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.
--
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, July 26, 2010
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?
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, July 25, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, July 24, 2010
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Broken
Been in bed for 20 hours. Phone is off, email unread, stomach empty, dreams no solace.
Heartbroken.
Alone. Empty.
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
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)
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)
Struggling for Catharsis
I can't even tell if it hurts yet. I feel such despair, but I can't cry, I don't miss her yet, I'm not angry, I just feel...
low grade PTSD. Heh. That's what I feel. I can't concentrate, my hands are shaking, and I don't feel like anything is actually wrong, I just know I don't feel right. I don't feel normal.
I feel broken.
If I were an alcoholic, I'd be drinking. If I were and addict, I'd be using. If I felt comfortable leaning on someone, I'd be leaning. If I really loved old movies, I'd be watching them.
If I could escape, somehow, some way, I would do it.
But I don't know what to do
I'm a workaholic. I'm a gym rat. I'm a skater and a dancer. I run.
And right now I just want to lay in my bed. Right now I want to sleep without nightmares, cry without self-pity, hope without feeling foolish, and love without being let down.
Right now, a part of me wants to roll over and die.
Right now, a part of me is, actually, dying.
I feel weak. I feel bad. I feel stupid. I feel empty.
I don't feel the world on my shoulders today. I suppose there is that. I instead have that feeling of overwhelming pressure from my feelings themselves. I have so much welling up inside, trying to escape, seeking catharsis, yearning for closure, desperately needing resolution.
I want to cry and scream and whine and beg and yell and wail. I want these things all at once, I want them now, I want to understand, to have peace, to...
--
She just called.
She was harsh. A bitch even.
She went on and on and on about her and Phil and history and a bunch of other bullshit. She was saying it for her benefit, not mine. Convincing herself.
"You said once that if I could turn to you and say 'I want to be with Phil. He will make me happy.' then you would let me be. Well that's what I'm asking for now."
I'm pretty sure she sneaked "if you love me, you'll..." in there.
I asked her, after much difficulty finding the words, if anything she ever said to me was real.
She said no. There was other contextual information, about how I made her feel great, about how she meant it at the time, bleah bleah bleah.
I repeated it. "You said that everything you felt was fake. It wasn't real. You never loved me."
She invoked logic. Of all the fucking things. Logically we can't be in love.
She still said no.
I said, "Well. Mine wasn't fake. I wasn't playing make believe."
She said "no one loves me as much as he does". I said "how dare you. I'm not gonna talk shit, but how dare you. That's not fair. How dare you!"
The only breadcrumb she gave me was "if we had met in different circumstances, if we were both single, if we could have built a relationship on trust, without deceit, without hurting anyone else, then maybe things would have been different."
I told her that my love wasn't deceitful. That I'd have done anything for her. Married her. Loved her forever.
She just said "Sorry."
And that was that.
--
I want to hate her now. But I can't. I just feel... like I've lost something. Naked, even. Bare. Stripped.
And a little stupid. Maybe a lot stupid.
I should've corrected her the first time she said the L word. I should've invoked logic and said, "you can't love me, you don't even know me," instead of letting myself be open. Instead of thinking about her and how I felt when around her, how I felt like we could do anything together. Instead of falling in love with her in return.
Sigh. I don't really believe that. I'm a romantic when you strip me bare. I want to believe. I want to hope and have faith and fall in love in three dates. I want a fairy tale. I want to imagine a future together after two weeks and wonder how we ever survived apart after three.
I just wish it had lasted past the ballpark. Past the orange sweatshirt and True Blood.
I shall miss her. Even in spite of how foolish I feel, in spite of her harsh words, in spite of the dysfunction she has brought to bear on my lonely cynicism.
At least she never named our future children. Well, actually, she probably did, but I couldn't deal. Heh.
--
I guess I don't feel that PTSD sensation anymore. I'm not shaking. I guess there is some relief in the closure.
I'm pretty sure I'll need to cry in a short while, though.
