A pre-birthday life tally

It's sad that I can actually draft something like this in only an hour. So much time, yet so little actually accomplished. Somehow most of the things on my resume are hardly even alluded to here.

And everyone who hears my story still looks up to me. Confusing.

--

Good things I’ve done/accomplished

• Learned how to set (some) emotional boundaries
• Made a lot of money
• Helped out my little brother
• Helped out my Mom when she first left my dad.
• Helped out my Mom with financial and professional advice whenever she asked for it.
• Reminded Shane that his family/lifestyle/time is more important than working at a startup.
• Was there for Lauren R. when she was tearing herself apart.
• Inspired Serino – property owner!
• Inspired Rajpal – property owner!
• Inspired John T. – property owner!
• Inspired Joe B. – property owner!
• Been a good friend and confidant for Corban, Sam B., Ayla, and my brother Michael. To a lesser extent, to Kaitlynne, Vicki, Dustin, Serino, Lauren C., Rachel, and Shane.
• I was a good boyfriend to Laura D, Chrissy, and even Amanda. Perhaps less so to Amanda, because I caused a lot of drama that counteracted my good deeds. Still.
• I helped Mark S. come “out” years ago.
• Been a mostly positive and upbuilding guy to everyone around me at the gym.
• Overcome a broken vertebra to become stronger and even more athletic than before.
• Inspired Raman S. – benchpress/biz!
• Was a good skating partner to Jamie. I pushed, inspired, and applauded. We were synergistic.
• Was a good employee/team member for Patty P., Marty K., Larry M., Alice M., Elizabeth P., Bob V., and Wally W.
• Inspired Jeremy S. Bringing out his competitive nature still counts as inspiration.
• Inspired Don L. and Jonathan K., even if not quite as obvious.
• Inspired Sam B., too, I think. I can’t imagine him starting as many side projects as he has were it not for my influence.

"Sins"

• Hurt Lola, Sarah the optician, Marina, Martina, Susan, Lauren R., Alison K., Sarah the chemist, Alicia, Kim, and to a lesser extent, Destiny, Jeanette, and Amanda (the effort put forth counteracts most of the “sin”).
• Not put forth more of an effort to reach out to my mom.
• Ditto with my sister.
• Ditto with Larissa and Kelita, although because they are peers and have their own support networks, this is less of a “sin”.
• I could be a better friend to Shane. The overarching feeling that he is always judging me is probably more in my head than his.
• I could put forth more of an effort to reach out to god. Just because I have a very strong idea of what god isn’t (the anthropomorphized monotheistic god, especially) doesn’t mean I should turn my back so harshly on spirituality.
  

Should I include the never-ending self-study? Or getting over dad-hatred? Or studying religion indepently? Or getting into Davis and UA? Somehow these all fall a little short... sigh.

Calm before the storm?

Another day.

Another year.

Another birthday.

I had a date with Amanda tonight. (Is it a date when you almost married the girl 5 years ago?) She called this afternoon and cancelled because of work duties.

I was kinda wanting to go play basketball tonight, because for the rest of the world, it’s not a special day. It’s not the day before 30, the day before everything in my world comes crashing down upon me like a ton of bricks. And maybe, by going and blending in at a place where much is familiar and people are generally neutral-to-positive regarding my presence, I can forget about 30 for a couple of hours.

Amanda flaking is no big deal. I suppose I’m a little disappointed, and she was as gracious as ever, apologizing profusely and wondering aloud if meeting for lunch tomorrow or Wednesday might be a possibility just as she said something about needing a Diet Pepsi. “Some vices never change,” she muttered. It was nostalgically attractive, just as her flaking was attractive nostalgically.

She always did choose work over me. Work over herself. Work over life. Work over us. And so, however irrational, I found her flaking today to be pleasant, if only because it was an echo of our entire relationship. It didn’t make me happy. Nor did it make me sad. It simply was a reminder, and I found myself pleased that I saw it coming.

In a way, I suppose, I have always expected women to flake on me. At one point I fought this vigorously. Then I gingerly hoped. And finally, I angrily accepted.

Today I am just apathetic.

I wonder where the razor edge between apathy and depression lies.

--

A day of reckoning in my life is coming tomorrow. I’m not sure what that means. I’m not sure what comes next. I’m not sure if it means that after tomorrow I’ll come out with guns a-blazing, afterburners firing, and a glow about me. Or if it means that I’ll just fade into my own private version of hell a little more precipitously.

This hope thing is devastating

I had a lovely 10 hour date with Brittany last Saturday. I just thoroughly enjoyed her, taking her in, sharing a little of me, learning what she shared. It was perfect.

