows...
I wonder, as I sit alone in my now-empty house, about all of those girls, and a dozen more not worth mentioning, if I changed them half as much as they changed me. I wonder if I left them better people, like I hope I did, as Texas Lauren left me (embracing of my youth, save the depression, I suppose) and as Amanda left me (confident and well-dressed). I wonder, because I hope I did.
I hope I leave all of you better people than before, better, more educated, more thoughtful, more introspective, more appreciative.
I hope that, even in my depression, my tearful outpouring of emotion that makes you scroll and yawn, worry and wonder, call and check, I hope that if nothing else, you look at your own lives and appreciate what you have, from where you came, and that there really is an answer to the question regarding your presence on this planet.
I hope you know that I love you. I hope you know that it meant a lot to me, that going away present, that last goodbye, that third phone call to check on our last supper, that last text message, that final hug. I hope you know that it meant the world to me that you were there, that you are there, and that if I call you to crash at your place someday it will be okay. I hope that you know, that now, even as I cry, writing this, alone again, late again, afraid as always of what misery tomorrow might hold, that you are the reason I'm still here.
I'm not scared, not afraid, not in the slightest. Not worried about the future, about being too old, about not fitting in.
Nothing could be worse, in truth, than the last 8 months. There could be no lower a place than my basement in Castro Valley.
Someday, I trust, I'll look back on this, and instead of reliving the tears that seem to be unconsciously streaming down my cheeks right now, I'll remember this fondly, like I remember all hardship fondly, because it is the past that once was and is no more. Because it is a hardship I endured, a hurdle I conquered, a rock I climbed. I hope that I'll remember it with a smile, not because of how much it hurt, but because of how good it felt when it stopped hurting.
Someday I hope to be the man that you see in front of you sometimes. (If only I could see it too.) Someday I'll love me as much as I hope all of them did. Someday I'll be loved as much as I loved them, as much as I love you, as much as all the hope that tears my heart apart even as I try to shush it, because it hurts so goddamn much.
Someday. I will be free. I will appreciate everyone and they will appreciate me, I will be loved the way I deserve to be, I will give love to others freely and without condition because I can afford to, and I will not need to buffer my phone call frequency, hide my attraction, nor hold back my feelings.
Someday I will not sit alone and wonder about long lost loves in reminscience, but in simple goodwill. I will not wonder how they are without me, but simply hope that they're well.
Someday I will actually be able to love someone I've had sex with.
Well, maybe. Heh.
Someday, maybe, I'll be able to sleep alone, after a drink, and not cry. I'd like that.
How's it gonna be... I'm only pretty sure that I can' t take anymore...
I listened to that on the way home tonight, from my final hurrah with Spencer and Sammy. Brian was there, and my little bro, and various other folks that mean a lot to me.
It was fun.
And of course, a little Purple Rain and Third Eye Blind, and some chick named Lauren pops into my head.
It wasn't Tejas Lauren this, time, though. Crazy Lauren was there, with memories of morning coffee and shower sex. It was she that got me hooked on Peet's, because I was too good for Starbucks in her eyes.
If only she were sane. Heh.
As I listened to Third Eye tonight, I wondered about the future even as tried to remember the past. Wondered vaguely how all of the various Ls were doing, mostly wishing them well, sometimes fearing for them, usually hoping they were remembering me as well as I remembered them.
I even wondered about Slutbag. I don't miss her, nor anything she ever did (or didn't) for me. I did wonder how she was doing.
I wondered if she missed me, and if every time she did she felt a little guilty. I guess I hope she does.
And then I wondered about crazy Lauren, about if Purple Rain made her think of me, too, and about how I hope she's found her way and stopped using sex as a way to feel affection. I hated that part of our relationship, even when I loved her.
I wondered about Texas Lauren, about how she taught me so much by just her being her, because I was open and ready, because she caught me off guard, and because it was just time for me to find something new. I wondered if she ever thought of me at all, if I had had the privilege of teaching her just a fraction of what she taught me.
Now, as I write this, I wonder about Amanda, and if she's doing as well as she always says, if she's happy and healthy, if she feels loved at least as much as I loved her. I wonder if she gets adored the way I adored her, spoiled like when she was my princess. I wonder if she mutters, "I'm the queen," on a random Thursday night after Scrubs as someone she loves rubs her shoulders.
And I even wonder about Des, if she's really happy becoming her mother and marrying an accountant. I wonder if she set out to be her mom when she was 5, or if she always wanted something more. Maybe I was a representation of her "something more". Then again, maybe I was just hot and there. Who knows...
I wonder, as I sit alone in my now-empty house, about all of those girls, and a dozen more not worth mentioning, if I changed them half as much as they changed me. I wonder if I left them better people, like I hope I did, as Texas Lauren left me (embracing of my youth, save the depression, I suppose) and as Amanda left me (confident and well-dressed). I wonder, because I hope I did.
I hope I leave all of you better people than before, better, more educated, more thoughtful, more introspective, more appreciative.
I hope that, even in my depression, my tearful outpouring of emotion that makes you scroll and yawn, worry and wonder, call and check, I hope that if nothing else, you look at your own lives and appreciate what you have, from where you came, and that there really is an answer to the question regarding your presence on this planet.
I hope you know that I love you. I hope you know that it meant a lot to me, that going away present, that last goodbye, that third phone call to check on our last supper, that last text message, that final hug. I hope you know that it meant the world to me that you were there, that you are there, and that if I call you to crash at your place someday it will be okay. I hope that you know, that now, even as I cry, writing this, alone again, late again, afraid as always of what misery tomorrow might hold, that you are the reason I'm still here.
I'm not scared, not afraid, not in the slightest. Not worried about the future, about being too old, about not fitting in.
Nothing could be worse, in truth, than the last 8 months. There could be no lower a place than my basement in Castro Valley.
Someday, I trust, I'll look back on this, and instead of reliving the tears that seem to be unconsciously streaming down my cheeks right now, I'll remember this fondly, like I remember all hardship fondly, because it is the past that once was and is no more. Because it is a hardship I endured, a hurdle I conquered, a rock I climbed. I hope that I'll remember it with a smile, not because of how much it hurt, but because of how good it felt when it stopped hurting.
Someday I hope to be the man that you see in front of you sometimes. (If only I could see it too.) Someday I'll love me as much as I hope all of them did. Someday I'll be loved as much as I loved them, as much as I love you, as much as all the hope that tears my heart apart even as I try to shush it, because it hurts so goddamn much.
Someday. I will be free. I will appreciate everyone and they will appreciate me, I will be loved the way I deserve to be, I will give love to others freely and without condition because I can afford to, and I will not need to buffer my phone call frequency, hide my attraction, nor hold back my feelings.
Someday I will not sit alone and wonder about long lost loves in reminscience, but in simple goodwill. I will not wonder how they are without me, but simply hope that they're well.
Someday I will actually be able to love someone I've had sex with.
Well, maybe. Heh.
