Merry Xmas

It's cold in my house.

I shall miss this day, this feeling, this presence someday a long time from now.

Today, right now, with a little wonder, a little tiny bit of sadness, a little regret, and a taste of reflection, I'm crying.

It feels so good. I haven't cried in so long. And now, typing with my  eyes closed, I can feel those tears rolling down my face, and ...

I'm not really crying over anything, Or anyone.

I do sorta vaguely want a drink, though.

This sensation... it's like seeing and old friend and not remembering that it's been years. Well, I guess. Have I ever felt that way? Maybe.

I'm not even sad, now. Not even a little bit. I feel... almost... happy.

Weird.

Slutbag on the brain (yet again)

It's been two weeks since I saw you.

It's been a stressful two weeks.

I miss Kait. She reminds me of Counting Crows and Adele and John Mayer and I want to listen and cry.

But, so often, the tears don't come. Because, you see, I didn't love her. Even though she deserved it.

And I loved you. Even though you didn't.

It hurts to think about. Seeing you... was disturbing.

Seeing you messed with my head in ways I still haven't processed.

I love you still. A little. The thought of touching you, of cherishing you, of holding you... all of that seems so foreign, so far away, so distant, so like a movie viewed while dreaming or drunk. And yet, there you are, in the hidden back rooms of my subconscious, skirting observation, holding on despite my best efforts to forget,

My best efforts to hate.

And I did. I hated you for a long, long time. I hated all women under the sun for a time. I threw the might of my baggage down on the ground in front of any woman who would hang around long enough to make me push her away.

And I hated. And hurt. And forgot what it was to be me. Forgot the humanity, forgot the love, forgot the hope, forgot the faith, and forgot my soul.

It is astonishingly frustrating to realize that I miss those that gave me support even as I push all that support away with everything I am.

I am an island, alone, now. I am solo, independent, on my own, and self-sustaining.

I am the shell of a man you always wanted. Even as you became a girl who -- possibly -- would have deserved my love.

I miss me. More than anything you ever did, more than anything you ever could have done, I miss the open-minded and hopeful youth I used to be. It's not you I hate, slutbag. It's what I became because of you.

The next level of acceptance is being okay with that. Saying goodbye to that person I used to be. Tolerating the shell I have become.

I'm mad, today, because you have become so very much the woman I deserved. Then.

Today, not so much.

Today, I deserve... what I have. Attention with no substance. Stress with little reward. Pain with no cause. Depraved indifference, perhaps.

I miss that guy I used to be. I miss Kaitlin, because even as I pushed her away she believed I was that man. And I miss...

Eh. That's about it right at the moment.

Oh, yeah

I'm kinda into K. I could totally commit to a two month trial relationship right now.

Hey, that's a lot for a reformed player! I'm saying I'd focus on her and only her to give "something real" a genuine chance with her.

This is also being said with lots of other opportunity currently on the table... sigh.

Drinks with Slutbag

Two disturbing things happened to me this weekend.

1. I saw Slutbag Laura on Friday. I don't know why, but we traded a few emails a couple of weeks back, and I agreed to meet her. It was... surreal? I had all of my defenses up. There were a couple of moments when I felt sad as she talked, but for the most part I just stayed disconnected and didn't get too deep.

She got really deep. She got teary two or three times. She said things and expressed feelings that, if she had only conveyed back in the autumn of 2005, might mean we'd still be together today. (That was one of the moments I felt sad.) As she put it, her "house of cards" came tumbling down sometime around the beginning of this year. She went through a little crisis, realized that she was basically a superficial bitch, hated her job, and was disgusted with her life.

She had her quarter life crisis, I guess. Figures... she turned 27 this year, I think.

It was really hard for me to just sit there and listen. I was pretty superficial with her and to her. I approached all the data before me in as objective and rational a way as I could... answering to statements like "as I've gone through this crisis, I've thought about us a lot, about not simply how things ended, but about what an absolutely horrible girlfriend I was" with little emotion, saying only that it didn't much matter now.

And it didn't. Or so I thought at the time.

We chatted for about 2.5 hours. She paid for her own drink and took a cab home even though I could have offered her a ride easily that would cost me only a few minutes.

I think I should talk more about what she said, even though I don't really want to... it will be cathartic for me. And I've been really, really stressed about this for the last couple of days. It's not completely obvious, but I can see it in how I'm acting with the other girls I'm dating, which I'll get to in a bit.

So, let's see.

She talked a lot about her identity crisis. It was an accessible topic because it was recent and related to her current status (unemployed + working part time under the table), her upcoming plans (she wants to go teach English in a foreign country for a year or so, then go to grad school, subject currently unclear), and her more-or-less limbo existence that is the result.

This led to a discussion of how I fit into that crisis. Peripheral things came up, like how the very friend that influenced her the most when she and I were dating -- she was jealous of my time with Slutbag and would regularly express disgust with our status as a couple -- just got married and is living happily ever after.

She talked about how she thought about me every day for six months after it all ended. "It was probably July before I stopped wondering and feeling guilty about you every day."

My internal thought at that point was... well. I sorta relished her guilt. I liked it. Cause, well, fuck her, right?

As she continued, she said that, post-crisis, the pain she felt surrounding me was so much more dramatic than even that extended period of guilt. Something about "bringing up old stuff I didn't really deal with from my childhood was part of my therapy process. And what happened between us was in there throughout it all -- it kept coming up -- for months and months I kept seeing myself through what I imagined to be your eyes. And it was so very, very painful."

I asked her if she thought it was really empathy. She responded that it was the most empathy she's ever felt. "When I think of the way I treated you, how I thought of you, and how you thought of me in spite of all that, I can't help but cry. I was such a so very, very horrible friend, girlfriend, and person with you."

"You took me... for granted." I replied.

"Um... yes, well, I suppose that's a way to put it, if overly broad."

I shrugged my shoulders.

This kind of conversation proceeded for a few more minutes, when I changed the subject and asked about her family. I always liked her family. She gave short answers, then returned to what was apparently her catharsis, noting the non sequitor.

"Nice change of subject."

I laughed. Then I shrugged.

"It's cool. I'm not sure I'm completely comfortable either. But I've been rehearsing what I wanted to say to you for a long, long time.

She continued. "The thing is, I decided -- not that long ago, actually, maybe last summer -- that I was never going to see or talk to you again and that that was going to have to be ok.

"And I want you to know that no matter what happens, that regardless of whether we'll be friends again someday, or even more than friends, or if you never want to talk to me again after this... I want you to know that I really appreciate being able to sit here with you and tell you these things.

"I want you to know that you were -- and are -- great, that you didn't deserve to be treated the way you did with me. I can't believe the person I was, and I can't possibly hope to understand how much it hurt, but if I could, I really would take it all back."

I swallowed hard then. I remember thinking, vividly, "If you had only told me that in Hawaii. If you had only told me that when I still loved you." I didn't say it out loud.

I remember her also talking about... oh crap. I just took the time to hit skip on my music playlist and I totally forgot what was just on my mind.

