Today is somebody's birthday

I know because facebook tells me so.

I know because I got invited to a party and I didn't go.

Today I am a little less frat boy and a little more outlier.

A little more lonesome.

--

Mel wrote. She called, too, about six weeks ago. From her office phone, which I don't think she realized I had saved.

I may have deleted it since. I don't remember. It made me hold my breath when I saw the call come in. But then she didn't leave a message. It was only the sound of a phone hanging up.

You'd think when you're feeling your heart break all over again you'd actually hear something different.

But c'est la vie, right?

--

I miss her. I don't want to admit it, because I wish I could hate her, but I do. And I don't. Hate her, that is, even though she surely deserves it.

I miss Kim, too, even though she's de facto married and a million miles away. "We live in Concord together" she told another acquaintance that I overheard by way of facebook.

I would not have thought it would hurt so much.

It is surely better that I am not reading Mel's blog, not actively wondering, not seeking, not knowing.

It would hurt a lot too. More than a lot.

Did I ask too much? Did I disappoint you? Did I leave a bad taste in your mouth? Is it too late tonight to drag  the past out into the light?

--

Probably. I probably did. Disappoint. All of them.

Mama's love passed on. I'd love if... if you weren't married. If you were more considerate. If you were blonder. If you were more sexually free. If you challenged me more. If you were smarter. If you were hotter. If you were more supportive. If, if, if.

If you only loved the same god I do.

Oh, wait, no, that's not it, is it?

If I were capable of it. Her, I mean, not me.

Maybe the mirror is still present. Maybe I don't know how to, either.

Or, like I've said many times before, maybe I just like the pain. Maybe I like the loneliness. Maybe the absence of meaningful connection is now so strongly normal and habitual that I cannot change it.

I still miss them. All of them, a little, but especially the ones I loved. The Amandas and Lauras and Kims and... fucking married chicks.

Sigh.

It will pass. I won't remember what their embrace felt like first... it's long gone with Amanda, for instance... and then their look of affection -- every girl has one -- and then how sex with them, it's own unique and special flavor, felt. And finally, last to go, you forget their smell, their sayings, and finally, their touch altogether. Even the fleeting moments, like the way they looked at you the first time they knew you were getting under their skin, that were memorable and pure...

Gone. It will all be gone.

--

Stupid question?

Why don't you ever realize the brevity of meaningful relationships as they are happening? Why does it always seem like you might feel that way forever? That it could be real? That maybe, just maybe, it might actually last and become the new normal?

Why don't I ever realize?

Sigh. Sometimes I do. Hell, I usually do. And I don't care, because it feels so fucking great. Those few precious moments are worth it.

--

I'm still sad. I don't want to socialize, I don't want to go out, I don't want to date, and I don't want to change it.

(!)

But I am still sad. It's normal, and I'm used to it, and times are not that dire, but the melancholy, the loneliness, and the hopelessness remain. There will be no progeny from me. There will be no wife someday. There will be only the ex-girlfriends. The count will grow, the notches will continue to multiply, and the list of names will continue to extend.

But I will always be alone and sad in December.

Always.

:-(

Things you want to say... but don't.

Hi there.

You've caught me at a pensive moment. Or, rather, your profile has. Apologies in advance. At least you know what you're in for if you reply.

There are those profiles that that make one go "wow". Then you read. And you realize that you'd HATE this person. Ok, yeah, hate is a strong word, but you know what I mean... hate in that "you're really pretty and I'd soo enjoy your company more if you just closed your mouth and stopped talking."

That pretty much counts as "hate" (insert air quotes here) in this context, right?

And there there are the ones where you think "hmm. Yeah, that could work. I'd probably break her heart in three months, though."

Pass.

Usually, given moments of desperation (or just exhaustion, I'll opt for the former. But it's really all just a pacifier for what we're really after. Or, at least, what we all like to think we're after. (A pity that they are so often different things, isn't it?)

And then, occasionally, once in a blue moon, you'll run across a profile that you're actually afraid to reply to. There's this little bit of fear, because, you see, it would just be too perfect... same town, similar outlooks, hotness factor, and their profile makes you laugh out loud. And, to be completely honest, truth be told, (insert yet another silly cliche here), you'd probably blow it.

And then, naturally, you actually DO blow it with some long silly email that really should have showed up on the Craigslist rant page. Uhhhm. (looks around nonchalantly)

--

(No, truth be told, I'm not sure if any of the last bit is actually true. Such is the nature of flirting in the Gen Y era.)

I finally read.

I wasn't sure what I'd find. I found more than I thought possible.

Can I link to it? Would that be ok? Would privacy be lost or trust betrayed?

Tre has been writing for a long time.

A lot of it is about me. A lot of it isn't.

A great deal more is about me than I was ever aware of -- even after the heartfelt letter she wrote me a few short weeks ago.

I don't know what to say.

--

I wanted to comment, but it felt like not enough. I wanted to explain "those girls on facebook are my cousins!" and "those people in Tahoe are coworkers and colleagues!" I wanted to ask for some sort of absolution for seeming improprieties... even though I actually have done nothing wrong.

Except, perhaps, for the lack of courtesy regarding her feelings... unbeknownst or not.

--

I knew on July 4. I didn't "know know" in the sense of the "L" word, the breadth and depth, the rawness of it all. But I knew.

I was in love with Melissa. I was willing to see you (hmm, guess I've switched audiences), because I knew that it was wise for me to get out of love with her.

I knew you were crushing and had been, at least sporadically, for a long time. You started to say something that day like "you mean more to me than..." but I don't remember the rest. I don't think you finished the sentence.

But we were both drunk, then, and it was a holiday, and I've always wondered, and you're a grown up, and even though I didn't love you back, I thought it would be a positive experience.

To be honest, part of me is glad it didn't work out. I do think that we'd have had a great time, and it certainly would have been less costly than what happened instead, but the reality of consummating those emotions while retaining many of the unrequited aspects... instead of being the distant stuff of daydreams and occasional pining, I might be the recipient of four letter words and a catalyst for even more cynicism.

And that would suck.

I think that, honestly, a part of me has pushed you away this whole year because I didn't want that. Better to be the subject of curiosity and wonder than a catalyst for cynicism. The world has enough of that.

I don't know what to say. I think that I might be getting better at the whole "blink" thing when it comes to potential mates. Just as a girl knows in 30 seconds whether she'd fuck a guy, I'm starting to believe I can make those calls about ladies in a date or two. The ones I actually date still represent a great deal of confusion, but when I know that I'm not going to be "the one", it's coming ever more quickly.

I'll never love you back quite like that, Tre. I'll never want to go to a Karaoke and belt out some 90s R&B in your honor. We could have a great time, and it might -- heck, probably -- be an enriching experience that teaches us both a great deal with very little in the way of "payment" that is heartbreak or betrayal.

But I'm not the one. And from what I know of you -- mostly through our interactions, but now, too, through the blog -- despite your actions to the contrary, you want/intend/desire to be an all or nothing girl. You got angry with me several times because I was temporary. Well, everyone is temporary... until they aren't. And even then, life is pretty friggin' short.

But I digress. This is a tangential argument -- the notion that sex involves "giving" something on the part of the girl, and "taking" something on the part of the guy. Lame. And even purportedly liberal, empowered, feminist women subscribe to this. Like I'm somehow going to like you more if I can't fuck you.

It's actually the opposite. With the exception of the virginal, almost-pure love I felt for Preciouse, I've never loved any girl until after sex. Usually quite a bit of it. Good sex helps me fall in love; bad sex prevents me from falling or pushes me out of it. No sex just makes me frustrated and actually think less of the girl (usually -- I'm not talking about "waiting til the X date" or "taking time to get to know each other", I'm talking about a gal denying herself even though she really wants to have sex just as much, or more, than I do).

But enough of that tangent. If you're really all or nothing -- then it's gotta be nothing. Because I already know.

And I guess, all silly arguments about sex, or whether or not I'm really charming or simply manipulative, or whether or not you really love me this much, or why it is that we never seem to actually hook up even though we've been dancing around it for years now... I guess that this is it.

I am sorry. Really.