Someday, maybe, I'll be able to sleep alone, after a drink, and not cry. I'd like that.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Oh yeah, Alcohol is a depressant
So if I were being honest, I'm not sure how many times I've driven home with a 0.09 Blood Alcohol Content level. You know, that level where you are pretty buzzed, but can really drive just fine if a deer doesn't pop out in front of you and you're not trying to talk on the phone.
Or, basically, as well as your average chick in an SUV drives while on her damn cell phone. Bitches. ;-)
But I digress.
Or, actually, I don't, because I'm not sure I have a point today. I don't want to whine about some little girl from long ago, nor about some not-so-little girl from the other day. I am here, going through the motions, wrapping things up before I disappear from everywhere but here (as in the blog, knucklehead) to everyone that matters.
Or pretends to.
So, yeah, I'm a little bummed today. I don't know why, I don't know how, I don't understand it. I just get bummed sometimes. Ok, no, actually, I get bummed a lot, but I distract myself enough generally speaking with work and athletics so that I fake normality.
But y'all knew that already.
So my friend Mo was in town tonight, and I hung out with he and 4 other friends from long ago. Or, actually, three old colleagues and one good friend. And Mo, living in Austin, referred to the last time I saw him several times and how I had a reputation for nailing 20 year olds and "living life".
The guy who owns like 11 houses, hardly works, and bangs 20 year olds.
Right. Just call me Alfie.
--
I'm buzzed right now. I have a headache, and I'm vaguely hungry (fucking bourgeois restaruants never fucking feed you properly, damn it!), and if I could go to the gym or go get coffee right now, I would.
But it's a little late for either, and so I thought, hey, I haven't checked facebook in awhile...
I thought, first, actually, about having sex, about making a booty call, because it might be nice for a few minutes. But there is neither the conquest of someone new nor the satisfaction of someone old.
And then, of course, clicking through on facebook, I thought of the last time I had that satisfaction.
But anyway. Fuck that. I'm going to school in a week, going to fill my life with experiences I've never had, people I've never met, and lovers I've never held.
I can't wait.
I would nevertheless be lying if the random "I could just slam on my breaks and hop over the guard rail" thought didn't occur to me as I crossed the bridge tonight.
Don't wince. Don't call. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last, and you know it. I'll be fine. It's nothing a lifetime of therapy and some high dosages of medication can't solve, right?
Laugh. That was fucking funny. Damn it.
--
The thing I notice most about getting older? It's not that you're wiser or smarter, not the confidence or lack of anger.
It's the detachment. Because I've always been this way, but I'd get angrier and channel more back in the day. I'd be at the gym right now were I 23.
But now, I'm not passionate enough to channel, nor in enough malaise to actually even cry.
I just feel... alone.
Weird. I hope it changes when I leave the state next week.
Or, basically, as well as your average chick in an SUV drives while on her damn cell phone. Bitches. ;-)
But I digress.
Or, actually, I don't, because I'm not sure I have a point today. I don't want to whine about some little girl from long ago, nor about some not-so-little girl from the other day. I am here, going through the motions, wrapping things up before I disappear from everywhere but here (as in the blog, knucklehead) to everyone that matters.
Or pretends to.
So, yeah, I'm a little bummed today. I don't know why, I don't know how, I don't understand it. I just get bummed sometimes. Ok, no, actually, I get bummed a lot, but I distract myself enough generally speaking with work and athletics so that I fake normality.
But y'all knew that already.
So my friend Mo was in town tonight, and I hung out with he and 4 other friends from long ago. Or, actually, three old colleagues and one good friend. And Mo, living in Austin, referred to the last time I saw him several times and how I had a reputation for nailing 20 year olds and "living life".
The guy who owns like 11 houses, hardly works, and bangs 20 year olds.
Right. Just call me Alfie.
--
I'm buzzed right now. I have a headache, and I'm vaguely hungry (fucking bourgeois restaruants never fucking feed you properly, damn it!), and if I could go to the gym or go get coffee right now, I would.
But it's a little late for either, and so I thought, hey, I haven't checked facebook in awhile...
I thought, first, actually, about having sex, about making a booty call, because it might be nice for a few minutes. But there is neither the conquest of someone new nor the satisfaction of someone old.
And then, of course, clicking through on facebook, I thought of the last time I had that satisfaction.
But anyway. Fuck that. I'm going to school in a week, going to fill my life with experiences I've never had, people I've never met, and lovers I've never held.
I can't wait.
I would nevertheless be lying if the random "I could just slam on my breaks and hop over the guard rail" thought didn't occur to me as I crossed the bridge tonight.
Don't wince. Don't call. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last, and you know it. I'll be fine. It's nothing a lifetime of therapy and some high dosages of medication can't solve, right?
Laugh. That was fucking funny. Damn it.
--
The thing I notice most about getting older? It's not that you're wiser or smarter, not the confidence or lack of anger.
It's the detachment. Because I've always been this way, but I'd get angrier and channel more back in the day. I'd be at the gym right now were I 23.
But now, I'm not passionate enough to channel, nor in enough malaise to actually even cry.
I just feel... alone.
Weird. I hope it changes when I leave the state next week.
Monday, July 9, 2007
I just clicked through on some Match-spam on the one hottie in the lot. I clicked through, observed the stats (26, SF, UCSB undergrad, Masters from Cal, psych/journalism), cycled through the photos, was intrigued, and then felt angry.
Angry? At what? At women in general? At the privilege? At the fact that her activity time frame as quoted by Match tells me she'd never reply because she's no longer a subscriber?
Amazing. Feeling angry for no reason.
--
Only 4 weeks to go. College awaits.
Angry? At what? At women in general? At the privilege? At the fact that her activity time frame as quoted by Match tells me she'd never reply because she's no longer a subscriber?
Amazing. Feeling angry for no reason.
--
Only 4 weeks to go. College awaits.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Working my ass off
I've worked every day for the past two weeks. I'm tired.
It's 2:30am, and I am still an insomniac, still wired to sleep all morning and stay up way past when 30 year old, responsible, young entrepreneurs are supposed to be sleeping.
I just said young. Heh.
So I'm moving to the land of milk (duds) and honey (flavored cherries). Where the grass doesn't grow and 22 will seem old.
And today -- tonight -- I feel lonely. I just went and had dinner with my cousin, sister, and brother, after seeing Serino earlier today and hanging out most of the night with familiar faces at the gym. I saw that girl I went out with once, and the guy with short-man's complex, the fellows that trust me no matter what and those that only seem to see me tired and thus haven't noticed my awesomely better game.
But I still feel so alone.
I don't have the luxury of whining or complaining. I can't talk about how bad my life is when I'm going to earn more this month than my mother has made this year. I can't complain about girls when I can get a date with anyone that suits my fancy. It's just a question of how hard I want to work at it. Will she takes ten minutes of chatting, or can I get away with only three?
And I can't whine about my family because it just gets old.
--
So two of my friends, in their own little way, have conveyed to me in the last two weeks that I have a negative impact on their well-being. That I am, at times, too negative, and whether it be through empathy or just hearing it directly too much, they get tired of it.