:-(
low grade PTSD. Heh. That's what I feel. I can't concentrate, my hands are shaking, and I don't feel like anything is actually wrong, I just know I don't feel right. I don't feel normal.
I feel broken.
If I were an alcoholic, I'd be drinking. If I were and addict, I'd be using. If I felt comfortable leaning on someone, I'd be leaning. If I really loved old movies, I'd be watching them.
If I could escape, somehow, some way, I would do it.
But I don't know what to do
I'm a workaholic. I'm a gym rat. I'm a skater and a dancer. I run.
And right now I just want to lay in my bed. Right now I want to sleep without nightmares, cry without self-pity, hope without feeling foolish, and love without being let down.
Right now, a part of me wants to roll over and die.
Right now, a part of me is, actually, dying.
I feel weak. I feel bad. I feel stupid. I feel empty.
I don't feel the world on my shoulders today. I suppose there is that. I instead have that feeling of overwhelming pressure from my feelings themselves. I have so much welling up inside, trying to escape, seeking catharsis, yearning for closure, desperately needing resolution.
I want to cry and scream and whine and beg and yell and wail. I want these things all at once, I want them now, I want to understand, to have peace, to...
--
She just called.
She was harsh. A bitch even.
She went on and on and on about her and Phil and history and a bunch of other bullshit. She was saying it for her benefit, not mine. Convincing herself.
"You said once that if I could turn to you and say 'I want to be with Phil. He will make me happy.' then you would let me be. Well that's what I'm asking for now."
I'm pretty sure she sneaked "if you love me, you'll..." in there.
I asked her, after much difficulty finding the words, if anything she ever said to me was real.
She said no. There was other contextual information, about how I made her feel great, about how she meant it at the time, bleah bleah bleah.
I repeated it. "You said that everything you felt was fake. It wasn't real. You never loved me."
She invoked logic. Of all the fucking things. Logically we can't be in love.
She still said no.
I said, "Well. Mine wasn't fake. I wasn't playing make believe."
She said "no one loves me as much as he does". I said "how dare you. I'm not gonna talk shit, but how dare you. That's not fair. How dare you!"
The only breadcrumb she gave me was "if we had met in different circumstances, if we were both single, if we could have built a relationship on trust, without deceit, without hurting anyone else, then maybe things would have been different."
I told her that my love wasn't deceitful. That I'd have done anything for her. Married her. Loved her forever.
She just said "Sorry."
And that was that.
--
I want to hate her now. But I can't. I just feel... like I've lost something. Naked, even. Bare. Stripped.
And a little stupid. Maybe a lot stupid.
I should've corrected her the first time she said the L word. I should've invoked logic and said, "you can't love me, you don't even know me," instead of letting myself be open. Instead of thinking about her and how I felt when around her, how I felt like we could do anything together. Instead of falling in love with her in return.
Sigh. I don't really believe that. I'm a romantic when you strip me bare. I want to believe. I want to hope and have faith and fall in love in three dates. I want a fairy tale. I want to imagine a future together after two weeks and wonder how we ever survived apart after three.
I just wish it had lasted past the ballpark. Past the orange sweatshirt and True Blood.
I shall miss her. Even in spite of how foolish I feel, in spite of her harsh words, in spite of the dysfunction she has brought to bear on my lonely cynicism.
At least she never named our future children. Well, actually, she probably did, but I couldn't deal. Heh.
--
I guess I don't feel that PTSD sensation anymore. I'm not shaking. I guess there is some relief in the closure.
I'm pretty sure I'll need to cry in a short while, though.
:-(
I feel ill
My stomach hurts. My head spins. My eyes weigh heavy. My heart aches.
Fists clenched, teeth gritted, the anger is welling up inside me.
Was it all a lie? Was it all a game? Will she, in the end, not really be different from any of the others?
Are all of those things we said, all of those dreams and hopes and promises, just a fantasy?
Was her commitment to loving me, her promise to cherish me... were these just empty words?
Dysfunction. That's the word for this.