:-(

Mama

I forgive you for all that you did.

I forgive you for all that you didn't.

I don't forgive you for today.

Today you judge me because I don't love your god. Today you love me less because I hurt, because I reject your doctrine, because I carry cynicism, because I feel not your great fictional father in the sky.

Today you reject me. Today you tell me, with action, not words, that I am not your son. Today I am last week's fodder, leftovers from a life you've left behind, an almost-human that was once one in which you placed hope, faith, care, and love.

Today I am nothing to you. Today I am but the sum of the parts that I can manage all alone, without you, without the strength you were supposed to give me.

Then. Now.

And everything in between.

Today I still cry. Today I still want the love you held from me every moment I dared exert my individuality. Today I still need you. Today I could use your faith, your trust, your endorsement, and your support.

Today I feel nothing. Today I have nothing.

You may as well  not even try. You're "I'd love you if only" is almost worse than if you weren't there at all.

Today... today I miss, and I (will) cry, and I end my day alone.

Always alone. The world may be my oyster, but I shall consume it alone. No one could ever love me enough.

Here they come. The tears, I mean...

Autumn has arrived.

...and with it, the set in of melancholy.

Much of it, to be sure, is the insane hours I've been pulling lately. I'm exhausted.

Tonight I played ball for almost four hours. And yet afterwards, I felt the urge to pour a glass (bottle? not quite yet) of wine. I should be happy... and indeed, it did bump me from a state of depression to a feeling of wholeness.

I don't miss Mel much.

I have found myself missing Kim quite a bit lately.

And I'm still dating Brie. No, I don't know why. I don't want to hang out. I don't want to have sex with her. And I don't want to hurt her [by sticking around and letting her fall in love with me... more].

The DDS is out there... we've lost touch. I hurt her, she called back anyway, we traded some voice mail, and it has since past into the night.

I miss her... a little. In the way that you miss good sex with someone new, not in the way that you miss someone you love. Not like I miss... even Mel. Not like Kim. Not like any of the real girlfriends. But still.

Brie is soooo not what I want. Wtf am I doing? Ugggh.

--

So. Here I sit, depressed and self-medicating. Again. On a random Tuesday.

Do I still miss Mel? Yes. It's easy to hate her, though, because of how so very quickly she was gone. It's not like she loved me for real, right? I suppose I was, in the end, just a fool.

So be it. I don't mind being the fool. I can mostly afford it.

--

A little part of me wonders if it's simply too late.

Part of being happy -- or, (wince), simply surviving -- is finding solace and acceptance in the cards that are dealt. People can be happy working hard at jobs they don't enjoy, with mates they don't cherish, and with hopes that have long since been quelled for the harsh reality of the life that is given them.

I've probably said this many times. It may be that I'm so used to being single and alone that I don't know how not to be.

Maybe that's why the fleeting moments with a girl that isn't (wasn't) mine felt so great. Maybe just the act of believing -- nay, fantasizing -- was a respite from the harsh (relieving?) loneliness that is reality.

That makes me a little angry. Pondering it, that is.

Fuck that.

What? Yeah, I dunno either. I'm confused, too. I'm not sure. I just feel mildly angry now...

It's not at Mel. It's not at Brie. It's not at the world. It's not at women.

I suppose I'm angry at myself for... ummm.

It passed. I'm not angry any longer. Just tired. Just alone.

And I kinda like it. Don't tell, ok?

--

No one can put pressure on you when you're alone.

No one can try to compete with the gym, with work, or with you when you're alone.

No one can prevent you from banging a reasonably hot DDS for hours at a time on Saturday nights when you're alone.

No one can call you on your shit when you're alone.

I miss that. Yet I like it. It's complicated. Just like the "marital status" select-list in my baby. (Yes, just like on Facebook, you can choose "It's complicated" to designate the marital status of a contact in MC)

--

I hate being old(er) when I can't dunk anymore. I hate it when it's 8pm and I really should go work out but a glass of wine and bed at 9 seems like a reasonable alternative.

I love it when I realize I don't give a shit. I can handle Mel drama. I can handle 6+ direct reports. I can handle a business partner that lies. I can handle 15+ tenants. I can handle stress, juggle tasks, and look enemies in the eye all on the same day and still land on my feet.

One of the joys of being over 30 is that you realize how little stupid shit matters.

And most of it is, actually, stupid shit.

The sky will always be falling for someone.

The world will always be collapsing for someone.

Some of these people pay you. Some of them love you. Some of them cry when you leave. And some of them leave you and make you cry.

But it doesn't actually matter.

Because, at the end of the day, I have my blog. I have my simple needs. I have my brain and my looks to fall back on. I have people that believe in me, even when I tell them they can't have something.

And as much as I stress out, I deal with significantly more BS than anyone I've ever met.

Someday I'll meet Bill and Warren. Someday I'll ask them what it was like to build shit from scratch. I'll relate my experiences, I'll convey that the shit is harder than I ever imagined, that as an entrepreneur I ended up sacrificing more than I ever thought humanly possible, that going it alone was far more painful than I had imagined in my mind's eye, that the pleasure of building something just to marvel at its greatness when completed was lost along the way.

Someday I'll ask them if they feel like they missed out. I'll ask about their wives. I'll ask if they wish they had fucked more chicks, or taken more time away from the office, or climbed Everest while they were still able-bodied and sans wrinkles.

I think I know what they'll say. I think I'll be disappointed.

I think I have it harder than they did. I think I worry and stress about more, about different things, about bigger (or just smaller) things than they ever did.

I think that most people are happy with the Bries. Or the Kaitlins. Or even the Kims and Mels.

I think that even the entrepreneurs are, mostly, just lucky. I don't think that Bill or Warren ever had the chip on their shoulders that I have.

This begs the question, of course... am I advantaged or flawed that I have so much to prove?

Heh. Both!

Like all things... complicated. Grey. Multifaceted. And simultaneously endlessly unresolved and self-resolving solely because of its inconsequence.

The contradiction is intentional. Or, more accurately, an expression of how I actually see the world.

I enjoy being alone, yet yearn for the fantasy that I felt with Mel however briefly. I wish for a girl like Brie, yet... ok, no, I don't. I wish for Brie with a streak of freak. Yet I want to push her away.

Sometimes I end these entries with an upbeat notion. "Someday I will...."

Sometimes I end them with only sadness, depression, or faithlessness.

Today I wonder if this is all there is.

Today I wonder if this is as good as it gets.

Maybe I'm ok with it if it is. I'll die young of sclerosis and lack of faith. I'll leave behind only those that dared love me in spite of all this... which is to say, the bros, a lil sis, and... that's it.

And that'll be ok. I'll be ok.

I feel a little sad right now. I want to cry.

But you know what? I like crying. It feels human. Familiar.

It feels honest.

It feels like me. The real me. Not the CEO, not the good boyfriend, not the basketball player, not the dancer, not the engineer.

Just me. With all else stripped away. All I have is my pain.

And I like it.

Rebounds

I've been closing over a half dozen bugs a day on my baby. It's tiring.

I've been drinking more. Well, no, not really, but I'm just finishing my third glass now, and such a state makes the current buzz feel constant and incessant. Heh. Love that enthanol stuff.

I started dating Brie again. She was there. She pushed. I saw/see the great attributes she has, I was questioned by friends I trust about my ability to push the few things I find in her I can question, and I decided to give it a go.

I was wrong. I am now an asshole. I will break up with her in a day or two... and it will be terrible. I will make her cry.

Again.

I'm not over the last one. Nothing she could do would be good enough. Nothing she could say, be, or become would change the fact that my heart is still broken.

It sucks. She's such a great girl.

My inability to push her away makes me a prick. I want to push through this and pretend to love her just because.

I might even try for a few more days.

I'm pretty sure it's a bad sign when you turn down sex with the girl you just started dating last week. Right?

I blamed the desire to be romantic. "I don't want to love you and then leave you."

Sigh. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rebound. It sucks. No-strings-attached sex was nice. Free-spirited. Release.

But thinking I could give it a go with someone else... I'm an idiot.

I'm no better than her. Yeah. Her.