They get tired of me.
Maybe that's why the girls leave too.
Ironic. Those that have the most power to put me in my place (as in, close friends and the girls I sleep with) choose not to do it. They don't tell me to shut the fuck up, or grow up, or get a fucking therapist and whine to that bitch instead, or whatever.
They just absorb. Or detach. Or walk. Or some combination thereof.
I wish I wasn't this way. I wish I didn't feel lonely for no reason, angry without cause, and pain without end.
I wish you told me before you got angry with me. Told me before you just bailed on me. Told me when I was acting out instead of acting well, told me when I needed to lighten up and have another beer, told me when I needed to chill the fuck out and stop trying so hard.
Told me I was wrong, was hurting your feelings, was harming our friendship.
--
Friendship is harder for me, I think. When they walk it hurts me more than most people. Sure, everyone is hurt, but normal people don't question their worth, their business being on the planet, and second guess their behavior when someone bails on them.
My happy ass, on the other hand, stews over shit forever. Replays conversations, relives moments, and... I wonder what is wrong with me.
Internalization. Abused child syndrome. Sigh.
--
So, speaking of internalization, an interesting thing occurred to me sometime in the last day or two (I was on the road for four hours today, so I had plenty of time to think).
My father blames everything that is wrong in his life on someone else. He cannot take responsibility for anything whatsoever.
Why? How is it that his type of abuse caused that response? Is that just the result of more damaging trauma?
Chrissy (my super-crazy ex) did that too. Hmm.
Is this one of the results of sexual abuse versus physical abuse? Because my cousin and siblings have that pattern, too. So does my mom. All were physically and emotionally abused, but not sexually. But my dad is a whole different species.
Let's see, Slutbag ex had sexual abuse, too, but later in life. And she had an inferiority deal with an elitist/snobby mask. Not unlike good ol' Alfie in some ways. No physical abuse.
So it's not the type of abuse, although one exception isn't really enough data.
Maybe it's just the intensity and duration. Maybe internalizing is the typical response (you have no control over your life, surroundings, or destiny, so you take control of it by deciding that you're a bad person; if you just became a good person, you wouldn't get raped/beat/tortured any more), and externalization, or displacement, is the result after many years. Or perhaps it's the result of both types of abuse over many years.
It's kinda hard to do an informal survey on this, because no one wants to talk about it, and it's not exactly socially acceptable to ask a chick you just met at a bar about their history of sexual abuse.
(Although that might have its fringe benefits. Oh? You were gang-banged by your 3 maternal uncles when you were 12 while your mom watched? Cool! Wanna come to my car and give me a blow job? Wait, here's some listerine... yeah, sure, your best friend can come too! j/k!!!)
--
Hmmm. Taking this apart like this is a little cathartic. I don't feel lonely anymore.
For now.
It's 2:30am, and I am still an insomniac, still wired to sleep all morning and stay up way past when 30 year old, responsible, young entrepreneurs are supposed to be sleeping.
I just said young. Heh.
So I'm moving to the land of milk (duds) and honey (flavored cherries). Where the grass doesn't grow and 22 will seem old.
And today -- tonight -- I feel lonely. I just went and had dinner with my cousin, sister, and brother, after seeing Serino earlier today and hanging out most of the night with familiar faces at the gym. I saw that girl I went out with once, and the guy with short-man's complex, the fellows that trust me no matter what and those that only seem to see me tired and thus haven't noticed my awesomely better game.
But I still feel so alone.
I don't have the luxury of whining or complaining. I can't talk about how bad my life is when I'm going to earn more this month than my mother has made this year. I can't complain about girls when I can get a date with anyone that suits my fancy. It's just a question of how hard I want to work at it. Will she takes ten minutes of chatting, or can I get away with only three?
And I can't whine about my family because it just gets old.
--
So two of my friends, in their own little way, have conveyed to me in the last two weeks that I have a negative impact on their well-being. That I am, at times, too negative, and whether it be through empathy or just hearing it directly too much, they get tired of it.
They get tired of me.
Maybe that's why the girls leave too.
Ironic. Those that have the most power to put me in my place (as in, close friends and the girls I sleep with) choose not to do it. They don't tell me to shut the fuck up, or grow up, or get a fucking therapist and whine to that bitch instead, or whatever.
They just absorb. Or detach. Or walk. Or some combination thereof.
I wish I wasn't this way. I wish I didn't feel lonely for no reason, angry without cause, and pain without end.
I wish you told me before you got angry with me. Told me before you just bailed on me. Told me when I was acting out instead of acting well, told me when I needed to lighten up and have another beer, told me when I needed to chill the fuck out and stop trying so hard.
Told me I was wrong, was hurting your feelings, was harming our friendship.
--
Friendship is harder for me, I think. When they walk it hurts me more than most people. Sure, everyone is hurt, but normal people don't question their worth, their business being on the planet, and second guess their behavior when someone bails on them.
My happy ass, on the other hand, stews over shit forever. Replays conversations, relives moments, and... I wonder what is wrong with me.
Internalization. Abused child syndrome. Sigh.
--
So, speaking of internalization, an interesting thing occurred to me sometime in the last day or two (I was on the road for four hours today, so I had plenty of time to think).
My father blames everything that is wrong in his life on someone else. He cannot take responsibility for anything whatsoever.
Why? How is it that his type of abuse caused that response? Is that just the result of more damaging trauma?
Chrissy (my super-crazy ex) did that too. Hmm.
Is this one of the results of sexual abuse versus physical abuse? Because my cousin and siblings have that pattern, too. So does my mom. All were physically and emotionally abused, but not sexually. But my dad is a whole different species.
Let's see, Slutbag ex had sexual abuse, too, but later in life. And she had an inferiority deal with an elitist/snobby mask. Not unlike good ol' Alfie in some ways. No physical abuse.
So it's not the type of abuse, although one exception isn't really enough data.
Maybe it's just the intensity and duration. Maybe internalizing is the typical response (you have no control over your life, surroundings, or destiny, so you take control of it by deciding that you're a bad person; if you just became a good person, you wouldn't get raped/beat/tortured any more), and externalization, or displacement, is the result after many years. Or perhaps it's the result of both types of abuse over many years.
It's kinda hard to do an informal survey on this, because no one wants to talk about it, and it's not exactly socially acceptable to ask a chick you just met at a bar about their history of sexual abuse.
(Although that might have its fringe benefits. Oh? You were gang-banged by your 3 maternal uncles when you were 12 while your mom watched? Cool! Wanna come to my car and give me a blow job? Wait, here's some listerine... yeah, sure, your best friend can come too! j/k!!!)
--
Hmmm. Taking this apart like this is a little cathartic. I don't feel lonely anymore.
For now.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Sleeping with the ex girlfriend
Er, in the same house as the ex girlfriend.
I didn't make a pass at her. I wanted to. I think part of her wanted me to. I think Becky wanted me to.
I know the guys, the dogs, and my hormones wanted me to.
But I didn't.
Sigh.
