(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?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
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!
--
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!
--
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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)
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)
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
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.
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.
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