I called the next evening to tell her so and got her voice mail.

Uh-oh.

Two days went by, I called again last night, and I got voice mail again.

She called back, and left a solid minute on my voice mail. It was sweet, and if I met lots of girls I liked who were "thin and interesting", and emotionally available, and hot, and open, then it would be no big deal. She called herself crazy, because I was perfect in every way, nice, and hot, and interesting, and lots of fun, but "something was wrong with the dynamic".

I texted her that I was disappointed, but no worries.

Because that's what a confident, put together person does, right? They can handle going out with someone on two dates and being completely into them only to be surprised and hurt when it turns out to be not at all what it was cracked up to be.

Which is kinda what I did to Lola, actually, and she reacted in a completely crazed and psycho way, which I'm not going to do.

And it's not that big of a deal. It really isn't. I spent a collective twelve hours with this girl, and despite her positive atttributes, I've dated all of those attributes before. Lauren and Kim were just as good-hearted. Chrissy, Susan, Allyson, Emily, and others were hotter. Laura and Amanda were just as smart. And nearly all of the girls I remember well enough to name were at least as emotionally available.

(Who am I trying to convince here?)

It's just that the numbers are so, so, sooo bad. Out of the 100-150 girls I've dated since Slutbag, I've slept with 16 and wanted to date about 6.

Two of them I blew off because I came back to 2nd and 3rd dates with them after leaving my heart in Texas. I'm not sure what would have happened there, but one lived 500 miles away and the other had a whopping one night a week for me and was really self absorbed. But they nonetheless get honorable mention.

One of them I dated for a couple of months and decided that she wasn't challenging enough for me. She lost on the brainy/feisty requirement. I can handle feisty and not brainy, or brainy and note feisty, but I need one or the other.

The other three evaporated, disappearing after I started to really like them. Brittany is one of the three. The missing names include the infamous Texan and a single mom from last summer.

So I'm looking at 4 percent. 1 in 25. And of those, there are none with whom it would've worked out. Not really. Not rationally. Not if I put it all down on paper and think rationally about the peripheral attributes, the professions, the age, etc.

Except for, right this minute, this last one. But that's undoubtedly just because I had a nice crush and feel open and hopeful for the first time in years, save for that little hiatus my cynicism took the last time I left California.

And so, here I am, waking up after sleeping three miserable hours with insomnia, wanting to self-medicate so that I can sleep a peaceful sleep and wake up with good dreams on my mind.

College life will probably be a lot better, because every 20 year old is emotionally available and hot. Some of them might even be smart and feisty. At 5:30 AM on a random Tuesday before my 30th birthday, however, I'm not sure how I'll make it.

Sigh. Sad music and a good cry might make me tired. This is my life. I have great friends and a comfortable life, but no... right. Whatever the fuck it is I'm actually looking for.

Good dreams, perhaps. Let me at least start with that. Please?

what am i doing?!

Another week, another three girls I've let down. It's ironic that I don't feel guilty about dating several girls simultaneously, yet when I flake on commitments, it tears me up.

Even implied ones. Careful, Alfie, you're dangerously close to having a heart. Oh, right, we knew that already.

So I flaked on a new girl -- Naomi, divorcee, SF, early 30s, from match -- on Sunday. Actually, I hadn't been asleep more than 90 minutes when my 8:15 alarm went off trying to wake me up so I could go meet her for breakfast. Friggin' easter. Friggin' thinking I'd want to get up that early ANY day of the friggin' week, but especially a stinkin' Sunday. Blah bleah blast it.

But I digress. That's not so bad, right? I called almost 2 hours before the date, she had probably barely gotten out of the shower if she'd gotten ready at all, and I hadn't even met the girl, so no harm, no foul.

Sure. I don't feel bad about that one. Except that there's a pattern here, which will be apparent in another few paragraphs.

So last Sunday I flaked on Shonna. I did it right, calling well in advance, apologizing profusely, etc., and because she liked me a lot -- or, at least, wanted to use me for my body -- she agreed to see me the next night anyway, and, well, go back and read some if you don't know the rest. Then I was supposed to see her the following Friday (that was last Friday, the 6th of April if I'm counting right), except that I had a business dinner at 7:30 I had to handle first. Great, we can just grab a drink and have breakfast together. Coulda shoulda woulda been perfect. I might've even received my pillow talk this time (sigh).