There was that awkward moment, the staying up just a few minutes later than everyone else, the pause and the look when "good night" crossed both our lips.
And I stood in the hallway, around the corner, and waited, pondering, wondering, wanting, but not doing.
It's okay. I know why. I know what I could have said, I know that to anyone in the known universe with some semblance of sanity, I could have made a pass and had it come across as flattering if not downright charming. I could have poked fun, and made her laugh, flattering even as she declined.
But not her. No, she was one of the crazies. The craziest of crazies, in fact. The remaker of history even as she's living it. The rewriter of the words crossing my lips even before they're articulated.
The soul mate. Or so she said on her 26th birthday. I remember, even if no one else does.
Sigh. That was almost 5 years ago, and I am no longer hurt, no longer mad, and no longer ruminating (until now). And yet I'd so much rather be in her bed right now than my own.
I guess it just wasn't worth it. The risk of being shot down and told another set of stories about for the next year -- this one with a grain of truth.
I would like to be touching her again, though. That familiarity of a bygone lover, even as everything is new and different because you've forgotten, because you've both changed, and because, well, you've both been with a cheerleading squad and a football team since then.
Or two.
(She always was a slutbag.)
--
I think my room smells vaguely of cat piss.
Damn it.
I didn't make a pass at her. I wanted to. I think part of her wanted me to. I think Becky wanted me to.
I know the guys, the dogs, and my hormones wanted me to.
But I didn't.
Sigh.
There was that awkward moment, the staying up just a few minutes later than everyone else, the pause and the look when "good night" crossed both our lips.
And I stood in the hallway, around the corner, and waited, pondering, wondering, wanting, but not doing.
It's okay. I know why. I know what I could have said, I know that to anyone in the known universe with some semblance of sanity, I could have made a pass and had it come across as flattering if not downright charming. I could have poked fun, and made her laugh, flattering even as she declined.
But not her. No, she was one of the crazies. The craziest of crazies, in fact. The remaker of history even as she's living it. The rewriter of the words crossing my lips even before they're articulated.
The soul mate. Or so she said on her 26th birthday. I remember, even if no one else does.
Sigh. That was almost 5 years ago, and I am no longer hurt, no longer mad, and no longer ruminating (until now). And yet I'd so much rather be in her bed right now than my own.
I guess it just wasn't worth it. The risk of being shot down and told another set of stories about for the next year -- this one with a grain of truth.
I would like to be touching her again, though. That familiarity of a bygone lover, even as everything is new and different because you've forgotten, because you've both changed, and because, well, you've both been with a cheerleading squad and a football team since then.
Or two.
(She always was a slutbag.)
--
I think my room smells vaguely of cat piss.
Damn it.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
"Who was your last", aka, Being Unproductive, a side effect of cube-ville
8-5 sucks. Ok, Ok, it's 10-5, but it still sucks. This is the result... stupid myspace quizzes.
Rule # 1:
If you open this you GOTTA take it.
Rule # 2:
You are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone
messages you and asks
Rule #3:
Answer True or False or Kinda
Q: Kissed someone on your top friends?: F (all boys)
Q: Been arrested?: T
Q: Kissed someone you didn't like?: T
Q: You like someone?: T
Q: Held a snake?: T
Q: Been suspended from school?: F
Q: Been fired from work?: T
Q: Done something you told yourself you wouldn't?: T
Q: Laughed until you started crying?: T
Q: Caught a snowflake on your tongue?: T
Q: Kissed in the rain?: T
Q: Sang in the shower?: T
Q: Sat on a roof top?: T
Q: Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on?: T
Q: Broken a bone?: T
Q: Shaved your head?: T
Q: Played a prank on someone?: T
Q: Had/have a gym membership?: T
Q: Made a girlfriend/boyfriend cry?: T
Q: Shot a gun?: T
Q: Donated Blood? F
Q: Had your heart broken?: T
Q: Broken someone's heart?: T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Who was your last?"
just be 100% truthful
LAST PERSON....
1. You hung out with?:
shane
2. last person you texted?:
ayla
3. You were in a car with?:
yadong
4. Went to the movies with?:
shane
5. Went to the mall with?:
rachel
6. You talked to on the phone?:
some stupid customer
7. Made you laugh?:
myself, reading my own blog
8. You cried with?:
Myself. If that doesn't count, well, um... it was in texas.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WOULD YOU RATHER...?
1.Bite or lick?
Depends where. Bite I guess.
2 be serious or be funny?:
FUNNY
3. Drink whole or skim milk?:
NON FAT
4. Die in a fire or get shot?:
GET SHOT
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ANSWER TRUTHFULLY...
1. Sun or moon?:
Sun.
2. Winter or Fall?:
FALL
3. Left or right?:
left
4. Sunny or rainy?:
SUNNY
6. Where do you live?:
In a hick town
7. Have you got in a physical fight before?
of course.
8. Do you want to get married?:
sure.
9. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
yes
10. Do You Cook?:
yes
11. Current mood?:
is it 5 yet?
---------------------------------------------------
IN THE LAST 72 HOURS HAVE YOU...
1. Kissed someone?:
yes
2. Sang?:
Yes
3. Been Hugged?
Yes
4. Been told you were hot?
yes
5. Wanted to scream?
yes. i did.
6. Missed Someone?:
no, not so much. (yay)
7. Wished you were somewhere else?
only in cube-ville.
8. Thought of an ex?:
yes
Repost this as, "Who was your last..."
Rule # 1:
If you open this you GOTTA take it.
Rule # 2:
You are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone
messages you and asks
Rule #3:
Answer True or False or Kinda
Q: Kissed someone on your top friends?: F (all boys)
Q: Been arrested?: T
Q: Kissed someone you didn't like?: T
Q: You like someone?: T
Q: Held a snake?: T
Q: Been suspended from school?: F
Q: Been fired from work?: T
Q: Done something you told yourself you wouldn't?: T
Q: Laughed until you started crying?: T
Q: Caught a snowflake on your tongue?: T
Q: Kissed in the rain?: T
Q: Sang in the shower?: T
Q: Sat on a roof top?: T
Q: Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on?: T
Q: Broken a bone?: T
Q: Shaved your head?: T
Q: Played a prank on someone?: T
Q: Had/have a gym membership?: T
Q: Made a girlfriend/boyfriend cry?: T
Q: Shot a gun?: T
Q: Donated Blood? F
Q: Had your heart broken?: T
Q: Broken someone's heart?: T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Who was your last?"
just be 100% truthful
LAST PERSON....
1. You hung out with?:
shane
2. last person you texted?:
ayla
3. You were in a car with?:
yadong
4. Went to the movies with?:
shane
5. Went to the mall with?:
rachel
6. You talked to on the phone?:
some stupid customer
7. Made you laugh?:
myself, reading my own blog
8. You cried with?:
Myself. If that doesn't count, well, um... it was in texas.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
WOULD YOU RATHER...?
1.Bite or lick?
Depends where. Bite I guess.
2 be serious or be funny?:
FUNNY
3. Drink whole or skim milk?:
NON FAT
4. Die in a fire or get shot?:
GET SHOT
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ANSWER TRUTHFULLY...