Sigh. Let's see, what else? I told her -- before this part of the conversation, I think -- that I had become a player after we parted. Oh, that's what it was.

She also talked about how she couldn't bear, when were together, that is, to deal with any of my depth. It came up because I commented on how she seemed much more self-assessing and introspective than she used to be, and that I thought that was a good thing. I think I said something like "I sometimes don't do that when I should," and she responded that I was always good at that, always was pretty up front about the demons I dealt with, and how that to people who acknowledged their demons, that must be refreshing.

She went on to say, "Back then I just wanted you to 'stop bring up this bullshit and just be happy', but the truth is that seeing you -- who had everything so well organized life-wise -- acknowledge your inner demons made me notice my own huge ones. And I hated that sensation."

I said something like "yeah, but it's not very attractive."

She said "no, it wasn't. Then. I just wanted you to be superficial like me. But now I can't stand that skin deep 'everything is perfect as long as I portray perfection'."

This led to a tangent on how she dealt with her now-married best friend, who strikes me as one of the single most superficial, selfish, inconsiderate bitches I've ever met. And this is Alfie, the bitch magnet, talking here.

Laura admitted that, on some levels, it was difficult to stay friends with her. "There have definitely been periods where it was only the twenty-five years of history that brought us back together. When you left was one of those -- I lost you, and she wouldn't take my phone calls for two months afterwards. I was like, 'You bitch! You got what you wanted. [Alfie]'s gone, now where are you?'"

When she talked about how she just wanted me to be this vision of superficial, perfect, independent man, I chuckled and said, "We both became what the other wanted."

That led to a discussion about me, and how I've led my life since leaving her. (Is it right to say that I left her when she spent the last six months of our relationship fucking other guys? Pssh.)

"I've hurt a whole lotta girls after you. There was one time in the summer of 2006 when I was on a road trip with a buddy of mine and, after coming back into range, I had something like 9 voice mails on my phone from 9 different girls, across three countries and three or four states."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And I'll tell ya... the rumors are true. The less you care, the more it really is like manna from heaven. I went through so many girls in 2006... it was just silly. It was great -- 4-5 new girls a week, all over western Europe as well as here [in California]. I'm sure I hurt a lot of them, but I was so busy chasing the next girl I didn't even notice.

"Ironically, during the first half of 2007, I was really, really depressed. And the girls I dated in that time frame got the truth -- I would tell them how messed up I was, and they pretty much invariably told me off. It's really strange, but there are quite a few girls from the 2006 period that I still trade the occasional friendly email with, but the girls that got the whole truth all hate me."

--

So. What did I learn?

Well. I have neither forgotten nor forgiven. During the conversation, I consciously felt myself feeling the humanity in her... and actively denying it. I didn't want to see her side. I didn't want to understand her, feel for her, nor have any sensation about her, for her, or because of her.

The person that she is today may, in fact, be a better person. She may be worthy of my friendship. She may be worthy of someone's love. She may even make a good girlfriend or wife.

But I don't care. Or, at least, I don't want to care. I want to hate her, want her to feel guilt and pain and empathize over transgressions from years ago... forever.

And, I think, that I'm sad because of that.

I don't want to be consumed by this hate. I don't want to...

Sigh.

I think that the problem with forgiving her is that I have to forgive myself. For becoming the selfish, cynical, angry person that lives somewhere in my soul, now. I have to forgive myself for the misogyny. I have to acknowledge all those girls with broken hearts and take responsibility for them. For Kimmie Sue and Lola and Sarah K and Sarah S and Jill and Martina and Marina and Paulina and Susan and Lauren and Megan and Simone and Sidney and Marcie and Tracy and Carla and Allison and Katrina and... Kaitlin.

They weren't all treated terribly, to be sure. But they all invested, at least a little, and with most of them, had I not been in that scarred state of pseudo-misogyny I still won't let go, I'd have either not dated them from the outset or, maybe, fallen for them.

Now, if I take a Machiavellian stance with this, it's not so terribly important. There are grays and considerations associated with every single one of those names. After all, if you're hooking up with a guy that lives in the United States in his London hotel, how far can you really fall? But this isn't really about them. There are a couple of people there that are, perhaps, owed an apology, whether cosmic or personal, but this is about me, today, and how I treat people in the present. And the future.

I'm proud of the way I dealt with Kait. I'm not sure how I could have handled that better. Perhaps "better" is knowing myself well enough to realize, and take decisive action, earlier in the dating process. Perhaps "better" would have been pushing her away the day she said "I want to be your girlfriend" two months in instead of admitting that I'd never fall four months in.

But in the human tapestry, I don't feel too bad about this. She knew. I told her. I just kept hoping I would start to feel something, as did she. So maybe I already am a better man than I was in the wake of betrayal, and I don't need to forgive Slutbag in order to forgive myself. I think I might need a little more time, still, to really do it. I need a couple of more interactions with women where I feel really proud of how I treated them.

And I can do that. Maybe I'll never ever forgive Laura. I don't think that this is not okay, that this indicates some sort of major shortcoming on my part. I know that a bigger man -- that the man I would like to be, someday -- would forgive her and genuinely wish her well. But I'm not that man today.

Sigh. This is tangential. I'm seguing to the second topic.

2. I had "performance anxiety" with K. last night. Yeah, no shit. First time, ever. Ok, I had to psyche myself up once or twice back in the day faced with a really bad kisser. And in the few months after I left Amanda I had some "close calls", but never have I been in a state where I'm (a) not in love with some other girl and (b) super attracted to the girl I talked out of her clothes and had any random thought whatsoever about performing. "Performing" is usually a question of whether she's gonna get some tongue action or not. Heh.

I mean, I had no problem getting excited, but then after the trip across the room to put on a rubber and coming back to the mission at hand... bleah.

I didn't realize this until today, but I was incredibly stressed out yesterday. It's not like Laura was on the brain -- hell, she wasn't on my mind at all. K. was the only thing anywhere in site, mind's eye or otherwise.

But it was Laura. I'm 99% sure of it as I think about it today (and yes, I admit it, that's the reason I'm writing -- I didn't actually want to!) The act of putting my proverbial force-shields on at full strength in order to absorb (ignore?) the emotional experience of seeing her must have shut off a whole lot more than a couple of tear ducts.

Of course, this pisses me off. Damn bitch is still fucking with my heart and my head. And now my penis, too! Slutbag, indeed. Heh.


I think I just need a good cry, but the tears really aren't coming. Time to dig up some sappy music and look at old photos, maybe? Heh. I kinda already tried that...

Sigh. Or, maybe, this is all that I needed. Guess I'll find out.

Got to be cruel to be kind

Tonight I made someone I care a lot about cry.

I said, "I don't think I can ever love you the way you deserve." And I meant it. She deserves better than me.

She loved me. In as pure and healthy a way that any girl probably ever has. She never said so, but I could tell from how her body trembled in my arms, like someone pierced her heart with a spear and held it here while she died a painful death.