I am... no better.
--
I might need to go home. Tears are coming. Soon.
Fists clenched, teeth gritted, the anger is welling up inside me.
Was it all a lie? Was it all a game? Will she, in the end, not really be different from any of the others?
Are all of those things we said, all of those dreams and hopes and promises, just a fantasy?
Was her commitment to loving me, her promise to cherish me... were these just empty words?
Dysfunction. That's the word for this.
I am... no better.
--
I might need to go home. Tears are coming. Soon.
Ripped from my arms. Literally.
I had beer with my coworkers last night. She had dinner with her mom in SF. She called me on the way home at 1030. Both buzzed, the "breakup" seemed less important.
She came over.
So did hubby hubs. We were having sex. She was telling me she needed me. She said she was scared of loving me so much. She was looking at me the way people in love do. She smiled, twice, in the way that I think maybe only I get to see.
I heard some yelling outside, and a few moments later, there was a vicious knock at the door. It was him. She said so. I said, in understatement, "that's bad."
And she was gone. I told her not to go out there. I told her not to leave. I wish I'd said it more forcefully. I wish I'd pointed out that opening the door on a crazy angry husband would be really dumb.
But I didn't. My landlord/housemate was already outside, already had called the cops, already had ruined his night.
I think she felt an urgency to leave partially because she thought he would be arrested. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I was always wrong about her. Maybe she was playing us both.
My heart says no, but as with many things with her, the behavior doesn't seem to fit.
She opened the door. I let her. He rushed me. It wasn't very effective. Diving at someone's neck doesn't really work too well in a fight. He was trying to wrestle with me and I was just gearing up to punch him in the head -- maybe I did, actually, I don't remember -- when my housemate rushed in and tackled him. I jumped up and grabbed his left side, telling my housemate not to worry, that I wouldn't attack him (I thought about it for a split second).
The two of us -- more the hero of the hour than me, admittedly -- then easily subdued him.
Sigh. I have to go work now. In a nuthsell:
Cops came. He spit at her and called her a whore. I didn't press charges. They went home. I wrote her a few thinks on Bberry Messenger (bbm).
By 2am she had unfriended me on BBM. By 2:45 I got this:
------
I made a commitment to a man. I promised to love him and care for him and be faithful to him, just as he made a promise to me. This is not to be taken lightly. Philip is kind, loving, gentle, caring, and most of all, he is the man I chose to be with. He has seen me through some painful times in my life and he has made a commitment to see me through the worst. I have been selfish, unloving, self absorbed, and worst of all, unfaithful - in mind, body, and spirit.
I need to make amends with my actions, and that begins with you. I have told you before, that our relationship was not built on a foundation made to last. Well, more like an erupting volcano actually. I am a broken mess, I am lost in my life and turned to you to fill a void in my marriage and in my life. It felt good to have someone care about me, take care of me, show me they love me. I needed to feel important to someone, like my life mattered and give me what I wanted deep down, not the cars and a big kitchen, but passion, excitement....intimacy. You gave me everything I wanted, despite the apparent pain it caused you, me, and eventually my husband. One time you told me he would find out...then he did. And again you said, "babe, you know he'll find out again, it's just a matter of time." And like always, you were right. When I turned around tonight, I knew I should say no to you. I knew I should turn right back around and go home to Philip. Little did I know, he had installed a GPS in my car, he watched me drive to your house, while I talked to him and told him I would be home soon. I have caused a wake of destruction in my path of infidelity. I have hurt the one man that has always stuck by my side, and if I am lucky, will continue to do so. I have hurt you over and over and over again, despite our desire to end the relationship with a clean break.
I'm sorry for coming into your life like this. My deepest desire is to wipe this all clean, to go back to day one, and make the right decision. The decision that I have always made because I cherish Philip's love for me. It's too late, I am more broken and more lost now then I have ever been. My marriage was shattered, and now the pieces have melted in a fire. I have very little to salvage now, but I need to try. I love Philip. You will never know the man I fell in love with, but if you know me as you say you do, then trust that I made a decision based on history, evidence, logic, reason, and faith.