1. Sun or moon?:
Sun.
2. Winter or Fall?:
FALL
3. Left or right?:
left
4. Sunny or rainy?:
SUNNY
6. Where do you live?:
In a hick town
7. Have you got in a physical fight before?
of course.
8. Do you want to get married?:
sure.
9. Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it?
yes
10. Do You Cook?:
yes
11. Current mood?:
is it 5 yet?
---------------------------------------------------
IN THE LAST 72 HOURS HAVE YOU...
1. Kissed someone?:
yes
2. Sang?:
Yes
3. Been Hugged?
Yes
4. Been told you were hot?
yes
5. Wanted to scream?
yes. i did.
6. Missed Someone?:
no, not so much. (yay)
7. Wished you were somewhere else?
only in cube-ville.
8. Thought of an ex?:
yes
Repost this as, "Who was your last..."
Monday, June 18, 2007
Thursday, June 7, 2007
A visit from austin joe
I hung out with my friend Joe from Austin tonight. It was really good to see him. Yesterday when he came into the office I couldn't stop grinning. I didn't realize that I'd missed him, and it made me happy to hang out, talk about old times, and catch up.
Tonight, though, after vodka sampling, an anchor steam, and two fantastic slices of Zachary's, I had to excuse myself for a couple of minutes. Talking about Austin, things/restaurants/shops/experiences there... I don't know, but I guess I got quiet for a bit, and it felt like my insides were eating themselves.
I went and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what the heck was wrong with me.
My god, man, you've been sad for SEVEN MONTHS. What the FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?!!
And tonight, I caught myself getting more and more cynical, more and more negative, and more and more alone with each passing moment. I wanted to just go home, but Joe is leaving tomorrow and I won't see him for months, so I wanted to hang out as long as possible. But then we found ourselves watching some ugly, stupid man on television, and everything that crossed my mind and my lips was sour.
I got the heck outta there.
And I put on Blink in the car and screamed half the way home. The other half I wondered what was wrong with me. Then I wondered why it's always been so easy for women to leave me.
I got home, and considered crawling into bed without washing, without writing, and without undressing. But I opted to turn on music, and as soon as my iTunes window appeared, I knew what it would be.
As the Garden State soundtrack came on, so did my tears. And still I wonder why it is I cry and what is I miss.
I'm not mad at her. I'm not even annoyed. I don't think she did anything wrong. I don't even think I did anything wrong, although I've replayed my behavior ten thousand times in my mind, trying to decide where and how I went wrong, trying to make a mental list of all the things I'll never do again to any girl I care at all about. Some of them are nice things, some of them are just static, and some of them are exactly what every girl claims to want but then runs away from.
All of them are lame. The whole exercise is lame.
I'm lame.
I remember India Joze and Austin Java and Trudy's. I remember the Starbucks at 4th and Congress, the Rite-Aid (or was it a walgreens?) on Riverside where that ghetto guy told me to "handle my bid-ness" and called me brother at 1:30 in the morning. I remember her rubbing my head the first morning she woke up in my arms, glad I was there, glad we were together after weeks of longing, missing, and wondering.
I remember feeling home. I remember carrying her keychain when I went to the gym with it's pink strap, knowing it announced to everyone that there was a girl not too far away, and I didn't care. I remember getting "I miss you" text messages and not rolling my eyes or snickering, but instead smiling inside.
I remember listening to these stupid songs and thinking of her.
I remember feeling free, far away from work, from tenants, from computers and my parents, from the rigors of every day life, from all that is and was familiar, from every other woman on my voice mail as they slowly stopped calling.
I remember feeling happy.
Anna asked me sixth months ago if I felt like she was irreplacable. I rationally answered the way anyone in my position would. I told her what I've been wanting to believe for seven months, that it was a really good time, that it didn't work out, that there were others before and there will be others after.
I remember wondering if I was wrong.
Today I wonder if I sabotaged my UT entrance. I looked at my AZ transcripts today, and they don't have the credits that UT was missing either. I wonder if Davis has them.
Maybe I didn't send them to anybody. Maybe I fucked it up on purpose.
Which leads me, full circle, in this never ending inward spiral, wonder yet again what the hell is wrong with me.
I still see Texas shirts and wince. I saw Joe today and wanted to ask him if he's seen Lauren, directly, in passing, on purpose, or around town. I want to know how she's doing, how Austin is doing.
Without me. I want to know how she's doing without me.
And, again, what the flying fuck??!?! I knew this girl for HOW LONG? And I place her on a pedestal almost a year later that sits near Amanda in importance and influence upon the shaping of my life and my world?
I bet she never even thinks about me. I bet... sigh. It doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that I'm excusing myself while out with friends so I can go talk myself out of crying while staring into the bathroom mirror.
What matters is... and I don't care what bullshit there is wrapped around it... I miss her. I don't care that it's stupid, I don't care that I'm a fool, I don't care that I'm too old, that she's too young, that my life is here or in AZ or wherever, I don't care that she doesn't go to the gym, I don't care that Serino thinks less of me for it, I don't care that I only knew her a few weeks, I don't care that it would never work, I don't care that there's other fish in the sea, I don't care.
I fucking miss her.
I'm trying to remember if I ever felt so at ease... if I ever felt more content or comfortable or...
Nope, not so much. With her there was nothing to prove, no drama to deal with. All my girls had drama. Or they just cheated. Either way, I was never good enough.
Sigh. I guess, in the end, I wasn't good enough for her, either.
So, and here's the 17K a year question, is my desire to go back to school not really about school? Because I am actually hoping that I'll be happier. Imagine that. But what is it, really? Am I just hoping I'll feel that way again, somehow, somewhere?
Yes. And I don't have the vaguest idea whatsoever how to go about it. I didn't even realize I had it for the first week I experienced it with her. It just kinda hit me on the head.
So, wait. What's WRONG with ME?!!?
Fuck this. I'm going to bed. I'm going to turn on a superhero cartoon (love those superheroes), and I'm not going to think about this any more.
Maybe I shouldn't drink unless I'm hitting on chicks. Seems like when I drink without the explicit goal of getting leads, I get all depressed. Yay.
And tomorrow, I'm going to call my academic advisor, and ask her again about prerequisites and if I'll still be able to register for bio in two weeks when the friggin' math department decides that my A in Calculus 12 years ago means I'll probably be able to understand elementary algebra. Duh. And why I can't seem to register for PE. May as well get some credits for working out four hours a day, huh?
And tomorrow night I'm going out with a girl. Maybe a first with Veronica, maybe a 2nd with emily, maybe a third with Tracy. Hmmm, let's see, new lead or closing a deal? Sigh. Odd that it's actually debatable.
Ok, there's another case where drinking is allowed. When I need to get drunk so some girl can take advantage of me. (longer sigh)
Then, this weekend, I'm going to see Danielle, that awesome little hottie that sold me jeans last saturday. She just better be a good kisser. If she knows what she's doing, I just might have to sweep her off her feet.