I was that someone tonight. I hurt her so bad. How could I do such a terrible thing?

I know (I think) what that feels like, I know what a terrible sensation it is to feel pain and loss so profound that you cry yourself to sleep and wake up in tears at your nightmares that used to be happy dreams. The same people with the same looks are there, saying things that might, actually, be wonderful, but a trembling soul has no joy.

I can't believe I became that person. I can't believe I let someone so good fall for me when I couldn't give it back.

I'm crying, now, not for me, but for her. I'm crying now, secondhand, like the moon to her weeping sun.

I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could love her the way she deserves. I wish I could be the Prince Charming she hoped I would become.

I'm sorry, Kait.

Come Down Now

...they'll say... but everything looks perfect from far away. Come Down Now.

I saw two ex-GFs at the gym today. One hugged me goodbye and the other smiled and called me sweet. Both were accompanied by a "good to see you".

It was good to see them. One of them was crazy L. and I have to admit that I've missed her. Because I'm crazy, that's why. Because the sex was great and everything looked perfect from far away and maybe, just maybe, there's a little something left over after that much drama and an abortion to boot.

Imagine that.

--

Went to Jupiter tonight. I miss Sam too. Crazy again.

--

I'm living alone again, and it's... lonesome. I feel the urge to dump the girl who is just starting to care about me in favor of better sex and sheets dirty with the smell of women I don't know.

I feel the urge to fill something empty that she cannot fill. Or, perhaps, to just try.

I feel stupid for wanting that, foolish for not loving her, wondering how much I'll miss her when she's gone.

And I simultaneously feel like a better man for realizing this, for wanting to push her away to somehow hurt her less.

A little part of me wants to just maintain it and cheat. A little part of me wants to become all that which I despise and hate.

A little part of me has become that which hurt me so.

But I won't. The lack of "official" commitment notwithstanding, she cares more than any of them, and I'm healthy (!) enough to have offered real hope, not the chaos that every girl has received for years. The chaos of seeking fairy tales just to crush them, to prove them wrong.

Eh. It was never that bad. It sure was painful when the storm ended and all that remained was the memory of how good I had imagined it was. And how stupid I turned out to be.

Pick your "L". It was true of all of them in some form or another. Well... the ones I've cried over, anyway.

--

I miss AZ. I don't know what I miss, really... the youth, certainly, both that which surrounded me and my own renaissance. The energy. The sense that everything worth doing was ahead rather than behind. The unity that is the belief that everything as far as the eye can see is just like you -- even if it was always a little bit of a lie.

I miss the reduction in responsibility. This small biz thing is really draining. The firm is doing more than I could ever do single-handedly, but, my god, is it a tether.

And so I miss...

Maybe I just miss being someplace new and unfamiliar.

Funny... I just moved. I haven't even finished unpacking. LOL.

--

Bleah. I'm tired. I'm not depressed or even remarkably thoughtful. I am, perhaps, experiencing a worrying reluctance over breaking up with K.

I'm probably making a mistake. She's probably as perfectly compatible as I could ever hope for.

But, maybe, at last, I'm comfortable enough with being alone (or just single) that I don't need her. Maybe that means I want more than just acceptance within a nurturing environment.

Maybe I need more than I should have received as a toddler, now. Heh.

Maybe wanting really great sex with a girl I'm proud to show off that also happens to be loyal, nurturing, thoughtful, and considerate is possible?

Sigh. Well. I guess I'm making the decision to hold out for that.

--

A little part of me thinks this foolish.

Good sex with hot chicks seems readily available. The loyalty and genuine care seems really hard. Is it worth giving up that experience for someone that really cares about me?

The "growing old" cliche comes to mind. The one about "she won't always be hot, so look for inner beauty."

Of course, the cynic in me is whispering right now, "the guy who made that up was really ugly".

LOL.

And, perhaps, he used that cliche as an excuse to settle.

Let me see... date a girl near my age who is "cute enough" with whom I'd prefer watching porn over her most of the time, who treats me very well and is emotionally available,

OR, date another thirty 23 year olds, have great sex, and maybe get lucky on the emo tip?

--

Oh, how times have changed. It wasn't so very long ago I'd have dated the Swamp Thing if only it loved me and cooked breakfast once in awhile.

Maybe. The not-so-hot chicks I've dated before were always pretty darn good in bed. Harumph.

The sweet ones don't seem to be.

(does an internal survey)

Yeah, great sex requires a little chaos. The more fucked in the head, the better the lovin'.

Sigh. Maybe I'm doomed to be a playboy.

This would be a lot easier if I could cheat... like all of my friends.

And most of the girls I've loved.

The Switfly Tilting Planet

I don't know why invoking Madeline L'Engle seems appropriate for my mood, but wtf.

My cousin (K) picked on me tonight about my aversion to relationships. It was meant to be constructive, but it came off as condescending. Actually, it didn't, but I found myself furious at everyone for no reason in the hours following. So, yeah, it was fucked up.

I think she was trying to push me into (re)trying therapy. But if came off as "you're fucked up, don't you realize that you should do something about it?"

I don't feel particularly fucked up. I've been in the zone for awhile, actually. There are hiccups, sure, but I've been chill -- as evidenced, by nothing else, but the infrequency of my posts. I suppose you could argue that I've just been filling up my life with bullshit so I don't have to deal with things that are important, but well, fuck you. I think K. would agree to some degree.

Feel free to re-read the last paragraph. Especially the sentence that begins with "I suppose".

So why am I angry?

Well, let's see... the insinuation that I'm too dumb to realize that I have issues that need to be handled. Um, I'm handling them. Perhaps it's via dissonance and redirection, but you know what? Fuck drugs. Fuck anti-depressants, fuck pharma, fuck self-medicating, and fuck paying to have someone almost smile at you for $150 an hour. I'll take a beer (just one or two) and a textarea any day over that bullshit.

I don't recall being unhappy very often in the last three months. Or angry. Or depressed. Oh, yeah, until just now, when someone decided to tell me I was fucked up.

I never said I wasn't. Let me deal with it in my own way. If you want to suggest a tool, fine, do so. Hell, do it once a quarter for a year or three until you get tired of the routine and give up. Then go ahead and assume (or even hope) that I find my own way to nirvana.

I might even suggest (gasp) that you trust that I'll figure it out. I've done pretty good on my own, all by myself, without you, or your god, or your therapist, or your goddamn opinion thus far. One might even say, objectively, that I've done pretty well for myself. Imagine that.

In fact, if you need to divorce yourself from me because you can't handle "the negativity", or otherwise want to hang out with me less, that's even ok. I'll be pissed at you, I'll think you're kinduv a pussy (or, perhaps, just an idiot), I may flame you in this blog, and I'll miss you, but wtf. I will, at least, still respect you.

(Well, mostly.)

But don't hop up on a high horse and tell me that my life sucks. I already think that my life sucks often enough without any reminders. I mean, really! What the fuck was she thinking?

--

She accused me of being scared. Of girls. Well, no, more accurately, of an intimate relationship with a girl.