Except the dinner went late, and I didn't even look up until well after 11 (I was supposed to show up to her place at 10), and it ended up being well after midnight before I called. The call went something like "Hi, it's publicly enemy number one, oh, you're already sleeping, I'm really sorry, I'll call you tomorrow to apologize properly." Her side of the conversation was pretty much 4 grunts and that's it. It's fine... she really was sleeping and I really was an asshole. She was probably waiting for me in some sort of hot lingerie she had just picked up, too, which just added to my incredible dick-headed-ness.

I called the next day (didn't want to), left a pathetic message (didn't want to, but felt penintence was the proper etiquette), and we traded the expected emails Monday. I'm proud of her. She stood up for herself and didn't let some guy treat her badly.

Me? Not so much. But I'm not done presenting the evidence yet.

So I was invited out via text message to Easter dinner with Lola. I know, they're hard to keep track of, but the post that describes who these girls are is now forever buried on Google's servers, so go click a couple of times and catch up.

Back now? Great. Ok, so yeah, I ended up sleeping most of the day on Easter.

Woke up at 8, flaked on a girl, back to sleep.
Woke up at 1, checked email and started the shower, still felt a little drunk, back to sleep by 2.

Woke up at 6, checked messages, dilly-dallied a bit because I really didn't want to get all Alfied out and go talk to (i.e., fake it for) a bunch of strangers that would size me up. I mean, really, what would be the point? I've already decided Lola isn't "the one", I've already gotten laid, and I really don't think any of those new contacts would want to do business with me after disappointing the girl. So it's just bogus all the way 'round.

Not that I really put that much thought into at the time. It was a friggin' holiday, I was hungover, and there's this pattern I'm trying to describe. Holidays suck and I'd rather just be alone. Hangovers suck and I'd rather just be alone. And as for the flaking, well, girls suck and I'd rather just be alone. (lol)

So, right, I basically dodge Easter, but I did call her, left a message, and she called me back around 6:30 that night. She invited me over the next night (Monday the 9th), I acquiesced, and headed off to the gym.

Easter rocks compared to the shitty winter holidays, btw. I mean, yeah, family stuff turns up in the bowels of my psyche, but it's not nearly as bad. Peet's and Starbucks are open. You can still get gas. Grocery stores are open, so you can eat. And the Alfie-church that is the gym is still there. Easter is ok in my book. But Fuck Christmas.

Alright, where was I? Well, Monday comes around, and I really just want to work late and play basketball til midnight, so I call Lola and flake on her. Um, I mean, reschedule. For tonight. Wednesday night.

So, pray tell dear Alfie, why are you not in Lola's bed right now? Why are you not sound asleep after a wondrous performance?

Well, dear reader, it's because, during pillow talk, Lola asked if I was dating anyone else. And aside from a tentative 2nd date this Saturday with a very lovely 22 year old, I've done a kick-ass job of sabotaging my pipeline, so I say, truthfully, "um, well... no, actually." I then go on to tell her that I was until "a couple of weeks ago" (that's playah lingo for last weekend), but that the relationship was short-lived and "just took its course".

Right answer, Alfie. Add another chapter to the playah's handbook.

Except that this gnawing little bitchy side of me kept piping up. I found myself struggling to NOT end the relationship right there. It's easy to do -- just go off on how much women suck for 20 minutes, and the next day you get a 20 paragraph email talking about how great the chemistry is, but how she's just looking for something different.

So I didn't. I left hope on the table, even though she really isn't the one and I really could care less if she ever calls me again.

But I left anyway. I sat there for another 15 minutes, mumbled some silliness about how I really didn't want to hurt her, but that I felt uncomfortable now, and that I wanted to clear my head and would call her tomorrow.

It didn't go over perfectly, to be honest, but I left it salvageable.

Except that I don't want to. I want to hope this Saturday with my hot youngster, and I don't want to have to try to remember details about sibling names and favorites by employing memory tricks. I'd really like to remember those things because I actually just really like the girl.

But, alas, she's young enough that she's still a moving target, and should I actually like her that much, she'll disappear faster than a pocket lighter loses its flame on the Golden Gate Bridge. So here I am, again, setting myself up to write another 20 page blog entry about how I'm the walking contradiction, the playah that loves, the sensitive guy that walks out 40 minutes after banging a chick, and about how I really should email one or two of the women who were sweet to me last year just to tell them that I'm sorry I took off for Texas one day and never came back.

I wonder if the tantric guys had it right. Every time you have sex, you give up some of your chi, and when it's all gone, you die.

Because the truth is, right this minute, I think that my brain is manufacturing hope as a method of self-preservation.

--

Sigh. Pretty sad note to leave this entry on, eh? Ok, so what about that pattern? Well, let me see...