I could blame it on the state of drama I'm in, on the fact that my head is and has been spinning for quite some time. And, truly, a god worth believing in would forgive me. A parent worth loving would forgive me.

But Brie shouldn't. Just as I shouldn't forgive Mel.

I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to not push shit downhill. I'm not supposed to crap on employees when I get shat upon. (love that word, "shat". LOL!) I'm not supposed to make another girl cry because someone is careless with my heart.

I'm not supposed to pass on my pain. It is supposed to be the cross I bear, the tragedy I swallow, the melancholy I quiet.

It's not fair.

She's a good girl. When I break her heart tomorrow, I'm pushing her one step closer to being among the self-centered bitches that have scorned me over and over. And over.

This week I have not made the world a better place. I have taken back six months of effort.

This week I am a bad person.

All that is left is for me to decide what I can possibly say to make it not scar.

--

I suppose the best thing to do would be to tell the truth. Figure out what that truth is for myself, first, then convey it as best I can.

The truth is that I need a couple of months of loneliness. As much as I lament it, these times are needed. As strong as I think I am, the truth is that I am weak. I need crutches to make it through life -- work, coffee, gym, booze, and vagina. In that order.

Could it work out with her later? Maybe.

Probably not. She'd have to become more free-spirited, less rigid, and more athletic. I'd have to become less adventurous, more satisfied with less, and place more emphasis on potential motherhood than a mate who can be actually be a confidant, friend, and lover. I need to be challenged... and she doesn't. Not in any way.

A pity. If I were ok with cheating, or overt using... she'd be like manna from heaven.

But the truth is not that either of us are "too good for each other" or "deserve better". We just aren't a good match. I seem attractive to her because... well shit, I don't know. 'cuz I'm awesome! duh! And she seems attractive to me because I'm used to getting shit on and it's nice to have someone appreciate me and show it.

But it's not enough.

:-(

Ok today

I've noticed that people tend to worry when reading this.

I'm ok today. I worked six hours, ran six miles, and drank six beers with friends. I have a date tomorrow with a pretty girl, and I today I saved my last house from foreclosure by cashing out the last of my retirement savings.

My baby (biz) is finally starting to pay off, and life is... full of empowering choices.

Some are stressful. Bitches break my heart. Sweethearts love me unrequited. Tenants are still leeching whores.

But customers show more love and patience these days. Employees, sans lil' bro, are amazing, respectful, and hardworking. And girls are always there... it is, perhaps, my fault for not simply choosing or settling. Missing the last one and the one before don't exactly help. Kim just announced via facebook that she has a new boy... it's struck me a little. Not really a big deal. Surely Mel's blog about fucking and loving her husband is far worse. But yeah, it all bites a little. Or stings. Whatever the verb is.

Sigh. Women.

There are lots of pretty girls out there. Lots who won't even cheat on me. Heck, there are quite a few who are pretty, will cook for me, and are good listeners. 

Why do I want so much? Why do I give up on day jobs to struggle with my own startup, push away the Bries to be with the Kims, or entertain the crazy notions of love from a woman who goes home to another man?

Some days I think it makes me a better man. An innovator. A game changer. Ambitious.

Other days I think it makes me a fool.

The question is always the same. The wonder is always an echo.

Am I really holding out for something better? Forging my own path, waiting for the perfect circumstance, opportunity, or ideal package? Or am I just delaying the act of settling, awaiting the day when I choose from the ever-shrinking pool of available options?

I think that, maybe, I will never know. I think that these choices are half-chance. Mel could have left him, and it was nothing I really did or didn't do that effected it. I could yet choose to date/love/marry Brie and be very happy. RDDS could be the one. Someone I've never met could sweep me off my feet tomorrow... or Precious could show up on my doorstep and ask me to love her. Kim could come back and tell me she didn't appreciate me, either. I could run into any of them at a bar next week and we'll both wonder what went wrong. 

Or it's all just bullshit. Maybe I just need to learn to like cock. LOL.

But, yeah... it's always work. It's always vulnerability. It's always scary with a dash of drama. It's always a leap of faith. It's always a mystery what makes one attracted, then crush, then love, then fall in love. Sometimes they are even independent... in love, yet not attracted. Weird, yes. But real.

Sigh. Life goes on. Love goes on. The high of being in love still causes the pain of heartbreak. Broken hearts still cause tears. 

And tears are still feeling alive. And another sigh... and life still goes on.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Happiness is probably not finding the perfect woman. It probably isn't running a successful company, or building a fantastic product. It probably isn't driving an Acura really fast nor a Ferrari. 

Happiness is loving all of these things whether you have them or you don't. Happiness is being... all of the time. Present. Engaged. Pursuing something of value. Enjoying something simple. Believing in something bigger than you, whether it be community, a company, a cause, a god, or even a girl.

--

I should end there. But my world is far too trite, too mundane, and too selfish to be quite so poetic.

I wish Brie were a little better in the sack. I could love her. But I think I'll want to cheat on her. And no, I wouldn't, but wanting to means I'll leave her. It's just a matter of when.

Bummer.

I cried today

I've been working so hard I can't sleep. So focused that the next feature, the next release, the next support question... they are keeping me awake, jerking me to action at 3am, urging me to the next task at hand.

Tonight I retired from my workday at 10pm and went and had nachos and beer. And another. And another. And.... then I declined, but my waitress, who was probably cute 10 years ago, misheard and brought me another.

I went to my car and sat for awhile. I wasn't ready to drive. I felt sad. I felt like sleeping, yet couldn't stop thinking. I felt like crying, yet couldn't feel. I felt like running, yet couldn't find the energy.

I went home eventually. I worked in the meantime, doing thoughtless tasks that only I can do, responding to silly emails about triage and support and 2nd level decisions and ship steering of an aircraft carrier I didn't even know I was responsible for.

I got home, and steered a little longer. I put off thoughts of Mel, of Brie, of Rebecca, of RJF, of Serino and Corban, of uncles and fathers and sisters and brothers. I neglected my heart and my emotions, denying my fading inebriation and heart that is still breaking.

And then I found myself googling "I wanna cry". A moody song by Keith Urban came up. And then the tears came. I'm not sure if it was "everybody knows" or Keith or somewhere in between, but by the time Gravity turned up, my cheeks hurt from crying. I looked at myself in the mirror, and, stopping for a moment to take in how ugly I looked and felt, it was but a small reprieve from the waterfall of emotion that I've been bottling up for weeks. Distracting myself with work. Entertaining futures with ex-girls and wondering about new conquests. Reading more, drilling basketballs more, running harder, pretending to fight with a fire that is usually left to twenty year olds. Hitting on 90 pound central valley transients and drinking martinis with friends and colleagues in a vain attempt to remake memories that shouldn't be so powerful.

And now, all alone on a Tuesday, with wet eyes and sore cheeks, all I remember is how she talked about weddings and cookware and our make believe house that will never be.

Sarah plays on, over and over, to the echo in my brain that no longer fills my dreams with  nightmares nor fantasies. And still her memory lives on, the pain ever so present, the longing of yesterday a memory of a memory, yet the absence of which seems to never subside.

It huts. I hurt. I wish she knew. I wish she could feel it. I wish I could feel her....

I almost just wrote "feel it", but I don;t. This is selfish. I just wish I could feel her. Again. Even if just for a moment, in my arms, in our (my) bed, in my heart, in my soul. Was it real? Would it be like I remember, or a but a painful injection of reality?

Was that day on 4th street when I first accepted, realized, and believed in a future with her all just a lie?

Ironic... that was just a few days from the end. A few days before she was gone, even if reality took several weeks to catch up.

I suppose I will never know. I will just forget the power of the emotion as it fades to a faint memory. I will only have the public facebook photo and the faulty, ever more fuzzy representation in my minds' eye.

I miss her soooo much. When I admit it, when I think of her, when I realize how alone I feel without her, it hurts as bad -- maybe worse, even, because I can really feel it and don't have the luxury of denial -- as the day she left. As the first audience of her harsh words that I was nothing, am nothing, will ever be but a blip, mistake, and fraud in her life story.

I don't need to be remembered by her. No, this is much more selfish. I just miss her.