(Excuse me while I pick up my jaw from the floor.) You really think so? You don't say!

I'm sorry... ahem. So what?

(Never mind that I've been trying in recent memory despite that reticence. Jeez.)

--

While I'm ranting, can I point out that the presentation seemed an awful lot like "hey! you need to go to therapy so that you'll settle for some bimbo that you'd otherwise reject out of hand!"

So. In the several months that have passed since my return from vacation -- er, I mean, school (and anyone who thinks they worked harder in school than I do now clearly didn't deserve whatever degree they received. Privileged fuck!) -- I've come to the conclusion that, in spite my incessant question about the location of that strange book club where all the attractive, gym frequenting, articulate, educated, emotionally available, sexual, sensual, understanding twenty-something women of moderate maintenance level happens to be, there are, in fact, plenty of "almost" girls out there. I've been dating one for four months, in fact. Scratch the good-in-bed part, the gym bunny part, and... ok, she's got 'em covered. So, not too shabby. Solid settling material. Hell, I even think she'd be loyal and not cheat on me! Fancy that.

(Part of it was moving out of the valley. Sigh. Too bad I kinda like it there.)

Still, when did my mental health come into question as a reason to settle or not?

I'm sorry, did I miss something? I'm mentally handicapped because I want someone, oh let's see... who is like me? When did that become a sign of mental illness?

So, again, I ask, what the fuck was she thinking?

Goodbye AZ

I moved out of my place in Arizona yesterday.

1900 miles in 3 days. 1300 of them 19 hours yesterday.

It made me sad. Conflicted. I guess it was the physical manifestation of me giving up on the dream.

I will lie tomorrow like I lied yesterday. I'm better at it, perhaps -- I can talk about frat parties and dorm rooms. I can talk about all night study sessions and dumb roommates.

I can continue to lie.

Thanks, dad. You were successful in imprinting a little piece of your failed existence on me, after all.

--

Slutbag wrote me today. It was a mass email asking for advice on a volunteer program abroad where she'd get sponsored for her travel and lodging in exchange for her time.

Hmm, how about the Organization for the Survivors of Cheating Whores?

--

K, that's all. Life isn't really that bad. I'm just a little... irreverent. Perhaps.

Drunk drunk drunk. Drunk!

Yes, drunk. Some irishman offered me a pour of goldschlager and I took it. And he poured. And poured. And poured. I think I took on 8 shots at once. It was like a twenty second pour.

Ow.

And I'm drunk. And alone. Because you're honest when you're drunk, right, and honesty says that I love the people I trust so much more than they deserve and could give a fuck about everyone else... hot or not.

So. I miss Laura right now. Enough to go look at her myspace and note that I am nowhere to be found. That I am but her dirty little secret from three summers ago, a footnote in the great expanse of life, the google cache, and the universe.

I'm ok with that. But I still miss her.

Tear.

I miss Presh, too, even as I acknowledge that there's nothing to miss.

With either of them. They were nothing except some fanciful nightmare of dream trapped within my own head.

...says the hurting sensitivity of all that is Alfie to himself in hopes that he'll believe.

Negativity

Someone "told" me that a downer friend is no friend. That's bullshit. Fuck you. No warning, no comment, no constructive criticism. And you're supposed to be my friend.

Oops. Guess not. Guess I'm not good enough, or "up" enough, or positive enough.

Well, that's fucked up. You're NOT my friend. Maybe you never were. A friend pulls his buddy up.

A friend sticks around.

A friend announces when, how, and why if he needs to protect his boundaries. A friend who has sensitive boundaries shares them and asks his friend not to cross them. He doesn't just watch as they are crossed and then halts the friendship.

So, yeah, irreparable damage. I thought you were family. I thought you were around for a lifetime.

But, alas, you're... nothing but a girl. You leave for no reason. You leave when I actually need you. You leave when I believe you'll never ever leave, when the cynicism gives way to faith.

You leave. I come last, a footnote, a forgotten memory, a faint image, like a grainy vision or a distant shoreline in the fog.

You leave. And like all the other girls, I shall go on without you. I shall relish in my transactional relationships, whispering my negativity to the permanent record of the googlebot, alone with my superficial friends and the contracts they come with.

You will be added to the long list of people that left me for no reason. Who left me simply because I was me and shared all. Who promised and betrayed, who earned my trust and faith only to squander it, who, well, can suck a dick.

--

So, um, yeah. I miss my friend. But, frankly...

Fuck you all. Bitches.

--

PS This is for you, too, Ayla. Your paradise is never coming.

sigh

"The thing is, it's NOT that bad for me. It's NOT that bad to have mediocre sex with some random chick and feel slightly conflicted about her nuzzling up to me afterwardss. It's NOT that bad to smell her hair, and, instead of feeling a sense of home and completeness, try to determine whether it's Biolage or not. It's NOT that bad.

Because, you see, unlike you, that's better than normal. That's better than I've had in quite some time... maybe ever. It's not a step down or backward to have a fake sense of intimacy with someone like it is for you. It's a step up."

(said to a friend of mine recently when he expressed confusion at my contemplation of having a one night stand on my birthday. I didn't, btw.)

--

I went to a party tonight. I saw an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time -- a friend of the roommate of the girl who invited me (also an old friend). We went full circle... I knew Carlos, who knew X, who knew Y, who knew Michele, who rooms with Danielle, who is my friend. Six degrees, full circle. Nice.

It was good to see him.

D is Texas' older sister, though, and I found myself staring her straight in the face when I went to the rest room. I was up there, along with a dozen other smiling faces I knew all to well. And I missed. Not her, really. I missed being there, feeling her, feeling me feel her. I guess I missed feeling.

I stared at her, and she wasn't the little girl I remembered. She wasn't the memory of a memory I have. Nor was there an emotional response.

Just missing what it felt like to miss, maybe.

--

I got invited out on a boat ride tomorrow night. Perfect spot to seduce some little girl... invite her out, have some drinks, hang out with rich people, imply that "all of this can be yours if only [you can hold on to me]", then take her home and fuck the shit out of her.

And I thought about who I could invite, and I thought about how a good night's sleep sounds so much better.

Then I thought about just posting a unicorn ad on craigslist. Like an ad for an employee, only for a girlfriend.

"Must be emotionally available, be able to load weights on a leg press machine, witty/intelligent/educated, and 25-30. Pick any two. Me? I fill out your Cosmo quizzes nicely and your mom will like me."

Somehow I think I'll get a few fat chicks replying on an ad like that and nothing more. Quoth the Quagmyre, "hey, fat chicks need love too!"

Sure. Just not on my watch.

--

So, yeah, I'm sad tonight.

--

Oh, hey, Presh wrote me back. "Loved your email. Thank you very much."

Uh huh. Sure. I pine over you for a decade and that's what I get? Heh. She processed for a week and wrote THAT on my friggin Myspace comment/wall. Sheesh.

('sok. I wasn't expecting much more than that.)

--

Falling asleep. My melancholy will have to wait.

P.S.

