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!

--