I don't want to seek.... but I wish I knew what was going on in her life. The harsh reality of her return to married life without me would probably do me good.

--

Brie is back. Or would like to be.

I went to her birthday BBQ a week and a half ago. We chatted. We joked. We drank. We played.

We slept together.

I went to breakfast with her on her birthday. I met her Mom, her aunt, and was welcomed, gingerly, into her family.

"Wow, he's really nice. I pictured him so much more... macho." they said, per Brie. As in douchebag.

It is hard. I told her half the truth. I told her that I was reeling from a recent bout of "drama" with a "girl I shouldn't be so affected by, but nevertheless am". I told her I needed a couple of weeks, at least, before I could date anyone. Even a great girl like her.

She is great. Loyal, compassionate, smart, pretty. I wish she hit the gym... um, ever... but.

But.

She sure isn't Mel.

I don't know. I have a date with her in two weeks. I better figure it out before then.

--

I'm not sure why. I should marry her. But I'm afraid... she doesn't call me on my shit. She doesn't work out. She doesn't want the world. She just wants babies. I'm not even sure she really wants my babies. Maybe any good-enough guy with moderately favorable genes and a cute smile would do.

Maybe that should be good enough.

But then, I don't dare actually tell her I'd like to kill my dad. I don't dare tell her that she's not that good in bed. I don't dare tell her that most days I'd rather be alone. I don't dare tell her that my mom is a selfish bitch who loves her make-believe god more than she'll ever love anyone, including her children. I don't dare tell her that I could deal with her being a lot less clean and even more selfish if only she were a little more ambitious, wanted to fuck a little more freakily, and could run the lake without.... oh wait. Run at all.

Shane said, "yeah, dude, you could be crazy. You could date her for awhile just to see. But mostly, it just sounds like you aren't that into her."

Sigh. She would treat me as good as any girl since Kait. And... no one before that.

I may be a fool.

--

So I went out with RDDS last weekend. Not RJF, but another one. Same first name, yes, but this one is a dentist-to-be.

Preppy. Completely uncool. Her language is off. She uses terms she heard twice on MTV, but she uses them wrong. Like with extra consonants where they don't belong. "Hells yeah" -- that kinda shit.

Nerd. Pretty enough to overlook it, but the nerd is so strong, this isn't an "adept at hiding it" situation. She's not a pretty girl who happens to be smart. She's a nerd who happens to be kinda pretty.

But she's a freak in the sheets. Yeah, first date hook-up. Woot. Strike that one from the bucket list.

It was awesome.

I like her in spite of her nerdiness. Because of it, probably. Someday I'll correct her on those extra consonants, though -- it sounds like a six year old trying to use profanity, for cryin' out loud -- and for a girl who has fallen back on her brain for self-esteem most of her life, I'm not sure how well that'll go over.

BUT. Friggin' hot lovin'. Worth it!

If I could just put her and Brie together... I'd get... oh. Right. Mel. Single, with a slightly higher dash of compassion, kindness and introspection.

Or just single. The other parts were there when she wasn't rushing home to her husband and forcing the dissonance required to make her double life rational.

Fuck.

Why couldn't Brie just be a little more..... sigh. Never mind. Maybe ambition/sexuality/adventurousness is mutually exclusive to nurturing/compassion/loyalty. Maybe I'm not an anomaly; maybe I'm just lying to myself. Maybe I'm not both extremes.

Maybe no one is.

--

Yeah, I'm drunk and tired. This shit is making no sense.

Sigh.

I broke a glass today.

Mel gave me three gifts before she left: a bluetooth speakerphone, a pair of champagne flutes, and a broken heart. Well, I suppose there are shattered dreams in there, too, but I wanted to write with a little whimsy today, not be a downer.

Today I broke one of the champagne flutes. I was washing them and it slipped out of my hand and hit the side of the sink. Completely random chance.

The fact that it felt like a bigger message from the gods is really all in my head. But the timing sure is... poignant.

Anyway.

Today I was reminded that "at some point, you really do have to take people at face value and trust them at their word." It was a nice reminder that stuck in my head. My belief in her was not an act of stupidity, nor even of faith. If anything, I am courageous for taking the chance and letting myself believe. It's a pretty normal circumstance... people do selfish, stupid things all the time that cause broken hearts. People break up every day. I am probably no better for the experience, were I to be completely honest. But I am no worse either.

And I'm sure that I've learned something, even if I cannot yet articulate it. Maybe not to date married chicks! Heh. There is always that, I suppose.

(Thank you J. I really appreciate how much you've been checking in on me.)

--

TM has already gone. We had a two minute conversation last night. She said that she had been out with a guy a few times before she met me, and that while I'm awesome, she felt really torn. She feels that she should give this other fellow a fair shot and focus on him to see where it goes. She said I'm awesome, that she feels that it might be a mistake, but that she didn't want to waste anyone's time or hurt anybody.

I told her that, while unfortunate, her honesty was refreshing. I found it kind of sweet, actually.

It is neither here nor there... I wasted a few dollars and a couple of evenings and met someone honest with themselves and with me.

I think that, cosmically speaking, it was exactly what I needed. A little reminder that there are plenty of honest, well meaning pretty girls out there. Even if my timing is bad.

Combined with the champagne flute, it was just that much more symbolic of my new, post-Mel world.

--

I think seeing her cruelty made it easier in some ways. I am not really mad at her, even though I feel like I should be -- dishonesty, cruelty, dismissal, cheapening of our relationship, attacks on my character, etc. The list is long.

What I do feel is better. Aside from the minor insomnia, I'm really happy to get back to my "normal"
life. Tomorrow I'm going to work til 10pm... and I'm looking forward to it! It'll be nice to catch up, to feel the fulfillment from my work, to revel in my remarkably drama-free life.

Heck, with my brother gone now, I don't even have anything to rant about. I guess I'll have to go back to writing a business blog. Heh.

--

I think, in my little peabrain, that my lack of any lasting anger is a sign that I really cared. That in spite of her craziness, I still love her (not so) deep down. Perhaps I'm choosing to see her as simply confused and needing distance and dissonance, even though the idea that she never loved me at all may be the actual reality.

Besides, forgiveness feels really great. I get to move forward, living a life with minimal stress and enjoying the pleasure of simplicity: creating good products, working with smart people, playing a lot of basketball, dating pretty girls, and enjoying good food, good drinks, and good company.

A part of me, of course, realizes that I am forgetting her. Her smell, her embrace, and the depth of her stare are already almost a memory of a memory. Waking up next to her is already gone. These are now only fleeting visualizations, like a montage in a movie, not the breadth of the experiences. It sucks. Those were really good memories.

I do still remember that special smile.

That made me smile, just now. I hope I can always remember it.


Cheers, Melissa. Cheers. I hope your life is as full as you believe and hope, both today and always.

--

Must You Go

How it should've gone down.

Harold looked at her with his black eyes. "Must you go?" he asked. Antonia Fraser wearily considered the logistics of tomorrow: the school run, the research to be done on her biography of Charles II. "No," she said. "It's not absolutely essential." They talked until six in the morning. At this point, [they both] had both been married for 18 years... Between them they had seven children.

Their affair was a great scandal, or at least it was seen as such by the newspapers. No one else seems to have been terribly bothered. Four months into their passion, Hugh Fraser asked his wife if she was in love with someone else. "Yes!" she said. She then revealed this someone's name. "The best living playwright," said Hugh. "Very suitable." Two months later Harold came to talk to Hugh about the prospect of his shacking up with Antonia: "Hugh and Harold discussed cricket at length, then the West Indies, then Proust. I started to go to sleep on the sofa. Harold politely went home."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/jan/17/must-you-go-antonia-fraser

I found her new blog

I don't know why I searched. But I did. And I'm smart enough to find even hidden things on the internet pretty quickly.

She's a really cruel person. So angry. So hateful. So not therapeutic.

I will do my best to not read again. I will do my best to remember her the way I do in my dreams.

--

I suppose, if I were being really honest, that the only woman I've ever been in love with who wasn't a selfish bitch (redeeming qualities or not) was, ironically, slutbag Laura.