If you happened to donate semen to my mother roughly 31 years and 9 months ago, I DON'T appreciate your call.

I deleted that message before the third word was spoken.

Frankly, if you would just hurry up and die, the world would be a better place, and four people I care deeply about would all be happier and healthier. I'm one one of them.

Go find your place with god. 'cause you ain't finding it here.

I sent it

"I've been wanting to tell you something for... oh I dunno. Over a decade?

(It's my birthday, you know, and I'm feeling sentimental. Go figure.)

You already know. I know you do. Just... I love you. Always have, and always will. Maybe not romantically, maybe not anything any more than at a distance, maybe only when songs from 1995 come on the radio, maybe only when I see popcorn ceilings and remember sanding yours with you and Amy, maybe just the random what-if and the little smile that comes up when I see a message from you on my birthday.

When you showed up in town last autumn, I didn't dare admit it, not to myself, let alone anyone else, but seeing you made me so very happy. I held my breath when you came in the room and (please don't tell) cried when you left.

Let's just say I wish I could have a coffee with you anytime I wanted. One day, a long time from now, I'd very much like it if the people we are now (and will become) could be friends again like we were then... taking time for granted, loving without knowing, knowing without feeling, not even realizing how innocent we were, nor how much life lie ahead, nor just how valuable those few short experiences were.

Until then, just know that someone, without contention, sans any selfishness or motive, loves you and wants you to be the very best person you can be -- happy, healthy, loved and in love, hopeful and content, joyous and awe-struck.

Promise.

May the world be your oyster and your soul be complete.

Always,

(alfie)"

Definitely, Maybe

I just ended a four-month relationship today.

Well, it wasn't technically a "relationship", because no titles were exchanged and I cut ties the week I started to feel that I wanted more. But I haven't slept with anyone else since running into her in December. And I have only been on one actual "date" since then, too.

With someone else, I mean.

Tonight I saw a great flick -- "Definitely, Maybe", with Ryan Reynolds. It was a chick flick for guys. Good thing I'm a gay man that likes vagina. And, you know, dislikes sleeping with dudes.

So, yeah, I enjoyed it thoroughly. It made me angry and sad, spawned laughter and tension, and pretty much all around hit me where it hurt. The dad thing, the girl thing, the cheating thing... it was all in there in one big Alfie-emo package. I highly recommend it to all you other sensitive new age guy (gay) vagina-lovers out there. It'll make you cry.

And, of course, it had the happy ending we all knew it would, even as we feigned disbelief in those final moments, even when it seemed like it might follow the troubled road of real life, that the girl would look at the boy and it would feel awkward rather than amazing, bittersweet instead of fairy-talish... Right before she jumped into his arms and they lived happily ever after.

And I looked over at the girl with me, my eyes all swollen with tears I was choking back, and I didn't feel anything towards her. And the "yeah, I don't know what's up with us... still figuring it out" sentiment that I've been noticing for the past month suddenly became, "nope, not so much."

Because you really want to watch a movie like that -- with a girl -- and think to yourself "maybe". If you get a "definitely" in front, that's of course a plus, but that maybe is key. No maybes for Alfie today, I'm afraid.

So. I have to admit that I'm thinking seriously about not dating at all for awhile. There really is not point except for sex, right? And since I haven't had great sex since... Thanksgiving. Sigh. It obviously isn't critical.

Simone was great. Smart, athletic, and... completely unavailable. She never missed me. Which is great if you're just dating to date, or go through the motions, or want slightly-attached sex once every week or so.

But I want more. If it's unattached sex, then it has to be really great sex, goddamn it.

Oh, yeah, and if I'm gonna date a chick "for real", then I want to be appreciated, missed, and wanted. Not needed, mind you -- if she needs me around to feel whole, that's fucked up. But shit. If I'm investing this much time in something, it better be either amazingly fun (you want to do what?) or have potential for meaning.

If it's not either of those, I'd rather be hanging out with the guys or billing. Fun or productive, dammit. That's really all I have the patience for.

--

All of that being said, I wonder if I have an April (movie reference). Presh? Humph. Maybe I should (ahem) tell her. You know, about loving her since that church-sanctioned slow dance when we were sixteen. Or whenever that was.

--

S. said she related to one of the uncool chicks in the flick. She identified with her for choosing work over a man. Her man, who just so happened (in the flick) to have 2 carats in his pocket just as she put him in last place.

Last place. That was my line today. She said that we should hang out. I recall acting surprised. "Why would you think I didn't want to hang out?" she asked.

Oh, nothing in particular. I've just kinda noticed that I'm in last place these days.

"Last place? Oh, well, sorry. I've been busy. Besides, it's not like you called ME back yesterday."

And I didn't. But a guy has to retake his power back, and after being flaked on, I really didn't care what she was doing on Saturday night. I was busy watching the UNC game and drinking beer. Far more productive AND fun. Psssh.

I was mad at her. I was mad because I felt -- feel -- that I deserve better.

--

So the movie started, more or less, with the dude's first love telling him she cheated on him just as he's getting down on one knee. I ran to the restroom during her "explanation". Kinda made me mad. Angry.

Interestingly, I was almost confused when the second girl chose work over him. I remember wondering why he so quickly and categorically axed her from his life. But maybe that's my own insanity coming out... because, really, I made the same call just a few hours ago in real life. I want to be close to the top of the list. I'll play teeter-totter with work, sure, but when it comes right down to it, I deserve to be at the top of a rather short list. I'll even work for it, but it has to be possible. And I don't think it is for S.

I wonder, actually, if it's possible for anyone. Anyone who has been burned, at least. Which is, you know, pretty much everyone old enough to hold a decent conversation. Maybe I should go back to AZ. Heh.

--

So how's this?

Hey there,

I hope this finds you well. It's hard to believe that your visit was six months ago -- it seems so much more recent than that.

I'm not writing just to say hello, I'm afraid. There's something I need to confess.

I've thought of you often over the years -- always fondly, always wondering where you were and how you were doing, hoping you were happy or at least enjoying yourself. There's several songs that remind me of you, in fact, and I remember you every single time I hear them. Someday I'll have to tell you which ones they are.

The things is... (gulp) When you came, I saw that you were happy. I saw you, a woman I barely knew, but whom within there was a girl I adored, and I saw that there was little to hide and much to share. I wish that we'd had more time to catch up.

When I think of you, I wish you happiness more than anything else. It comes before what you're doing. It comes before where you are. And it definitely comes before the "what if" questions that sometimes wander through my head.

Because, you see, those "what ifs" are my confession. I must preface it, of course, with the realization that I hardly know the person you are today, that you hardly know me, that you're a half-world away, that you love someone else, and all the rest of it. This isn't some sort of call to action nor some nostalgia for remnants of younger days.