Fuck texas. Go Wildcats! Go Alfie!
Tonight, though, after vodka sampling, an anchor steam, and two fantastic slices of Zachary's, I had to excuse myself for a couple of minutes. Talking about Austin, things/restaurants/shops/experiences there... I don't know, but I guess I got quiet for a bit, and it felt like my insides were eating themselves.
I went and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what the heck was wrong with me.
My god, man, you've been sad for SEVEN MONTHS. What the FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?!!
And tonight, I caught myself getting more and more cynical, more and more negative, and more and more alone with each passing moment. I wanted to just go home, but Joe is leaving tomorrow and I won't see him for months, so I wanted to hang out as long as possible. But then we found ourselves watching some ugly, stupid man on television, and everything that crossed my mind and my lips was sour.
I got the heck outta there.
And I put on Blink in the car and screamed half the way home. The other half I wondered what was wrong with me. Then I wondered why it's always been so easy for women to leave me.
I got home, and considered crawling into bed without washing, without writing, and without undressing. But I opted to turn on music, and as soon as my iTunes window appeared, I knew what it would be.
As the Garden State soundtrack came on, so did my tears. And still I wonder why it is I cry and what is I miss.
I'm not mad at her. I'm not even annoyed. I don't think she did anything wrong. I don't even think I did anything wrong, although I've replayed my behavior ten thousand times in my mind, trying to decide where and how I went wrong, trying to make a mental list of all the things I'll never do again to any girl I care at all about. Some of them are nice things, some of them are just static, and some of them are exactly what every girl claims to want but then runs away from.
All of them are lame. The whole exercise is lame.
I'm lame.
I remember India Joze and Austin Java and Trudy's. I remember the Starbucks at 4th and Congress, the Rite-Aid (or was it a walgreens?) on Riverside where that ghetto guy told me to "handle my bid-ness" and called me brother at 1:30 in the morning. I remember her rubbing my head the first morning she woke up in my arms, glad I was there, glad we were together after weeks of longing, missing, and wondering.
I remember feeling home. I remember carrying her keychain when I went to the gym with it's pink strap, knowing it announced to everyone that there was a girl not too far away, and I didn't care. I remember getting "I miss you" text messages and not rolling my eyes or snickering, but instead smiling inside.
I remember listening to these stupid songs and thinking of her.
I remember feeling free, far away from work, from tenants, from computers and my parents, from the rigors of every day life, from all that is and was familiar, from every other woman on my voice mail as they slowly stopped calling.
I remember feeling happy.
Anna asked me sixth months ago if I felt like she was irreplacable. I rationally answered the way anyone in my position would. I told her what I've been wanting to believe for seven months, that it was a really good time, that it didn't work out, that there were others before and there will be others after.
I remember wondering if I was wrong.
Today I wonder if I sabotaged my UT entrance. I looked at my AZ transcripts today, and they don't have the credits that UT was missing either. I wonder if Davis has them.
Maybe I didn't send them to anybody. Maybe I fucked it up on purpose.
Which leads me, full circle, in this never ending inward spiral, wonder yet again what the hell is wrong with me.
I still see Texas shirts and wince. I saw Joe today and wanted to ask him if he's seen Lauren, directly, in passing, on purpose, or around town. I want to know how she's doing, how Austin is doing.
Without me. I want to know how she's doing without me.
And, again, what the flying fuck??!?! I knew this girl for HOW LONG? And I place her on a pedestal almost a year later that sits near Amanda in importance and influence upon the shaping of my life and my world?
I bet she never even thinks about me. I bet... sigh. It doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that I'm excusing myself while out with friends so I can go talk myself out of crying while staring into the bathroom mirror.
What matters is... and I don't care what bullshit there is wrapped around it... I miss her. I don't care that it's stupid, I don't care that I'm a fool, I don't care that I'm too old, that she's too young, that my life is here or in AZ or wherever, I don't care that she doesn't go to the gym, I don't care that Serino thinks less of me for it, I don't care that I only knew her a few weeks, I don't care that it would never work, I don't care that there's other fish in the sea, I don't care.
I fucking miss her.
I'm trying to remember if I ever felt so at ease... if I ever felt more content or comfortable or...
Nope, not so much. With her there was nothing to prove, no drama to deal with. All my girls had drama. Or they just cheated. Either way, I was never good enough.
Sigh. I guess, in the end, I wasn't good enough for her, either.
So, and here's the 17K a year question, is my desire to go back to school not really about school? Because I am actually hoping that I'll be happier. Imagine that. But what is it, really? Am I just hoping I'll feel that way again, somehow, somewhere?
Yes. And I don't have the vaguest idea whatsoever how to go about it. I didn't even realize I had it for the first week I experienced it with her. It just kinda hit me on the head.
So, wait. What's WRONG with ME?!!?
Fuck this. I'm going to bed. I'm going to turn on a superhero cartoon (love those superheroes), and I'm not going to think about this any more.
Maybe I shouldn't drink unless I'm hitting on chicks. Seems like when I drink without the explicit goal of getting leads, I get all depressed. Yay.
And tomorrow, I'm going to call my academic advisor, and ask her again about prerequisites and if I'll still be able to register for bio in two weeks when the friggin' math department decides that my A in Calculus 12 years ago means I'll probably be able to understand elementary algebra. Duh. And why I can't seem to register for PE. May as well get some credits for working out four hours a day, huh?
And tomorrow night I'm going out with a girl. Maybe a first with Veronica, maybe a 2nd with emily, maybe a third with Tracy. Hmmm, let's see, new lead or closing a deal? Sigh. Odd that it's actually debatable.
Ok, there's another case where drinking is allowed. When I need to get drunk so some girl can take advantage of me. (longer sigh)
Then, this weekend, I'm going to see Danielle, that awesome little hottie that sold me jeans last saturday. She just better be a good kisser. If she knows what she's doing, I just might have to sweep her off her feet.
Fuck texas. Go Wildcats! Go Alfie!
Sunday, June 3, 2007
dating update
June is not going to be a depressing month, dammit!
The cycle has begun again.
Got a number last week out with Serino from a gal in Folsom. 22, very cute, does reverse mortgages, going back to school to be an interior designer. Jenna. Talked on Wed., should call her tomorow.
Had coffee with Emily on Thursday. Match. 30, purple streaks in her hair, formerly batted for the other team, has a 2 year old, in grad school, went to O'Dowd, very down to earth, pretty cute (she is 30 after all), seems like a lot of fun. I'm not sure if I like her or not, but I'd like to see her again to find out.
Had dinner with Tracy on Thursday. Good kisser, pretty cute, 24, old lead from Match (went out six months ago and stood her up on the second date because I was unknowingly trying to forget a certain Texan by overconsuming alcohol the night before). I like her.