I am really bad at this love thing. Heh.

Maybe I should seek therapy. For real. That I could fall for someone so cruel and self-centered... so head over heels with someone this inconsistent, this dishonest with herself....

There is something wrong with me. I felt the inclination to run, and I didn't listen. I loved her already. I even broke up with her, only to backslide again and again. She finally broke me, and I let her have me on her terms.

I don't feel stupid or sad. I feel... lucky.

But I'd like to change it. I'd like to feel that way about someone who is good for me. Someone who is capable of loving me back -- and loving the world around her. Someone who really makes me a better person, not just a more materialistic one. Someone who is incapable of spite, who considers others when acting and reacting.

I've dated plenty of them. Why didn't I fall in love with them, but I cry over Mel and Kim, Chrissy and Manda, Laura and Lauren? Kait or Brie will be fine mates to some lucky bloke someday. It could've been me in either case. Was the fact that they never went to the gym really that much of a deal breaker?

Sigh. Yes, it was.

And some of her cruelty is certainly echoed in my own blog. I am guilty of venting through words too. It is my fault for seeking it out.

Still.... it was quite a shock. "The one who will be crying won't be me." Ouch. So direct and heartless an attack.

I think I've only ever been that way about Laura. But it was 5 years before I ever told her, and it did it in a pretty neutral way. How did it go? "I know you probably already know this. I know that it was written all over my face when we had that drink a couple of years ago. The thing is... you wounded me so deeply that, even now, years later, a part of me really hates you. I'm sorry, but while I can be friendly, I can't actually be friends with you. I do, believe it or not, wish you well, but I don't really want to keep tabs." Then I asked her to say hello to her family for me.

Sigh. Why did she have to cheat? I would've married that girl.

I would've married a lot of them, actually. I want to be married. I want to give up new vagina and have to check in before making plans with the boys.

But anyway. I was telling myself that I might need some help. Apparently I can only fall in love with bitches. That's a bad thing. I should fix that.

Now, I have to ask -- it is my spiel, after all -- is it lack of options? Is it just that I'm attracted to assertive, confident women, and these women are all self-centered whores? Is it possible that the walking contradiction actually doesn't exist?

Or is it me?

--

But normal chicks are terrible in the sack! No, really! Their idea of adventurous is fucking doggy style. That's not adventurous, that's first base! Shaving downtown should NOT be a favor, it should be a given. I WANT to hear an apology when she's in need of a wax or a shave. It's not that it's that big of a deal, really, but it's not special to stay groomed. Ugh. It should be normal. Golden rule does apply, yes.

I digress. It is a conundrum. Frank married a girl who is NOT a freak in the sheets, something he laments often, just so he could have a good mother to his children. And they seem healthy and happy, while I am married to my work and better at flirting than I am at managing people.

--

I still don't understand how she could say she loves me so much and flip the switch to cruel hatred so quickly. Did those words mean nothing? Do they always mean so little?

Is the world really this cold and dark? I don't think so, but I keep writing a version of this entry again and again and again.

More.

She wrote to me today. I can't re-read it, because she was really lame about it. Blog, then send a link, then delete it. Oh, of course all of the positive memories about ME were gone in her briefly reactivated blog.

What a @#$@#. It makes me angry just thinking about it.

I almost understand the need to excise me. You make the decision to go back to your husband -- for real -- and he'll require it. No Alfe. No mention of him. No remembering, no good thoughts, no wondering, no nothing.

I would need that if I were him. And that would be just the beginning. I'd need penitence and micro-managing for, oh, I dunno... how about a year? Yeah. It would be crazy overbearing controlling. Actually, it would piss me off if I had to be, because she would OWE me the act of volunteering any info I needed to know.

So, yeah, I get it. It still makes me angry. But I'll get to that.

So her letter. I don't remember details... Grrr. I would have liked to have reread it. To introspect, to catch the nuance, to understand if my initial reaction was appropriate or not, to understand me a little better.

But it included a lot of disdain. A lot of anger. Not just dismissal of me, my feelings, and our relationship -- she already did all of that -- but at how I created problems at her job of all things.

And then, of course, she went on about how great her husband is. Really? I don't give a FUCK. Your husband is not my concern and never was. I was never there to RESCUE you! I was there because you told me you loved me and I believed it and loved you back you. Duh. Stop being so dense. It was never a fucking comparison. Heck, I wish it were. I'd happily measure up to any contest with any other dude. That would be EASY.

The one thing you miss, Mel, is that our relationship was NEVER A FUCKING THREE WAY. Jesus fucking Christ. I don't want to know his name, I don't care if he's a good man, and I could care less how he feels about you. All that matters is how you feel about ME. That's all that mattered then and it's all that would have ever mattered.

Grrr. This is not an open letter to her. This is not a response to get the last word in. This is about emoting. About feeling my own humanity.

Part of me hates that she knows about this. But, well, fuck it. I write for me. If you don't like it, don't read it. It is a part of me, however much hate it has, however much it is but a glimpse in time, however brief it's shutter, how few read it or how much, it just is. All of it should be taken with a grain of salt. All of it is temporary, free flowing like Buddha's river. And all of it is fucking real.

I hate that I feel the need to justify. The blog. Me. My feelings. My actions. God damn it. You're an ex! Stay in my dreams where I can miss you the way you were. Or come back and let me love you the way you are. This terrible place where you....

Ugh. Never fucking mind.

Ok. So she writes this letter. And I read it. And I email her immediately, hands trembling with the breadth and depth of the emotion, and tell her she doesn't know me at all. That it is ridiculous to have such anger, to suspect me of revenge, to call me promiscuous, to accuse me of using her as a conquest.

I'm sorry. I'm not the fucking cheater. And you're angry over your JOB. Yes, I understand that this is a big deal and it would really ruin a week or six of your life, but MY FUCKING HEART JUST GOT RAN OVER BY YOUR GODDAMN DUMP TRUCK. Suck a dick. Oh, and you're in fucking sales. Sales people get fired and hired every single day at every single publicly traded company in the world. EVERY DAY.

Call me sentimental. Call me a fool. Call me emotional, gay, naive, immature, or stupid. Call me whatever you want. My heart is more important than your job.

Yeah, I said it. And it's not like it would have been directly caused by me anyway. Besides, your sales organization is fucking boiler room. They want you to think you can get fired for shitting in the wrong toilet for fuck's sake. But don't get me started on what I think of pressure cooker sales... ugh.

Besides, I made a business decision. I cancelled an order my company had made on services ordered based on the expectation of future business. That business evaporated without apology or explanation. I made the appropriate call based on that. It was a two word email. "[Cancel] it." People do that all the time.

It wasn't like I could call your ass. Jesus.

All of this is just mental masturbation. I'm venting to my blog so I feel better.

That makes me mad too. Not only am I an idiot for falling for her, but I'm now wasting time and energy on the near-worthless experience of getting over it. Fuck.

The idea that I would cause her problems at work out of revenge is offensive. The idea that I looked at her as a conquest, that I'd have had no interest in her if she weren't unattainable... that's just absurd. I can't believe it. I can't believe she would ever even question that.

That's her jealous husband talking. What a self-absorbed bitch! Both of them. God damn it.

This is soooo not fair. This is NOT how the world is supposed to work. This is not right.

You slept with ME. You fell in love with ME. I was just nice. I was just a friend to you. I asked you about him, I pushed you away. I have never acted in revenge in my fucking LIFE! I don't lash out at brothers and fathers, for fuck's sake! Sorry, I know you think you're special and all, but those wounds run a little fucking deeper.

*#&R%@*#&^@#*(!!!!!!!

Sigh. Ok. Catharsis begins.

Her lashing out... these beliefs, this anger, this dismissal of my feelings, this lack of empathy... it is needed for her world.

It is needed to go back to her make believe happy life, filled with her materialism, her supportive (and surely wounded) husband, and her playful pets. It is needed to truly dismiss me from her heart and soul.

And so... it isn't really about me. This anger that I feel... nay, felt... it's appropriate, but not based on accurate information.

Today, again, as I seem to have always done with everything surrounding her, I will be a bigger man than I want to be. Than I really know how to be.