If I am lucky/blessed, I will come through the other end of this long, dark tunnel strong, selfless, loving woman. And next to me will be the man I love and will always love, Philip.
I am sorry [Alfie]. I love Philip, he is a good man, a loving man, and I want to heal my marriage.
I need to make amends with my actions, and that begins with you. I have told you before, that our relationship was not built on a foundation made to last. Well, more like an erupting volcano actually. I am a broken mess, I am lost in my life and turned to you to fill a void in my marriage and in my life. It felt good to have someone care about me, take care of me, show me they love me. I needed to feel important to someone, like my life mattered and give me what I wanted deep down, not the cars and a big kitchen, but passion, excitement....intimacy. You gave me everything I wanted, despite the apparent pain it caused you, me, and eventually my husband. One time you told me he would find out...then he did. And again you said, "babe, you know he'll find out again, it's just a matter of time." And like always, you were right. When I turned around tonight, I knew I should say no to you. I knew I should turn right back around and go home to Philip. Little did I know, he had installed a GPS in my car, he watched me drive to your house, while I talked to him and told him I would be home soon. I have caused a wake of destruction in my path of infidelity. I have hurt the one man that has always stuck by my side, and if I am lucky, will continue to do so. I have hurt you over and over and over again, despite our desire to end the relationship with a clean break.
I'm sorry for coming into your life like this. My deepest desire is to wipe this all clean, to go back to day one, and make the right decision. The decision that I have always made because I cherish Philip's love for me. It's too late, I am more broken and more lost now then I have ever been. My marriage was shattered, and now the pieces have melted in a fire. I have very little to salvage now, but I need to try. I love Philip. You will never know the man I fell in love with, but if you know me as you say you do, then trust that I made a decision based on history, evidence, logic, reason, and faith.
If I am lucky/blessed, I will come through the other end of this long, dark tunnel strong, selfless, loving woman. And next to me will be the man I love and will always love, Philip.
I am sorry [Alfie]. I love Philip, he is a good man, a loving man, and I want to heal my marriage.
--
I replied this morning with what amounted to "bullshit, tell me something in your own words" and she replied with "It's over [Alfie]"
I spoke to her for a moment this morning, but then her mom called and she hung up on me. Then I called and she called back and we talked for only a moment. "You're really breaking up?"
She sighed and said "Yeah."
Funny story... what makes me believe it? Facebook. She unfriended me on Facebook. Second time in two days that's happened.
I'm getting more unpopular by the minute.
--
Quick feelings?
Dumbfounded. Appalled. Violated. Confused.
I don't really feel hurt. Not yet, anyway. It's all too fresh. I don't feel angry either.
I'm mad that this asshole attacked me.
I'm mad that she left without even saying goodbye.
But I'm not really angry about it yet. Just... violated (him) and confused (her).
--
Right now, I still think she'll come back. What I should do or say when she does? Search me. But that's what I think and feel.
Just yesterday she was telling me that she was leaning toward having that dreaded convo with him. About leaving him. This doesn't make any sense at all. Maybe all I ever had to ever do was treat her badly... spit at her and call her a whore. Maybe the world really is that backward.
--
It's pretty funny that my "oh shit, this might be real" moment was based on our Facebook relationship, though, isn't it?
Hmmm. Starting to feel that little twinge of anger now. I am last night's leftovers, as always. Humph.
I'm sure I'll have some thoughtful things to write in the next few days.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Waking up in the middle of the night again
At least it wasn't Gravity and tears this time.
Tonight I woke up humming Freefallin'. I'm a baaaad boy, cause I don't even miss her. I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart.
I wouldn't let her call me tonight. She wanted to "be a friend" during my funeral. We had like a 90 minute text message conversation instead.
It was easier for me to stay detached. Even though I didn't. Not really.
Still.