Had a drink and a snack (not quite dinner) Friday night with Ann. Hands down, the single worst date I've ever been on. She roasted me. I kept waiting for the punch line, but it never came. I didn't get the vibe that she hated guys, nor the vibe that she disliked me, but she just wouldn't stop insulting me. The only thing I regret is not calling her on it more directly. Why would she agree to meet me if she was going to do that? Stunningly odd and negative. Good thing I'd had two good dates the day before, or I'd be back in women-hating mode again already. (lol)
Today I was out with Rachel after visiting Lauren C. (yes, she's one of them) this afternoon. We did a little shopping in Walnut Creek and she ended up playing wingman for me while I picked up on Danielle, who is really cute, seems super upbeat and fun, and was diggin' on Alfie. Happy place. I'm considering breaking my own rules and calling tomorrow night instead of waiting the standard two days. Our vibe was that good -- so good, in fact, that I have this tiny little feeling that waiting a solid two days would turn her off because it would signal regimented playah-playah status. Which isn't necessarily false, but I'm looking for good pillow talk, not conquest. I dunno. I'll decide tomorrow.
Pipeline is stacked. Gotta plan first dates with Jenna, Danielle, and a Simone.
Good times.
The cycle has begun again.
Got a number last week out with Serino from a gal in Folsom. 22, very cute, does reverse mortgages, going back to school to be an interior designer. Jenna. Talked on Wed., should call her tomorow.
Had coffee with Emily on Thursday. Match. 30, purple streaks in her hair, formerly batted for the other team, has a 2 year old, in grad school, went to O'Dowd, very down to earth, pretty cute (she is 30 after all), seems like a lot of fun. I'm not sure if I like her or not, but I'd like to see her again to find out.
Had dinner with Tracy on Thursday. Good kisser, pretty cute, 24, old lead from Match (went out six months ago and stood her up on the second date because I was unknowingly trying to forget a certain Texan by overconsuming alcohol the night before). I like her.
Had a drink and a snack (not quite dinner) Friday night with Ann. Hands down, the single worst date I've ever been on. She roasted me. I kept waiting for the punch line, but it never came. I didn't get the vibe that she hated guys, nor the vibe that she disliked me, but she just wouldn't stop insulting me. The only thing I regret is not calling her on it more directly. Why would she agree to meet me if she was going to do that? Stunningly odd and negative. Good thing I'd had two good dates the day before, or I'd be back in women-hating mode again already. (lol)
Today I was out with Rachel after visiting Lauren C. (yes, she's one of them) this afternoon. We did a little shopping in Walnut Creek and she ended up playing wingman for me while I picked up on Danielle, who is really cute, seems super upbeat and fun, and was diggin' on Alfie. Happy place. I'm considering breaking my own rules and calling tomorrow night instead of waiting the standard two days. Our vibe was that good -- so good, in fact, that I have this tiny little feeling that waiting a solid two days would turn her off because it would signal regimented playah-playah status. Which isn't necessarily false, but I'm looking for good pillow talk, not conquest. I dunno. I'll decide tomorrow.
Pipeline is stacked. Gotta plan first dates with Jenna, Danielle, and a Simone.
Good times.
Friday, May 25, 2007
real me
i'm gonna cry in a minute. I've been wanting to for a couple of hours, but I don't know why.
I don't want to work. I don't want to play. I don't want to fuck. I don't want to pray.
I don't want to love. I don't have any hate. I don't want to cry. And I don't appreciate.
Sounds like a depressing Dr. Seuss, doesn't it?
I went out again tonight. Plenty of girls, plenty of opportunity, plenty of alcohol, plenty of...
I don't know what else was there, but I wasn't smiling. I just didn't want to play.
It's work to go up to chicks. You know that, bitches? It's fucking WORK. You're not fucking special, you're not that entertaining, and most of you really aren't even that hot, no matter what your girlfriends say or how much your foundation cost.
And for you to make me act like a fucking circus monkey after I've caught you checking me out 4 times is fucking lame. Grow the fuck up and be fucking nice.
I am not your circus monkey, I am not some clown to make you laugh, and I am sick and fucking tired of working for shit.
Working for love.
I don't want to be alfie anymore.
But you know what? I don't want to be me, either. That fucking guy is really smart and appreciated for his tenacity. But that's it. Mostly, people shit on him. Now that he's "made something of himself", whatever the fuck that means, MORE people shit on him. People who were supposed to be his friends and family now shit on him too.
Fuck that guy. Fuck alfie. Fuck everything in between.
Fuck you, fuck the world, and fuck your mother.
--
I just wish I had enough energy left to be angry like that more of the time. That anger is all I've got.
--
I was just thinking about how two people who don't know shit about me (despite knowing me for more than half my life in one case) like to say they'd rather that I "be real" and "true" instead of putting on the alfie mask.
Easy for you to fucking say. Can I see one fucking piece of shit that has a black cloud like mine following him around that is actually happy?
No. You're all dead or disconnected.
That's the conundrum. I don't hate enough. It was so much better when I was still angry at Laura, still ready to take it out on any chick who crossed my path.
Everyone I know who has my type of baggage fluctuates between depression and evil. They use people, they don't follow that goddamn piece of shit golden rule, and they're perfectly fine. They aren't happy, no, but they don't get as far down the rabbit hole as I am progressing at an increasingly rapid pace.
They don't find themselves out with their best friends with pretty girls smiling at them and walk back to the car, alone, and cry.
They get phone numbers. Or they get laid. Or both.
So, yeah, I'm me. Whoopdee fucking do. Alone, as always, at 3:30 in the goddamn morning wishing I could remember something sad enough so that I could actually cry. Wishing I could come up with an excuse good enough so that I can actually feel the despair that haunts my soul. Wishing it could ever be ok.
Wishing I could remember what it feels like to actually smile. Not at something funny, but because I feel peace and contentment.
Or even just hope.
Right here, right now, in this one moment in time, I don't miss anything or anyone. I don't hunger for some feeling of belonging from the universe, from my mother, from some chick named Lauren or Laura, from an old friend, or from my own sense of accomplishment.
Right now I just want to stop crying. Stop wanting. Stop needing.
Right now I wish I were apathetic and stoic.
Right now I wish I were dead.
--
That's funny. I just stopped crying.
--
Don't call. I'll be fine. It's not the first time I've had these thoughts, and it clearly won't be the last. I kinda just want to kill the part of me that cares. I feel so alone anyway... why not?
The thing is, nothing can fix this. There is no solution. I wouldn't know what it felt like to actually be loved if it hit me in the head.
Laura said she loved me. But she clearly didn't.
Lauren said she appreciated me, and when I saw it in action coupled with "I waited all day to be here" as she lay in my arms, for a few moments, I believed it. It felt really good. But the minute I believed, she was gone.
Amanda at Disneyland was a really happy time. Except for... right. Drama queen. If that's love, I don't want it.
Mom says she loves me all the time. But she married the devil and let him abuse me incessantly without apology.
--
I've been thinking about that whole "giving back" thing lately, and there's a problem. Really giving back requires that you have something to give.
I think that I really am dying, even if I don't jump off something with a high altitude.
I don't want to hope anymore. I don't want to feel that, because it just makes me want, want, want.