I will read between the lines and answer with compassion.

It's ok, Mel. Go ahead. Be angry with me.

It's ok to hate me. Deep down you know the truth. Or, at least, you know the truth about me.

And as for me... well. I'm a good man. I always was with you and I will do my best to be just as good with everyone in my world.

Today I choose.

--

Heh. Perhaps I should rename my blog to that. It's a bit more empowering, eh?

Sunday Morning

I missed her a lot this morning. Depressingly. I'm pretty sure I dreamed about her... about being together, about how it felt.

It was a like a little mini-breakup all over again when I woke up. I reached for her and she wasn't there.

:-(

--

Spent the evening with TM last night. It was nice getting to know a new person. She's pretty enough, smart enough, and... thoughtful. Down to earth. There are some things I'm curiously hoping won't be big deals if I continue seeing her, but they might prove to be nothing.

She has one major problem, though.

She isn't Mel.

--

There is a healthy comparison, right? Like noting someone's attributes and acknowledging that you want that in a mate -- any potential mate.

And then there is just still being heartbroken. There is the state when no woman could ever compare, when no amount of good times or positive attributes really make a difference because you need that taste of history, that notion of shared experience, that under-the-mask knowledge. Intimacy.

There is knowing that even the focus of your affection and heartbreak couldn't fill the hole she herself left. There is having an emptiness so deep its easy to feel helpless to overcome it. There is feeling alone in a room full of people, feeling disconnected while having sex with someone else, and feeling like you don't know yourself even after hours of introspection.

I think this is was they call "devastated". It was that whole day I lost a week and a half ago, the two days of "work" I couldn't even fake through before it, and the inclination to go back to bed at noon in vain hopes that the next dream will present the fantasy you used to believe in.

--

I felt like we could both be better people with each other at our sides.

Why was I so naive?

Tequila, Thai, and Tre

All three were fleetingly present tonight.

All three were better in spirit than in reality. 

Tequila was good, but consuming it neat with a drive home following was not the way it was meant to be.

Thai was good, but the mixed order of ultra safe forgettable Pad Thai and the over-the-top spicy of the two dishes my friends ordered was a far cry from Tuk Tuk. Spicier, different, and somehow a little bit of a let down.

And Tre passed in the night, as if we didn't see each other at all. Hello, how are you, have some noodles, goodbye.

Disaster it wasn't. But it was... not memorable.

--

RJF last night was fantastic. I like her more than I did the first time I met her. I caught more subtleties. She has bouts with depression and sees me as a golden boy. She questions her place in the world and looks at my entrepreneurship as a admirable, amazing, and untenable. She feels lost often and gives herself peace by losing herself in literature, putting her head down and working hard, and cocktail or three.

She's a smart chick. I like it. I like her. I wish she knew that those things make her more attractive, not less.

Like all things in this world, I feel impatient about it. I want to mind meld and have intimacy right this minute! LOL.

But, again like all things, and especially with someone who has disappeared before, who knows. I shall call and email and text and hope for maybes. Maybe fate believes in you even if you don't believe in it.

--

Melissa is still there, one step away, one degree of separation. I got a call today from a mutual customer asking for her phone number. I wanted to ask why they think I would know it, why I would have it, how dare they?! But, of course, I quietly pulled the number up and shared it.

Bitch.

--

I don't want to be too mean... I don't want to be hateful and angry. I love her still.

But, well, I hope she wonders every day. I hope that every time her husband fails to laugh at a geeky joke, every time he forgets to admire a sunset, every time he fails to be a gentleman, every time he doesn't understand some piece of jargon she uses... I hope she winces herself.

Because, well, fuck her. Fuck them.

I hope that every time he fucks her he wonders if my cock is bigger. I hope every time that he looks at her he wonders if he can trust her. And I hope that...

Sigh. I'm lying. I don't hope any of those things. I'm just mad at her for hurting me.

God damn it.

Sometimes it sucks being a good man. It will be a long time before I realize what I've learned these past few months, and someday perhaps it will feel worthwhile. But right now, I just wish I'd looked at her without real affection. 

I wish I'd just seen her as a fuck buddy. In the end that's all I was to her... at best. 

I suppose, if I were really being honest, I feel cheap. Used. Spent. Chewed up and spit out.

Yesterday's garbage. 

It hurts a lot. I'm angry, now, and... I want to lash out. Revenge sex and hateful letters and harsh words. A scene or two. Random acts of violence. Nuclear warfare. 

Heh. Yes, I'm joking. There is so little room in my heart for hate.

She's still a bitch, though. She should have known better. Love me or don't. Fine. But don't lie to me. Or yourself. It doesn't make it less of a crime, really, just because you lacked awareness. That just makes you dumb, too.

You run over a dude in your car, even if it was an accident, and you still go to jail. You're still a felon.

Bad form, Mel. Bad play. Bad times.

The question that's going to be bothering me for the next 15 vaginas is "Should I have known better?"

Probably. But it felt so damn good...

Sigh.

--

zzzzzz. Long week.

Lonely in Visalia

Today was long, and like a fish out of water, it didn't have the  lightning rods of habit grounding me. Here I have only me, a television, and whomever I can call on the phone.

I called no one. My laptop is dead. Letterman just isn't that funny. And watching true blood is the last thing I want to do.

I miss her. There was no blog to read to give me a dose of harsh reality, and so I was left to read yesterday's emails. Yesterday. When she loved me. When she wrote of only a future with me, of crying to herself over the impending divorce, and of how I deserved so much more than she was giving me.

I believed her. It feels so strange to suddenly be so completely alone.

It feels strange to not be able to call her. To not fall asleep and dream about her.

Speaking of. Was that last night? No. Sunday night.

I dreamt that I killed my grandmother. I spent days and days in my dream worrying about hiding the body, of not getting caught, of covering my crime.

I woke up and still believed it was true. I was scared. But then I realized that it was a dream, and when I thought about it, it wasn't any of my actual grandmothers. It was an abstraction.

So I killed someone close to me and didn't want to admit it to the world? And that is a metaphor for...?

For her? For my broken heart? Our love? For something else?

I thought a lot about relationships today. About what I would want if not her.

Right now, she seems one of a kind. She seems like the one. I am sure that this will fade in time, but...

But what if it doesn't. She put me through hell, and still I miss her. What if I'd actually had her?

Wow. That would be really something.

Better Days

Her blog was deleted sometime... I don't know. In the last day. I had been lightly monitoring it. One recent post made me really angry. Alanis comes to mind, even though trite and 15 years old. It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced.

But it was all a slap in the face.

And I've had a good weekend.

It's funny... I had the opportunity to hook up on Saturday night, and I wasn't going to, but then I saw her stupid blog, and suddenly it was easy. Nothing to get you going quite like revenge sex. Heh.

It was fun. Really fun, actually. I've known her, sorta, for years. Standard warm market pseudo one night stand. I'll see her again, and it won't be awkward at all. Good times. (Kelly)

And today, I turned off the phone, didn't check email, and got a shitload of work done. My place down south is probably rented. I have a half dozen leads on my vacancy in the east bay. Development projects seem less overwhelmingly behind schedule. My dishes are mostly done, my sheets are clean, my belly is full, and I got to play over three hours of basketball tonight.

Normality is returning. The roller coaster is over.

I am still broken hearted. I still miss her. But the absurdity of the dysfunction that was present is becoming apparent. And while I love her still and have, sadly, already forgotten the nuance of her smell, the return of focus is welcome.

A part of me hopes she still calls. And, in truth, I believe she will someday, even if just to say hello and maybe apologize. But I remember now what it feels like to be me, and it feels great. I have a good, balanced life, and I can be perfectly happy without her.

If she comes back, she will do so on my terms. No more roller coasters. No more divided allegiances or indecision. No flip flopping and, most of all, no more leftovers. I deserve better. I deserve to be the main course and dessert.