So here it is. I've never thought of you as "the one that got away" or "damn, we shoulda...". I nevertheless have loved you since we were 16. Or you were 15 and I was 17. Or whatever the heck it was. Since slow-dancing in Delia's living room. Since those one or two times I turned up at Sunday meeting and you were there. Since Capitola with Heidi and Kendra. Since sanding your ceiling 'til 4am and painting clouds n' rainbows. And no, of course I didn't know at the time. How could I have? I didn't realize it, actually, until I saw you last fall. But I did. And I do wonder what might have resulted if either of us had made different decisions.

That's all I have to say about that. I hope you remain happy and healthy wherever you are, enjoying a full and beautiful life. I have no expectations. The mature cynic in me, in fact, thinks it foolish to even bring it up. I suppose I "just wanted you to know".

Disclaimers aside, if you ever find yourself feeling like you don't belong, feeling lost or alone, feeling without a god, country, or home, please, please show up on my doorstep.

--

Pssh. I'm not gonna send that shit. Phuck that.

Choices

(Wrote this on Jan 6, while still back in Cali -- just found it on my laptop. Not sure why I wouldn't have just posted it right away... oh, yeah. I was in Sac and didn't have a connection.)

My life these days is full of transactional relationships. I don't remember deciding that's what I wanted. Nor do I remember making choices to that effect.

Yet, here I am, with contracts that launch, consume my life, then drift off. Relationships start and the girl disappears just as I'm most excited to see her.

I go out with an amazing girl that might just be capable of enjoying me instead of running from my tendency to be too nice, and she's leaving for six months next week.

I meet an almost-doctor, who is tall, funny, responsible, and a great kisser, but alas, outside situations block even the transactional intimacy we both wanted. (Yes, I got cock-blocked. By her friend, and, to a lesser extent, mine. Bleah!) And within the week we'll be back to our respective homes in states 1800 miles apart.

Every day we choose. Every day we move towards something, even if it's by inaction. I chose to be an undergrad. I chose to be financially independent. I even chose to invest in women who were poor mate choices.

But I don't remember choosing this. I started out with nothing consistent and sought out everything dependable -- everything in my life was based on the long term outlook.

And yet, here I am, with future income in question, with women who might come back and spend the summer with me, and with the perchance to dream about what might become. Or have been.

I don't know how I got here, but perhaps this is the result of choosing not to accept all those non-interesting women who I pushed away. Perhaps I'm choosing to see the merit of those women who can't be had because it (cough cliche cough*) is safe, drama free, and allowed to be perfect in my mind for as long as I let it.

Mmm. No. Fuck that. That Lauren felt emotionally amazing or that SBH and I had phenomenal chemistry has nothing to do with where they were in the world or contributed to the transactional nature of those relationships.

Maybe it's that all relationships are transactional until proven otherwise. Friends get close, share an extended period of time together, then drift apart. That is simply the experience of life. Women come into my life, and we have fun, possibly sprinkle in a little disappointment, and go on their way. Eventually, perhaps, like the real friends I have who remain my friends even across distance, in spite of changes in work affiliation, marriage, or residence, some woman will simply remain present long enough so that I'll forget what it was like when she wasn't there.

I don't like that, however. I don't like feeling like there is a limit to my ability to choose. I don't like the idea that it's not something I can seek out, something I can identify, or even achieve.

I don't want a woman to just be around "long enough". I want to choose someone and have her stay because we both want it.

Is that unrealistic?

I was just thinking about my productivity level when laura was around. She only wanted me around like two nights a week. She blamed it on the distance... which was, actually, somewhat of an issue. Sorta.

So, I got all the space I needed to work out and had plenty of time to do my side biz stuff. It was actually a pretty cool spot. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. If she'd just pumped me up a little... and you know, not cheated...

I'd have married that girl in a heartbeat. I think she had it in her to do the pumping-up part, she just wasn't forthcoming because of her own trust issues (or, perhaps, BECAUSE she was cheating).

From a purely objective viewpoint, it's "too bad".

Aside from the fact that she's a slutbag, of course.

--

I feel sad. It could be the date with an amazingly hot girl I had tonight... that I know I botched. I was too nice. Too hopeful. Too JJ. Not enough Alfie.

It could be because I've had a couple of glasses of wine. Alone (uh oh?).

It could be because, after having two glasses of wine, I through on the Garden State soundtrack with some Coldplay mixed in for good measure.

That shit would make a speedfreak look like a pothead. Heh.

--

She IM'd me on Gtalk a couple of days ago. She sent me a link to a blog post by Seth Godin, the purple cow guy. Which I guess goes to show you that she still thinks of me. Or something like that.

She doesn't know.

That I hate her.

That every time she reaches out I want to claw her eyes out. Or maybe just mine.

It makes me want to beat up my dad and scream at the top of my lungs and climb mountains alone.

It makes me want to grit my teeth and... cry.

It makes me want to cling to the anger because it's more familiar, more safe, more averse to ridicule than mere, raw, honest tears.

It makes me want to flake on commitments and just disappear.

It makes me want to die. A little.

--

Maybe I should tell her. It would be easy, of course. One link to this blog and she'd never reach out again. She'd feel terrible for a solid day and a half. She'd wonder about me less and less, because I would no longer be the one she let get away.

NO.

It is a more perfect world without me punishing her. Her own guilt is worse punishment than I can give her.

Her wondering about me, however often she does, with the belief that she fucked it up, is so very much more powerful than anything I could ever say, do, or possibly convey.

Let her live with her own crimes. And let me never absolve her of it.

--

I just wish my dad had the same guilt. I wish he was cogent and sane enough to understand just how evil he is. The world would be a better place were he to feel that guilt.

--

Anger. My sadness has turned to the harsh, angry exterior I cling to. The cynicism, the callouses, the shell.

The problem is. The problem. The problem is that the experience of the pain doesn't actually seem to help. Revisiting the pain, and holding it, touching it, owning it... emoting it... it doesn't actually DO anything. It just creates a bad day.

My shell isn't so bad. Maybe I like it. Maybe I'll stick with it. Maybe it's fine, maybe I don't need to cry for the next five years so that I can be happy afterwards.

Maybe such extreme approaches aren't really necessary.

--

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz buzz says that little part in the back of my head telling me I'm wrong. Telling me that at the other end of emotional tumult is the high of reality.

Except that it isn't real. I don't have faith in that anymore.

I suppose, in historical, demographical terms, I'm approaching middle age, so perhaps this transition in paradigm makes sense. The world is not what is ahead any longer; it is what is right now. I don't have time for drama, so just stick to the status quo that is my tortoise shell. Sure, I drag around a ton of baggage... fuck it. It is what it is, make the best of it.

"Best". Humph.

IS this my best? Is this anyone's best? What is best?

--

This three buck chuck I'm sipping right now is really bad. I need to drop another $500 on a case or three from Napa. YUCK.

It's pretty bad when you're on the LAST glass of a bottle and it still hurts to choke down. Bleah!

--

In other news

Was just reading through old posts and saw the one that mentioned Mary Jam.

She got married to a 20 year old from New York. Yeah, the girl I slept with (last) the day before Thanksgiving. The one with the orange coat.

Her Thanksgiving was in NY. My guess is that she met him there, because I spoke to her only once after she got back. Never saw her.