It hurt so bad when you took it away, Lauren. It hurt so bad when I believed in you Laura. It hurt so bad when you left me out in the cold Mom. It hurt so so so bad.
And, like an abused kid yet again, I'm left to blame myself, to try and re-take the control that was taken from me forcefully. It's not that Laura was a whore or Lauren was a baby. It's not that Mom was an idiot and a baby. It's not even that Chrissy was a slutbag psycho and Amanda was a drama queen.
It's my fault. I'm too blame. I didn't work hard enough, or I was too nice, or I gave too much too quickly, or I forgot to play the game, or I trusted too much, or I was just plain stupid. I, I, I.
It's my fault for hoping, my fault for believing, my fault for loving, my fault for them leaving.
It's my fault she cheated, my fault she left, my fault she fought with me, my fault she caused drama, my fault she lied, my fault she couldn't stand up to dad, me, me, me.
I feel angry again. I guess that's good, because it means on some level I don't believe this shit.
--
Something has got to give soon. I'm going to sabotage my world and self-medicate myself into oblivion if I keep this up.
I don't want to work. I don't want to play. I don't want to fuck. I don't want to pray.
I don't want to love. I don't have any hate. I don't want to cry. And I don't appreciate.
Sounds like a depressing Dr. Seuss, doesn't it?
I went out again tonight. Plenty of girls, plenty of opportunity, plenty of alcohol, plenty of...
I don't know what else was there, but I wasn't smiling. I just didn't want to play.
It's work to go up to chicks. You know that, bitches? It's fucking WORK. You're not fucking special, you're not that entertaining, and most of you really aren't even that hot, no matter what your girlfriends say or how much your foundation cost.
And for you to make me act like a fucking circus monkey after I've caught you checking me out 4 times is fucking lame. Grow the fuck up and be fucking nice.
I am not your circus monkey, I am not some clown to make you laugh, and I am sick and fucking tired of working for shit.
Working for love.
I don't want to be alfie anymore.
But you know what? I don't want to be me, either. That fucking guy is really smart and appreciated for his tenacity. But that's it. Mostly, people shit on him. Now that he's "made something of himself", whatever the fuck that means, MORE people shit on him. People who were supposed to be his friends and family now shit on him too.
Fuck that guy. Fuck alfie. Fuck everything in between.
Fuck you, fuck the world, and fuck your mother.
--
I just wish I had enough energy left to be angry like that more of the time. That anger is all I've got.
--
I was just thinking about how two people who don't know shit about me (despite knowing me for more than half my life in one case) like to say they'd rather that I "be real" and "true" instead of putting on the alfie mask.
Easy for you to fucking say. Can I see one fucking piece of shit that has a black cloud like mine following him around that is actually happy?
No. You're all dead or disconnected.
That's the conundrum. I don't hate enough. It was so much better when I was still angry at Laura, still ready to take it out on any chick who crossed my path.
Everyone I know who has my type of baggage fluctuates between depression and evil. They use people, they don't follow that goddamn piece of shit golden rule, and they're perfectly fine. They aren't happy, no, but they don't get as far down the rabbit hole as I am progressing at an increasingly rapid pace.
They don't find themselves out with their best friends with pretty girls smiling at them and walk back to the car, alone, and cry.
They get phone numbers. Or they get laid. Or both.
So, yeah, I'm me. Whoopdee fucking do. Alone, as always, at 3:30 in the goddamn morning wishing I could remember something sad enough so that I could actually cry. Wishing I could come up with an excuse good enough so that I can actually feel the despair that haunts my soul. Wishing it could ever be ok.
Wishing I could remember what it feels like to actually smile. Not at something funny, but because I feel peace and contentment.
Or even just hope.
Right here, right now, in this one moment in time, I don't miss anything or anyone. I don't hunger for some feeling of belonging from the universe, from my mother, from some chick named Lauren or Laura, from an old friend, or from my own sense of accomplishment.
Right now I just want to stop crying. Stop wanting. Stop needing.
Right now I wish I were apathetic and stoic.
Right now I wish I were dead.
--
That's funny. I just stopped crying.
--
Don't call. I'll be fine. It's not the first time I've had these thoughts, and it clearly won't be the last. I kinda just want to kill the part of me that cares. I feel so alone anyway... why not?
The thing is, nothing can fix this. There is no solution. I wouldn't know what it felt like to actually be loved if it hit me in the head.
Laura said she loved me. But she clearly didn't.
Lauren said she appreciated me, and when I saw it in action coupled with "I waited all day to be here" as she lay in my arms, for a few moments, I believed it. It felt really good. But the minute I believed, she was gone.
Amanda at Disneyland was a really happy time. Except for... right. Drama queen. If that's love, I don't want it.
Mom says she loves me all the time. But she married the devil and let him abuse me incessantly without apology.
--
I've been thinking about that whole "giving back" thing lately, and there's a problem. Really giving back requires that you have something to give.
I think that I really am dying, even if I don't jump off something with a high altitude.
I don't want to hope anymore. I don't want to feel that, because it just makes me want, want, want.
It hurt so bad when you took it away, Lauren. It hurt so bad when I believed in you Laura. It hurt so bad when you left me out in the cold Mom. It hurt so so so bad.
And, like an abused kid yet again, I'm left to blame myself, to try and re-take the control that was taken from me forcefully. It's not that Laura was a whore or Lauren was a baby. It's not that Mom was an idiot and a baby. It's not even that Chrissy was a slutbag psycho and Amanda was a drama queen.
It's my fault. I'm too blame. I didn't work hard enough, or I was too nice, or I gave too much too quickly, or I forgot to play the game, or I trusted too much, or I was just plain stupid. I, I, I.
It's my fault for hoping, my fault for believing, my fault for loving, my fault for them leaving.
It's my fault she cheated, my fault she left, my fault she fought with me, my fault she caused drama, my fault she lied, my fault she couldn't stand up to dad, me, me, me.
I feel angry again. I guess that's good, because it means on some level I don't believe this shit.
--
Something has got to give soon. I'm going to sabotage my world and self-medicate myself into oblivion if I keep this up.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Demographics are the problem
I've bitched about this a lot, only to get a set of rolling eyes from people who don't know what they're talking about. Well, here's a nice map indicating what I've been saying for years: women in the San Francisco Bay Area are too big for their britches because of an over abundance of choice.
Which is why I often date below my cast in terms of quality. Bitches.
(Oh, and you eye rollers are (a) married, or (b) have vaginas. In either case, you have absolutely no idea what it is like to be a single male anywhere, let alone in the center of one of those big blue dots on the map above.
Wait! Stop! Close your mouth. Stop clicking.
You don't know. Just live with it.)
God is dead. Oh, and I'm R-Rated.
That conversation with god thing is for the birds. I think it's a form of meditation at best.
In other news, here's a complete waste of time:
Apparently, I needed more bar fighting and exhibitionism to get an NC-17.
In other news, here's a complete waste of time:
| Your Life is Rated R |
 |
Apparently, I needed more bar fighting and exhibitionism to get an NC-17.
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