In other news, I called back the last several months of young ladies over the weekend. Most didn't respond, but it was good to connect with some old friends. RJF is back, believe it or not. She texted about a month ago, and I replied nonchalantly, but didn't think anything of it. And here she is, persisting. I didn't even think to call her -- she reached out on Friday night to see if I wanted to grab a G&T. I declined b/c I was in a funk, which I'm sure only made her more interested. Heh. She was a sweetheart; quite compelling. I'd love to actually get a second date with that one. Maybe the timing is better now. Heh. Hendricks actually tasted better with her... and I say that from just our one epic date. Weird.

WNBA called back too. Yeah, I got her number. I didn't think I'd ever call, but the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody. Lol. I think she'll bore me to tears, but why not. Maybe we can do some drills if nothing else. No, not that kind... psssh.

Well. Maybe. She does kinda remind me of a dude, though. Lmao!

Visalia tomorrow. Mmmm. Now that I'm really unattached, I see a hot twenty-year-old in my future. Yes, dirty old man. Dirrrrty. But I'll be good to her. I promise. I'll be the litmus test for the next two dozen age-appropriate guys she dates.

Really good. Maybe three dozen. It is the central valley, after all. Less competition.

28/36

No, those aren't my new girlfriend's measurements. That's how many hours I've slept out of the last day and a half. 28h out of 36.

Franko said "sounds like a little bit of depression there, buddy." Heh. You think?

So, anyway. I went to breakfast this morning. Then I went Best Buy to return the bluetooth speakerphone Mel gave me a couple of weeks ago. Turns out that at one point in the not-too-distant past, it was worth $90 for her just to be able to hear my voice a little more clearly.

I exchanged it. The new one is charging.

Funny thing happened to expose my own passion/insanity, though. In the process of looking up the receipt, the clerk asked me for her phone number. And her -- nay, his -- last name. And her address popped up. Their address.

It was on screen for less than 10 seconds. Not a big deal at all, really. Most people would've grunted and sneered, just like I did, and immediately forgotten.

But then, most people don't have a photographic memory, either. I read it twice. I may remember it on my death bed, now.

For a few brief moments in the hour since, I've thought about acting like him. Thought about pounding on their door, thought about making a scene, thought about invading his personal privacy, space, and home the way he did me.

And here I sit, staring into the abyss of my own insanity. My own dysfunction.

But it is still a choice. There is always a choice. A choice to choose Paris, children with mensa memberships that will break six feet in height, and a mate always pushing you to the next level. A choice to be able to discuss travel, osmosis, and T1s... first class on Virgin Air, the relative effects of welfare on genetic diversity, and insistence on not sharing your girl with anyone except Dino.

A choice to be crazy. Or a choice to be a bigger man. A better man. A choice to grow and progress into something more than you are today. More than you can conceive of being tomorrow.

Today I choose. Today I am more than I was yesterday. Today I take lemons and I make lemonade. Today I hide her True Blood DVD in the bottom of a drawer and clean my house.

Today I return to work and make fun plans for the evening.

Today I decide. I will still answer the phone when she calls someday, because she will. And I decide not to wait for her, because she chose.

"Don't go. You're my girl." I said.

"Yes, but I'm his wife."

And she left. She chose. Some decisions life chooses for you if you don't take a stand. Some periods of limbo self-resolve if left on their own, festering, for long enough.

But how I choose to live today is my decision. How I choose to deal with my loss, my broken heart, my last experience of many in the long list of Alfie's broken hearts and shattered dreams is my call.

I will need some of my anger to do this. I will need to invoke some cynicism to find the ever-so-fragile strength I need to move forward. And I will need to rely on just me to do it.

But I'm always there for me. And so it will be alright.

Someday I will look back on her and wonder what I was thinking. Someday I will not remember what being loved by her felt like. Someday I won't be in love with her anymore.

I'll still love her deep down. But it won't be the same.

Someday I'll hear our songs, and instead of feeling teary, I'll turn them off. Then, later, I'll turn them up, and sing along, because remembering will be sweet, even if a little painful. And I'll feel proud that I got through this time.

This pain that is so overwhelming right this minute. Right now. Present.

I am still me. I am still strong. I can still do anything, even if my hubris needs tempering and my tenacity needs reassurance at times.

I still deserve to be loved. I still deserve to feel the affection and... love (was it?) she bestowed upon me. I still deserve to have the support and appreciation and embrace that was mine to enjoy for a few brief moments in time.

--

And no, I'm not going to stalk her. Duh.

Broken

Been in bed for 20 hours. Phone is off, email unread, stomach empty, dreams no solace.

Heartbroken.

Alone. Empty.

Spinach and Brussel Sprouts

I'm at Tuk Tuk. There's a female vocalist... Ingrid or Kate Nash or someone I don't know singing a cover of Elvis' "I can't help falling in love". I've heard it on my primary Pandora station a few times.

It's nice. Makes me remember love. Feeling it. Makes losing it present, yet easier to handle.

Every girl who stuck around long enough has been here with me. Crazy Lauren. Kait. Skater Lauren.

Hmmm. Laura might not have, actually. I wonder if that says something. But every girl who stayed, ever girl who really loved me, even if there methods were insane. Even Kim.

Even Melissa.

She responded to an email I sent today that was all business. She asked me not to contact her for anything, including business.

I was kinduv taken aback. It stung.

It's not that I really cherished talking about T1s with her... it just seems like that strange overkill thing. Like I'm some leper or something.

I suppose, actually, it's a sign that she misses me. That she fears that some interaction with me would make her weak in her resolve, make her want to come back to me.

That probably should make me feel a little better, but it really doesn't.

I feel a little angry when I think about it. Last night's leftovers have become yesterday's garbage.

Pretty soon I'll get taken out to the curb and hauled away. That sucks.

--

Food is here. Done for now.

One thing, though... I thought "love" meant something different than this. I thought love meant you don't just disappear, never to return.

Like Melisssa.

(racks brain)

Like Kim.

Um. Chrissy.

Crazy Lauren.

Um.

That's it. Someday, with the objectivity of distance, I'll have to ponder what it is that gave these girls the ability to just shut me out. To turn off. I wonder if it is the same. They were all a little crazy. I suppose they were all pretty selfish, too, in there own different ways.

Whatever. I don't have objectivity yet.

And I still miss her. A lot.

--

She doesn't like spinach or brussel sprouts. I wonder if I'll remember that a year from now.

I wonder if she'll remember me fondly. I hope there will at least be that.

For the record

I was just falling asleep to Freefallin' and felt compelled to write about loving her. I never did this with Lauren and couldn't even remember the sensation of missing her later, let alone the little moments that mattered. The women I loved before that... well. It was before blogs.

And as intense as this was, as troubled and crazy, and chaotic, I love her -- am still in love with her -- and it felt fucking great while it lasted. When I fall out of love with her, when she moves from a near-obsession to that girl I still miss sometimes and wonder about, I won't remember this stuff.

Her smell. I wish I could capture it in words. I don't remember how any girl smells. She wore Angel and some other fruity fragrance with a name I couldn't spell. There was a faint muskiness when I kissed her neck. Her shampoo was subtle and unique. She only seldom put too much on and I almost never got a mouthful of alcohol. The vague odor of her laundry detergent, mixed with perfume, shampoo, and her own pheromones... sigh.

She really liked it when I used my teeth, nibble-style, on her neck. A biting motion with lots of teeth, but no pressure.

Her right nipple was pierced. She liked it when I licked or nibbled it, but I preferred biting her left. Hard enough to make her wince.

She let me spoon her with my arm right under her head. She liked it better, actually, I think. A perfect fit, because I have shoulder problems and there are only a couple of ways I can lay that way for more than a few minutes. I don't think she ever realized it hurt the other way... it just worked.

That thing she said about Freefallin'. "He does too miss her. He's singing about her, isn't he?"

Cloudy with a Change of Meatballs. Her movie. She said "it's so us! You have to watch it." I did. We never saw it together.

"You wanna call me back when you can give me your full attention?" So bitchy. So assertive. So hot.

The way she stroked my head, running her fingers through my hair. Sometimes she'd end up adjusting how it looked, but she was only playing with it most of the time.

That smile. The I'm in love, carefree, there's nothing in the world but this man in front of me, timeless, pure smile. I've almost forgotten it already. That makes me really sad.