Her blog reads like mine when I am lost and depressed and broken hearted. Yearning, needing, questioning the biology, questioning the "why", questioning herself. Perhaps a little less of the self-doubt I usually have. Certainly less anger.
But similar. It makes me want to reach out to her and give her whatever she wants.
But then I remember that whatever she is feeling is nothing compared to my Saturdays. That her loneliness at not being able to have me on Mondays is, well, deserved. That she doesn't have to imagine me happy with someone else. That a thousand Mondays in a row like today still wouldn't actually be fair.
Not that it matters. The world is not a better place because she hurts. It's most likely the opposite, actually.
And I do love her still.
--
If you hurt so much, if you need me so badly, then why can't you just make the call?
It makes me want to dismiss it. Makes me want to call these feelings lies. If you love me, this is easy. If you need me, this is easy.
I think you like it. I think you like hurting me. I think you like going home to your husband and just using me for the parts missing in your marriage. I think that this isn't really love.
And I think that's really lame.
--
I've done similar things with women. I remember in the year after Laura, I juggled 2-3 very well. Sarah comes to mind. She cooked me dinner and was emotionally available. Heck, she was almost perfect. If only she had an IQ over 120 or an additional 5 years of education, I might have never left.
Heh. She was my Phil, probably. Except I never loved her. Never told her that, never thought that, always aware that one day I would leave her.
When I did, I don't think she even cried. Because the fact that I would leave one day was apparent the entire relationship.
That's why it's lame. That's why it's either a lie or stupid. If she loves me, then this is stupid. And if she doesn't -- and not loving me "enough" is the same diff -- then it was all a lie.
I could've handled a "friends with good sex" arrangement. I could have endured being an "on the side fling" for, probably, years. It's being in love I can't handle. It's being in love that makes me want all or nothing.
I probably would have fallen in love with her anyway. I probably would have wondered, probably would have let myself engage a little too much. But that would have been an internal struggle over a longer period of time. It would have been tempered by dating other people, by self-inflicted pep talks, and the distance of weekends.
The rub is how good it feels to be loved back. How hearing her plan a future with me lets my imagination get carried away. How "you're the one I'm supposed to be with" stirs my soul and makes me believe in your fairy tales.
It's not that I think you were malicious, babe. I do think you're dumb. I can't believe that what we had was just a dopamine cocktail. You love me.
I just don't understand how you can't tell your husband. You must think very little of him.
Humph. Maybe it is that she thinks very little of ME.
Heh. My own narcissism comes out. That thought actually hadn't occurred to me until now. (lol)
--
I didn't really miss her today. I guess it's easier for me. I've already cried for weeks, needing her, unable to have her, touch her, talk to her.
She wanted to "be a friend" after the funeral today. To talk.
I didn't let her. I didn't want to know how that felt, only to have it yanked away again in a few short days. By Saturday for sure, right? Always Saturdays. Bitch.
Heh. "Easier." As if.
It's good for her to miss me, I think. She realizes things like "I haven't even been a good friend to you." This is actually true, of course. But her unwillingness to actually be with me is still all to apparent in every other sentence. Every third word.
It still hurts. Even via text message.
--
So, standing awkwardly in my grandfather's house today with my brother and father in the same room? Weirdly not making eye contact with either of them, often because I chose not to look, and when I did because they stared awkwardly at anything but me.... it was surreal.
I am nothing like those guys. They are weird and awkward. I am a man. I was poorly dressed compared to everyone -- I word denim to a funeral! -- but I looked more at ease than my insecure black sheep of a father in his three piece suit and silk tie.
It's definitely more than clothes that make the man.
I think I mentioned this yesterday, but I'll say it again. It is so strange to realize that everyone else except dear ol' dad is normal. I'm weird because I have a need to process it. I'm weird because I had to endure it. I'm weird because I think his bad blood is mine.
It isn't. And I don't.
I doubt I'll ever be a true member of the family. I doubt any of those people will come to my wedding, I doubt that we'll suddenly start sharing Christmases, I doubt that after the initial push to maintain or start some sort of relationship wears off in a month or two, we'll all go back to the habit of our own separate lives.