I was attracted to Shonna (she's definitely my "type"), but she reminded me a lot of my whore-bag ex, because I caught the same raped-in-college vibe, she bled liberal blood while not understanding remotely what it feels like to struggle, and she had the bitchy-without-knowing-she's-bitchy vibe to her as a result. She was also really cute, really liked me (even if she held it back too much, which I attribute to her trauma), and even if she was an emotional princess, she was still intellectually stimulating. She also happened to live a maybe two blocks from Slutbag's apartment, which didn't help matters.

So why did I try to keep dating her when I obviously cared so little I walked away from a "if I show up the sex might actually be good this time" almost-booty-call? Is it really just that she reminded of Slutbag (hey, I like that -- slutbag with a capital S. That's her new name!)?

Am I that shallow? Am I still that wounded?

No and yes. WELLL. Ok, yes and yes. Sigh.

Alright, now Lola. I went out with her on a second date because I knew she would sleep with me, and I find myself eerily attracted to her. If I look at her critically, she's not my type at all, but there's a certain sex appeal about her. Plus I had been on hiatus for three months, and I kinda wanted to get back in the game, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I still could.

Now THAT was shallow. But it's true. :-\

Ok. So if I'm going out with these girls just to have sex with them, that's probably fine, but I need to be more honest about it -- mostly with myself, because when I'm honest with myself, I'm honest with my girls, and the truth is, most of them still want to sleep with me, even if I'm "a handful". (Yes, that's a pillow talk comment.)

Riiiiiiight. Except that there's more to it than that. I really am being a bitch here. I really was hoping that Shonna would turn out to be more than I saw at first glance, that if I could get her to open up more, I might find that she, not unlike me, was a handful, but a handful with a heart of gold that just needed a little TLC.

She probably is. But I don't have the patience, and I shouldn't have gone out with her after the second date. I did so because I was still hoping. I slept with her because I was still hoping and because I was really attracted to her. I wasn't that into it because I knew the whole time that my hope was a waste.

Sad, sad, sad. But at least I'm realizing it now.

I think Lola was less hope and more lust. This is unfortunate, because Lola actually put herself out there a lot more than Shonna. She pillow talked my ear off and I woke up with a crink in my neck and nearly falling off the bed last time because she kept cozying up for Alfie Snuggles.

Shonna, by contrast, had no problem with me running for the door.

--

The worst part is that I hurt both of them. They'll get over it, sure, and I really am sorry, and they'll just remember me with neutrality a year from now, but I still hurt them. And even if it is Slutbag's fault, I'm the one feeling like a shithead at 3am.

So, what then? I become a complete bitch and I don't have sex with the girls I date even though they really want me? Because I might hurt them?

Oh phuck. It's better to play the "damaged goods" card and have them write that 20 paragraph email. Which means I actually treat women better by being a true playah -- be the perfect gentleman I really want to be for 2-3 dates, have sex once or twice, and then pull the "damaged goods" card and get out of jail free. 3 girls cycled every two weeks, six per month, 72 a year. Should be able to blow through that Chi by the time my little brother graduates from college.

In their minds, I'm that nice, hot guy who treated them with the utmost in respect, but just had too many issues. Bummer.

Instead, now, I'm the asshole who flaked on them after having sex once or twice.

And this is progress? WTF?

never mind, back after all

I was in the city this evening and decided to drop Shonna a call. Partly, I felt guilty for yesterday (see last post), and partly I felt like I should show more of myself and give her a chance to actually reject me.

It went well. There were the normal first time issues (anxiety, awkwardness), but it is was great.

But, as girly as it may sound, I found myself hoping during pillow talk, wanting her to say something wonderful, wishing to hear those things I usually hear that I internally roll my eyes at.

Which got me to thinking about whether or not I've actually been rolling my eyes. I haven't been. I have been actually hoping.

Oh shit. (Yes, go ahead, say it out loud!)

But, alas, she's perfect Alfie fodder. More guarded than I, yet willing to enjoy one another. Weekly visits are the standard schedule; more is too boyfriend-y, less is not interested. A single man's dream. Gotta love city girls for that, eh?

Or hate them, dying another little death inside as I forget the did-that-really-happen memory of Texas and a little girl who reminded me of my youth.

I left Shonna tonight, as we both cited "sleeping in my own bed" and "not on a 'school' night" as suitable reasons for me not to crash there despite being "welcome to stay", and "lov[ing] the idea of waking up to [her]".

And then I called up my best friend to tell him I "came through", because somehow I thought that me following through after yesterday's "failure" would somehow make him happy. Or, more accurately (ah, the benefits of retrospect), I was hoping that his props would make me happy.