She stopped returning my calls and texts after I got back from AZ in December, so she was in-process by 12/15.

Fucking amazing, huh?

Dad Issues

I recently discovered a collection of 90s music on amazon. Or something like that.

Anyway, the point is, the 15 or so tracks for each of the years 1990-99 are my tapestry. I know every single song. Pretty much all the words, certainly the melody, and usually the song and the year it was released to boot. I'm often a year later in my guesses, mostly, I think, because the music got radio play in the year following release.

Some of them remind me of girls. A lot of them remind me of the skating rink. Just as many remind me of the two houses (they moved a lot then) where my cousins lived in those days. And a few more -- the older stuff from junior high school, especially, reminds me of my parents house.

Of my father. Of my bedroom, of being alone, without friends, or hope, or even the glimmer of truth that maybe there would be a way out eventually.

And as I lay here for the past hour, remembering going to movies alone in the summer time, remembering programming my Apple II alone, remembering reading voraciously absence TV, peers, and sports in the vacuum my father created so that he could brainwash and control.

I remember the golf club and the neverending hatred. (see the past post about dad trying to kill me for the golf club reference.)

And I imagined, tonight, going to his house in the present day. I imagined being alone, then I realized that I, perhaps, am not strong enough to do that. Well, actually, I didn't realize it until just now, writing about it. At any rate, I then imagined my brother and sister there with me, because I can so easily see myself defending them with fervor, grace, and even (mostly) maturity.

I imagined letting my sister talk. I imagine telling him to shut up. Calling him terrible things as he continues to interrupt her.

I imagine telling him that if he doesn't shut up, I'll make him. And then I imagine him challenging my manhood, trying to pull some sort of power trip like he used to. Pull something that always worked before.

And then I imagine pointing out that he claims to never remember the terrible things he did, about how he denies all of it. And then I say, "well, I won't do anything that you never did to me."

And then I ask him if he still can't remember.

And then I ask him if he still has a set of golf clubs. I find one of the irons, and I pull it out and I swing it towards him, not hitting him, and I ask if he remembers any scene like this in his mind's eye.

But, even in my insomnia-driven nighttime daymare, I can't do it. Even squeezing my pillow and shaking, adrenaline rushing through my tightening veins as I relive that terrible, terrible age, I can't swing it.

I want to say, "let's see if your reflexes are as fast as mine were at 15!" and swing it at his head. I want to wind up and swing that bitch with all my might, hoping even as I can't do it that he won't be able to block it.

But I can't do it.

And even in my dream, I fake the swing and then hit the wall with it. I hit it hard against a corner of a wall or table, because I want to see it bend. I want to hold it in my hands and swing it hard enough to see it bend in one swing to a 70 degree angle like he did to me against my 15 year old forearm.

I want to know what it felt like. I want to know how hard he hit me. I want to know if it really would have killed me or not.

I want to know if he remembers.

Holy shit. Maybe this is why I don't play golf.

Can't Sleep, Time to ramble.

Someone said I sound like David Sedaris the other day. I was rambling a bit, talking about something actually mildly depressing, but in a matter-of-fact way that poked fun at the fact that it was depressing. Purposefully ironic, I suppose. Yeah, I guess that's Sedaris.

I felt complimented.

My google ads are down. Yay. I won't make my twenty bucks this month. Yawn. Apparently once they finally have enough to actually warrant paying you, they require that you actually verify your home address. Since I don't actually HAVE a home address, I never bothered to get that done. Fancy that. Guess good ol' mom'll have to email me the Goog PIN number when it arrives in the mail.

Super secure.

Been back at university now for a few days. Basically haven't left the house. It was kinda stunning to realize that I don't really have any friends here. I called the dozen or so girls that I started ignoring in November when I dropped off the radar, and surprise! most of them didn't call me back. I got three or four return contacts of some kind (facebook/text/call), but by the time they did I didn't really want to bother.

Then I totally flaked on a party last night. And the night before. Sigh. What's that feeling? Fish out of water? Tired all the time? Surprised when I look in the mirror?

Old.

I need some sun. And some sleep. I'm pale and have dark circles under my eyes. The ones that have been there since November. Yay.

SBH called tonight. It was awkward, then forced, then finally almost-relaxed. A subtle reminder, perhaps, about how shockingly little we have in common. Or that, perhaps, we're both depressed bitches over the holidays and it's the first time either of us has actually talked to anyone in weeks. Maybe that's it. Without that whole ulterior motive thing, anyway.

I miss her.

There's an 8am class I should probably try to get into in about 90 minutes here. Do I really wanna get up and try to do this? Or should I try to get into the time slot I'd prefer tomorrow and then go to an 8am next week if I don't get in? Sigh. I probably won't go to any of them in either event anyway. Who am i kidding. It's a stats class I could've passed in 8th grade. Oh, wait. Maybe there will be cute chicks in class. That IS why I'm here.

Grunt. Chicks.

Grunt.

I miss something. I'm just not sure what. Or who. Or how.

I remember, rationally, feeling amazing when I got back from Texas fling last year. I remember wanting to hold onto that and rejecting everything that had been getting me by, which of course sent me into a minor tailspin.

I remember, then, feeling like I was forgetting something. An emotion, perhaps, or some feeling of belonging. I wanted to hold onto it so I could go after it when I saw it again.

Well, I forgot. I don't even remember what it was I was trying to remember. Sweet!

Ignorance is bliss, after all.

I took one of those random IQ tests online a little while ago. I'm tired, and I wasn't really in the groove, but I scored pretty low. Well, no, not actually low, but low for me. Drinking really does kill brain cells. I'm living proof!

So if ignorance is bliss and alcohol makes you dumber, maybe you really can drink yourself to happiness.

Hmmm. We shall see. I'm dropping, what, 2 IQ points a year? Sweet. I'll be average by the time I'm 45. Should be able to find me a picket fence and "normal" chick, then. Cuz I won't be bored anymore. Heh.

I was just thinking about how I wished I had a girl in bed next to me right this minute. And then I thought, well, no... actually. Several faces popped into my head, and with most of them, I'm glad I'm alone right now. LOL.

I wonder if that's a catalyst or a result. The ability to sleep together. Like... for the bedmates one has where everything just fits (after the dirty fitting is, ahem, fitted, I mean), and you both have the same patterns, like needing a sheet or not, or each wanting your own blanket, or if you're both side sleepers, etc. I wonder if you have chemistry elsewhere and that just falls into place, if it actually effects your feelings about the other person, or if it's completely irrelevant.

I think that there is a correlation between level of emotional attachment and that chemistry. I've had the same girl feel like an extension of my own body one week and completely distant the next. Like sleeping with your buddy in a tent kinda distant. It's fine, not a big deal, but yeah, you'd really be more comfortable if you each had your own double.

The worst is when you want her to leave you alone and she just won't... stop... trying... to cuddle. When you wake up, cold, without a blanket, with no pillow and 8 inches of mattress on a king size bed. Jeeeezus, girl. What, did ya sleep with your mom til you were 19? daaaamn.