But it isn't my fault. It's just life. It's normal. It's what happens when you don't grow up together. When you meet your cousins the first time in your 30s. When you're father happens to be a sociopath.
And life goes on. It's not that big of a deal, not really. None of them will ever be the father I needed. None of them can shape me into a better man, mentor me in such a way that I achieve more, or guide me in such a way so that I can have more meaningful work, play, or relationships.
I did all of that on my own. But it isn't a burden. It isn't really a blessing either -- other than the luck involved that allows me to still be here. It just is. They all have their own pain, their own families, their own lives, their own fears and dreams and loves and failures. That I don't need them isn't some sort of spiteful declaration; it's just the result.
All I can do is be a good man. In spite of. Because of. It really doesn't matter. I have daddy issues and trouble finding/maintaining relationships. I struggle in business and life. I am sometimes too cocky.
I'm still a good man. That's what matters. It doesn't matter who your father is. It doesn't matter that I can stare at him in his goofy suit that is actually quite well tailored yet somehow still makes him look like a clown (well, no, I'm sure it's just him) and vaguely still wish him dead. Why'd my grandfather have to die and not you?
It doesn't matter that I look at my brother and wonder almost aloud why he's such a dick.
These things aren't actually my flaws. They are theirs.
My father's girlfriend said hello to me. I shook her hand and introduced myself. She said she knew who I was. Of course you do, I said. All these white people and the more confident one of only two Asian dudes hanging out with my father's daughter. Yaaa think?
I had to ask her name twice, because she didn't introduce herself nor speak without mumbling. I still don't remember it. Figures. My father couldn't date someone with... oh, some semblance of understanding of social norms.
She kept mumbling things my father must have prepped her to say. "I see your pictures all the time. They are hanging in your dad's house." Hmm. I bet mom would like the photos she took back someday. "I hear you are really smart and successful." My grandfather told you that. "You're very independent." Yeah. I guess that's a word for running away at the onset of puberty.
I found the entire interaction excruciating. Who the fuck are you and why do you seem to think I care? You're just the dumb broad my father is banging. You're not intelligent or witty. You're not even pretty. And you happen to somehow find the one man I wish dead on the planet attractive. That means your self esteem has to be about the size of a flea and that if I show you any of the real me you'll cower in fear and awe. I am a god to you.
It's funny. Before I spoke to her, I felt sorry for her. After our interaction, I just felt dumbfounded. I felt like I'd walked through the twilight zone. I felt like I had endured a small animal trying to hump my leg and was grossed out by the semen left behind. Like a 10 pound dog was trying to exercise its dominance over me and I let if get its rocks off by not kicking it. Like an attempt at mental rape had just occurred, but it was so silly and small and pitiful that I just let it happen and then was annoyed at the mess on my pant leg.
Humph. At least I made it. Two whole days and not a word to my father. I did look him in the eye once, at the church yesterday, when he kept talking to my sister and I from the bench behind us.
He's why I didn't say anything. No anecdotes about my grandfather during the open mic period. I'm pretty sure that "I really appreciate that my grandfather had to work really hard to maintain relationships with my siblings and I and did so." wouldn't have gone over very well. Because, you know, "seeing as how our father is rightfully hated, despised and excommunicated by everyone" would've sneaked in there whether I said it out loud or not. And the resulting scene would have been inappropriate.
I'm not angry about it. I'm not angry at all, actually. Ok, maybe a little at the doggy cum on my leg, but I can change my pants. It is nevertheless a pity.
I wondered aloud today, briefly, if my ongoing hatred of pops makes me flawed. That if I were the man I want to become, I'd forgive and even be a friend to him.
I'm gonna go with no. Not really. Yeah.... no. Not so much.
Again with the god thing... but yeah. My father is proof that god doesn't exist. There is no omnipresent, omnipotent, benevolent super-being out there. Sorry.