How she talked about silly stuff randomly when we were being serious. "My toes look great today!" huh? Weren't we talking about my house in foreclosure? But it was distracting and funny almost all of the time. I snickered just now, remembering. I wonder if it was on purpose or if she was just that self-involved. I suppose I didn't really mind either way, because she was still listening often enough.

How it felt just "being" together. It only happened a couple of times... when she stayed over, back in the early days. There was one time when I was self-conscious about focusing on my work, but I kept looking over at her, and she was engaged in whatever she was doing. Working too. Reading. Both. For a moment in time, there, we were a real couple, stress-free with each other, solace from the world outside created just by being together. I wish we'd had that experience more often. There's so little to hold on to.

Jumping into my arms. The first time at the ballpark. She did it a couple of times after that. One time was in my house, she was half dressed, and we were just lounging around, and she crawled/hopped across the bed to surprise me. I even stumbled backwards a little bit, commenting in surprise. God, that felt good. She had her magic smile on, with just a little impishness added in for flavor, and embraced me even as she feared I didn't have her for the briefest of split seconds. She was really happy that day. I think we had just gotten back together for the first time. It was a Monday.

Martinis. From that very first one at 1515 to our last at Lukas... except for that awful wet one we sent back that Friday when we reconnected for the first time in weeks... the bar by the theatre downtown. By the paramount. I don't remember the name. They were all good except that one. I remember the Hangar martinis we got at that Italian place on Solano. I remember the dirty belvies at Lukas. I remember the Ketel basics we had at 1515, the belvies in Lafayette afterwards, and the

That damn tree in Lafayette. She wanted me to shut her up about the tree by kissing her. But I didn't. I asked about Phil instead. Maybe I should have. She'd have pushed me away, then, because I just wanted in her pants. But I was a good man. And we were drunk. I had nothing to prove and a dry mouth, and I didn't know I loved her then.

Fonda. The tortilla I dropped on the floor. How she said "yes" on my behalf when the waitress asked if I needed another one of those magical margarita-tinis. How she looked at me, head cocked to one side, smiling and staring, falling more in love every minute. We were both sooo tired, yet so connected, so present. There was only us in the whole world that night... never mind the external, the crowded restaurant, the worries of the day. And she stayed. Wait... no, she didn't. She fell asleep in my arms but got up and went home at 1 or 1:30. Humph. Even the perfect memories had the scourge of reality somewhere, didn't they?

"Shut up and put your dick in me". 'nuff said, I suppose. She said it just last night. But it wasn't the first time. It varied, a little, but that assertive bitchiness that would occasionally be over the top during the day was just about the hottest thing I'd ever heard.

The coffee shop around the corner from my office on her bad days. She would come, and I'd order a medium nonfat mocha, and she'd order... a small nonfat latte. Or that really bad day when she got a hot chocolate. And we'd sit together, and she'd drift toward sitting "un-ladylike" and constantly have to adjust her skirt and position.

Starbucks after meeting with C21. The sensation of loving her was still new then, and the idea that she'd be around for awhile was still the stuff of naivete for me, then. I remember not knowing what to make of her forceful attraction, of her outspoken comments about Juan's looks, about the deal, about how watching me work turned her on. She was tired that day, and just stared at me. Through me. I couldn't tell if she was daydreaming or dissecting my soul. Her look was blank, but still present. She didn't smile, she just stared, commenting on tiny superficial things like the temperature of the coffee. She was still getting used to me, then, too. She used to ask "are you for real?" and "what's wrong with you? where's your fatal flaw?" in those days.

"Perfect. For me." She used to say that. I would say something semi-narcissistic in that jokingly self-aggrandizing way, and she'd deny it from me. "No, [Alfie], you're not perfect. You're cocky and arrogant and self-righteous. But you are perfect. For me." I miss that almost as much as I miss her curves.

"I am NOT petite." She said this to the Nordstrom girl that helped us find a pair of jeans for her the day we went to the ballgame. She stuck her ass out a little, in her black skirt, and pointed at it. It made me laugh.

Standing up and leaning over the table to kiss me. There was one time when I was just babbling about how much I wanted to be with her. It was the day her separation papers were signed, I think, in Dublin, at that fusion joint. We had Ketel martinis that day and she stood up, quickly, and full on leaned over to kiss me. I didn't even lean in because I didn't see it coming. It was a Friday, the same day we went to the ball game.

The first time we had sex in her car. Havana. Parking structure. She kept bumping her head on the ceiling. Lol.

Sneaking kisses when we thought no one was looking. Like at the Lake on our walk on some random weekday. Or the ballpark when we thought kk wasn't looking.

"I wish I could just go home with you tonight." When going home was an obligation pending the day of truth, not just an obligation.

"It's so easy to imagine a future with you." Bette's. That kitchen place. Cookware. Art. We met that weird art lady that day! I forgot about her. Her art was terrible! But the pastel-ish birds up front were awesome. There were four... three little ones and one big one. And the art fell of the wall for no reason.

Talking about weddings at Bette's. I remember conveying that I wanted the wedding she'd already had, that I was jealous that ours wouldn't be special. We went back and forth for awhle, with her suggesting several alternatives, like a smaller deal in a far away land (Paris). I kept going back to cigars with the boys. She finally said that we could do both. Both could work. "Worst case, we'll just do it twice." That was the only breakfast we ever had together. Real breakfast anyway... Sunday mornings with your mate after waking up next to each other.

"Our bed." That happened just a few days ago, on Friday. And referring to my city, not hers, as "where we live". She did stuff like that a lot, actually. The first time she told me she loved me was by mistake. She never did realize it, and I never told her. "Cooking is how I show love". Awww. :-( She never did cook for me.

Her laugh. She got my nerd humor, and would laugh from her belly. A real laugh, not a superficial one. Sometimes she would crack up so much at something I said I'd have to go over my words in my head to see if I missed out on some unintentionally clever pun. There usually weren't, she just adored my sense of humor.

"I'm smarter than you." The only person in the world who ever got away with saying it. It was part of her charm to face things that she felt insecure about head-on. Her way of beating them. I think by saying it, she made it true in her mind. And that made everything ok... we were equal because she asserted that. It always made me wince a little, but snicker at the same time. I held the snicker a lot... I didn't want it to be construed as "yeah right," instead of simply what it was... acknowledgement that I was appreciative of her. And her brain.

Her smell again. Already it feels far away. Already I can't remember it. Sigh.

La Note. The day we made love for the first time. We sat in the sunshine in the back, and it was a tiny bit awkward. We had made out the night before, and we almost did the deed. But she held back, stopping me, saying she was scared. Then she asked me to lunch the next day. I paid. I think it was the first lunch I paid for, too... before then she had picked it up because we work together. Or we'd gone dutch as friends. "Let's get out of here and go have great sex all afternoon." I think that's what she said. I wasn't sure until it actually happened that we were going to go there.

Watching her present to a group. BNI that day was... I dunno. I was tired, and she had ruffled my feathers about a stupid pen, and I really wanted to show affection when I saw her, and I felt uncomfortable. But when she got up to speak, time stopped. That's my girl, I remember thinking. I get her brains and her body. Mmmm. Maybe I should've appreciated her heart that day instead. I suppose I wasn't sure I actually had it that day... it was right after she had pushed me away the first time. She wasn't wearing her wedding ring.

The first night I bought her Vueve. We missed dinner and ended up eating at Coquelet after seeing Get Him to the Greek. We missed dinner because... um. 40 minutes. I'll get it when I read this a year from now. "There are three things," she said. "Vueve, chocolate, and [Alfie]."

When she called me from her church parking lot. It was early, probably the last week of May. It was really fun listening.

Her lesson on unconditional love. Her commitment to having it for me, even when she thought I didn't for her. I'm still not sure I know what it means, nor how to get it, nor if, when I find it, it will be real. But I do know that once she so believed in us that she promised to wait for me if I found someone else while she dealt with her marriage. "I'll be there, waiting for you, because I believe in us. Because that's what you do when you love somebody the way I love you."

I wonder how long I'll believe. I wonder how long I'll wait.

(can't help it)