Cuddling is cute. Smothering isn't.

OK, I'm feeling tired now. Good thing my class starts in 80 minutes. (yawn)

Happy New Year

So there are, what, 6 regular readers? There's probably one or two women who check up on me once or twice a quarter just so they can feel jaded again.

There's two good friends of mine, one with whom I share IPAs and another who works as hard (or at least as late) as I do.

And there's the christian, who said he had to delete the RSS feed a few days ago when he couldn't bare to read my last post about hating women. C'est la vie, my friend.

There's the good friend who isn't a friend because her religion says so. How's that arms-length observation treating you, A?

Anyway. Happy New Year.

--

So I don't have any resolutions. And unlike every year in recent memory, I'm not depressed today. I don't care about the woman that is not in my life but was on Thanksgiving (always happens). I was a grinch this year and it was fine... almost enjoyable, in fact, although that is, perhaps, a relative judgment. (And against the sentiment that it would take a month for anyone to even actually find me if I never woke up one day, well, working on xmas is pretty goddamn awesome.)

Life is... well. Good.

--

So I'd like to do something cathartic today instead of just an expression of raw emotion. I've been thinking about therapy, about what it would entail, about if it would actually help my mindset or my situation, and about what I'd talk about in the first six weeks, which is all just get-to-know-you bullshit anyway.

I think I need to get some shit off my chest. I need to write a few letters. They need not be read (indeed, I don't even know who you are, unless you happen to be mentioned 7 paragraphs up). They need not even be true as I write them, as admittedly many of the things I say here aren't. (Well, they are, but sometimes they expire as soon as they're expressed.)

So anyway. I'm makin' a list and I'm checkin' it twice. But this is only of the naughties:

Laura the slutbag.

Dad.

Maybe:

Mom.

Amanda.

--

Here we go. No time like the present.

Laura,

I hate you. No, really. I've thought about this for two years. I've fought it, I've taken it on myself, and I've replayed my life, my actions, and my betrayal ten thousand times each.

It was not my fault. It was nothing I did. It was not that I was too nice, or a doormat, or not present enough, or looked at you at times as a consolation prize. It was not because I was did not hold you on high and fell in love with you not because you were emotionally available and selfless but because simply that you were always there.

I confused "always there" with "always there for me" for two years. I was wrong. That was my mistake and the reality that I must face.

I was a fool. A fool to love you, a fool to love you, and a fool to let myself be vulnerable to you. I saw your presence as a form of love, and while the good man that is left inside me can reach far and stretch to imagine that it was "your version" of love, I really don't give a fuck.

I may have entered our relationship with expectations that were a little less than completely healthy. I wanted the fairy tale, then I wanted anyone, then, finally, noticing that you were always there, I thought that would be enough.

And you were always there. When you wanted to be, which was almost all of the time. You just weren't there for ME. You were there for selfish reasons.

You were there because I treated you well. Because I stimulated you on multiple levels. Because of what I could do for you.

You were never there because you loved me.

In retrospect, of course I should never have seen you as more than a fuck buddy. We had a great time in those days, and I was free to still discover just how few single women of quality there were in the east bay.

Of course I should've seen you as nothing more than a selfish girl. You never wanted to talk about "real" things except to dismiss my hunger for emotional connection. Even if it was with you. Especially if it was with you.

Not until long after you uttered "I love you" were you ever willing to even acknowledge that I had what you called "dad issues". Even then, it was not comfort you offered, but condemnation.

I was good to you until the end. To this day, sometimes, I still wonder, in fact. If I were a stronger man, if I could find it in my heart to ever forgive you... etc.

But you know what? I shouldn't have been good to you. I should've told the truth.

The truth is, there's a word to describe you, your behavior, and what you did to me. Or, perhaps, there is a word for the first two. The last one...

You're a whore. You disgust me. I am ashamed that I ever loved you. I feel stupid because I allowed you to hurt me so badly, so sharply, and so deeply.

What you did makes you a whore. What you did to me, a man that adored you, a man that made you strive to be a better person than you wanted to be, a man that treated you better than any woman I've ever met deserves to be treated, makes you something far worse. I cannot think of a word bad enough to attribute to you. "Cunt" comes to mind, but even that just isn't bad enough. It only has shock value.

I truly, honestly, and although it pains me to admit it, hope that you, in fact, are NOT happy. I hope that you feel the pain that I did, that I still feel when I think about it, about you, and about the shadow of a man I am and have become because of you.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but I hope you suffer. I hope that a place like hell exists just so terrible, selfish, cruel people like you go there. I hope that an eternal soul exists just so that you can burn forever.

I miss the person I used to be, Laura. I miss the willingness to hope, the faith in fairy tales, the lack of fear with which I approached relationships with women. I miss, so badly, the comfortable place, even while being completely lonely, that pre-Laura version of me lived in. I miss looking at women not with suspicion, an eye towards conquest, or simply derision, but instead the genuine, magnanimous position I once enjoyed.

And it's your fault. I've been over and over and over this, and I've taken the blame a thousand times, whether it was knowing better than to fall for you or simply not letting what you did bother me -- change me -- so much. And while I'd really like to take the higher road and say that I'm responsible, that I'm a grown up and have to manage the consequences of my own actions... fuck that.

You're a whore, and YOU did this. You broke the rules. You said you love me and made it a lie. You fucked up.

You changed me. Not me. I was good to you. The evil in me today is mostly BECAUSE of you. And yes, while I am an adult and have to live with, get through, and ultimately "deal" with all of this, you did this to me.

It's not my fault. Abused kids are not bad kids.

Men who are cheated on are not inherently weak, bad, or stupid. It is not a lack of masculinity, a lack of sexual prowess, an affinity for turning the other cheek too often, or any other such loosely related bullshit. It is not that I was stupid, that I was not good enough, or that I wasn't making you cum.

It is not that I could not or did not provide anything and everything you ever wanted enough to even articulate within the confines of your own selfish skull.

It is not me.

It was not me.

It has never been, never was, and never could be me. There is no rationalizing this point. There is no negotiation, no what-if exercises, no wondering, no debate.

You said you loved me. You said you were loyal. You betrayed me.

For that, I hope you burn in hell. I hope you think of me every holiday and feel remorse. I hope you masturbate to my memory and then feel foolish because you can never know my touch again. I hope you die young, alone, "independent" in your stupid fucking "city girl" ways and no one cries at your funeral.

I hope that you never ever know love. Not the apparently unrequited version that I gave you, not some superficial version that seems rampant in SF, not even the arms-length version that you and I played for so long before you set the stage for your betrayal by telling me sweet nothings. Nothings that were, after all was said and done, so very very far from nothing and so very much the antithesis of everything I had ever expected -- from you, from a woman, from anyone. Let alone hoped and dreamed.

I would be a better man had I never met you, Laura. There was no "lesson" there. There was nothing I learned that made me grow or otherwise change in a positive way.

"You go to hell! You go to hell and you die!"

Whore.