He didn't rejoice, and although I did feel happy (afterglow is great, even if we don't love each other), I promptly called up another good friend and went drinking. Two IPAs and some Thai noodles later, I found myself driving home, listening to "Let it Burn" by Usher, and remembering how that song so hit home for me years ago when I was still crying over the one girl who would hurt me more than all the others (Laura the whore-slut, for the record), wondering why the afterglow was fading.

Then I got home, here, and clicked an innocent message from a good friend about college, youth, and the hopefulness of the future, only to click absentmindedly where I shouldn't have, on photos of an autumn long since past that no one else will remember but vaguely, yet which somehow seems to have actually changed me.

Like I said, I've been actually hoping. For better or for worse. Probably worse, because I'm still farming the same sour waters (love those SF girls, once again!!), but I've been over that many, many, many a time.

Anyway. I feel completely gay at the moment (sorry to use that term in a semi-pejorative, but it's kinda funny in this context), wanting to find some MP3s in my iTunes library from the Titanic soundtrack.

See, now wasn't that use of "gay" funny? Pitiful, too, perhaps, but really fucking funny. :-)

So yeah. I just got laid, had a couple of beers with a dear friend, filled my stomach, and am now sipping on a sweet glucosamine/vitamin supplement. Like Shawn said to me last weekend, it's good to be Alfie (well, no, actually he used my REAL name, but we can't go THERE).

So why doesn't Alfie know it? Why does he ponder his 30th birthday, the world almost literally at his fingertips, and none of the ideas on the table sound remotely entertaining?

You know what I want? I want Mr. Holland's fucking Opus. I want every motherfucker I've ever inspired, ever had sex with, ever been the catalyst of achievement for, ever made happy, to come out of the woodwork and thank me. I want to feel loved. Or, at least, like I have made a difference to someone.

--

I wonder how many of you would come if I invited you?


A nice thought just popped into my head. Almost all of them.

--

(Don't tell anyone, but I still miss my fantasy. Seeing L's big sis last Friday was actually quite a bit harder on me than I let on. That's the lion's share, I think, of why I was depressed all weekend.)

Sigh. If I only knew how to duplicate those feelings. Or, perhaps more sanely, replicate them.

The second coming of Alfie may have been premature

I cancelled a date today because I was feeling lazy. Worse, it was the third date after a streak of momentum. At her place. I was going to cook her dinner.

Way to turn down sex, alfie.

Yeah, don't ask, I dunno. Bad dreams about fathers and god? Check. Another girl I'm more interested in (mmm, Brittany)? Check. Sunday evening "I just wanna stay close to home and maybe grab a movie"? Check.

Still. It would've been good times, and I threw it away. Because I'd rather chill, grab some coffee, read my book, and go play basketball with Scotty and Kenny. On my terms, on my schedule, on my time.

Oh, screw that. I felt as though I can't be myself around Shonna, and I really just don't feel like putting on an act right now. Maybe ever.

Humph. I'm spoiled, I know. Giving up a sex with a clean, smart, attractive blonde because I don't feel like I can be myself around her... when I haven't even tried.

Most guys would call me stupid. Heck, I'd call me stupid.

--

So about that dream. I remember mouthing off to my dad. There were three things I was bitching about. I don't remember them. I just remember saying there were three points I wanted to make in my rant as I was making it. Something about not being there, something about supposed to be the one most protecting in my life rather than the one most damaging, and probably something about respect

I had a weird thought when I woke up, however. As I lay in my bed, I felt confused. Was I talking to god or talking to dad? I really wasn't sure for a moment. The painful feeling inside made me think of dad, however, and the setting in my dream reminded me of childhood.

Nevertheless, I couldn't help but being reminded of Fight Club. "Our fathers echo our perception of god. Our fathers abandoned us, therefore god abandoned us. God doesn't want us!" (not exact, but close)

--

I was really torn about Shonna. In the end, I fibbed a little and implied that I was sick. I told her I've been taking a bunch of Airborne vitamin pills in hopes that it would make me feel better and that I was "a few bucks shy of a million dollars", then asked if she would hold it against me if I cancelled.

It was all true. Except that she assumed I was hungover and spent, when in fact I'm just psycho. But everyone assumes that which is familiar to them, that which fulfills preconceived expectations, and so I'm in solid "human nature" territory. (Yes, I just rationalized my lie. Don't shake your finger at me, it wasn't that much of a stretch! :-)

Ok. Off to flirt with the Peet's girls...