He should have been aborted. I don't care if I go on to save millions of African children, my sister designs the next Eiffel tower and Taj Mahal, and my brother builds a prototype warp drive. The good of even his genes aren't enough to make up for the pain he has brought to everyone he has ever interacted with.
If there is some greater plan in there that I don't understand, god, then when did you become such a selfish prick? Your plan sucks, yo. You should've found another way. You're fucking GOD, right?
But anyway. I was introspecting.
I don't think that being a friend to my father is a hurdle I need to jump. It won't bring me catharsis, it won't make me a better person, and I am already a jedi. So, yeah, fuck it. And it's not like he deserves it or anything.
I have plenty of loving and deserving people to take care of. I have lots of people to love who are capable of loving me back.
Heh. Even Mel.
Hopefully one day soon I'll say "especially Mel". Hurry up, darling.
--
I wish she had been there with me. She'd have made me dress up. She'd have impressed the aunts and uncles. I would have felt stronger with her there. More at ease, in command, normal. Successful and independent (talk about irony) like everyone said.
I didn't need her for the grief part. Kk was there for that. I did need her to face all of those strangers. Especially dad.
They'd have called her lovely and pretty. CEO uncle would have said "you make a very fetching couple". Pianist uncle would have called her a doll when she stepped away. Step-grandma would have said "it's so nice to see you with a great woman. And she's so smart and pretty, [Alfie]. Really." I think it might have been code for "I thought you were gay," but we'd have joked about it later.
Cyclist aunt would have asked where in the world I found her, how long we'd been dating, and delighted in our work stories. Great aunt would have been embarrassed to talk about the family drama that we both so desperately need to share with each other, but they'd have networked and discovered a dozen shared contacts. Her mom is probably in the same rotary clubs. Heh.
My father would probably have made an effort to say hello. He'd have awkwardly fumbled, trying to flirt in his pathetic way that just comes across as creepy. It would have grossed Mel out and made me angry. But it'd have been ok. He'd see us, briefly, having sneaked away into a hallway, happy, embracing, and know I'm supported. He'd have spoken to her long enough to convey his sexist condescension and have her politely protest with skill and brilliance, rendering him speechless in surprise. No, actually, mom is kinda dumb, dad. I can only surmise that you seek out the dumb FOBs to reinforce your sexism. All two of them in 40 years of dating.
He'd wonder how I got such a great girl. And just like every other achievement or good fortune I've had since I was five, he'd have been jealous.
And I'd have been oblivious. I'd just have wished my granddad could have been there to meet her.
He'd have flirted, too, in a charming and flattering way, the way old men should with their eventual granddaughters. And she'd have kissed him on the cheek, appreciative and beautiful. He'd have made her laugh with his silly puns and she'd have impressed him with her charm, grace, and smarts. He'd have delighted to talk about biology and anatomy with her. And she'd have understood a part of me that I wish I'd gotten to know better.
--
My fantasy. It makes me sad to think about. It makes me miss her. It makes me miss him.
The day she wore the black, green, and white summer dress was the last time I saw him. I was late for dinner because of her. She could've been there then. She could've been there today.
It all could've actually happened.
How many more memories will you miss, Melissa?
Tonight I woke up humming Freefallin'. I'm a baaaad boy, cause I don't even miss her. I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart.
I wouldn't let her call me tonight. She wanted to "be a friend" during my funeral. We had like a 90 minute text message conversation instead.
It was easier for me to stay detached. Even though I didn't. Not really.
Still.
Her blog reads like mine when I am lost and depressed and broken hearted. Yearning, needing, questioning the biology, questioning the "why", questioning herself. Perhaps a little less of the self-doubt I usually have. Certainly less anger.
But similar. It makes me want to reach out to her and give her whatever she wants.
But then I remember that whatever she is feeling is nothing compared to my Saturdays. That her loneliness at not being able to have me on Mondays is, well, deserved. That she doesn't have to imagine me happy with someone else. That a thousand Mondays in a row like today still wouldn't actually be fair.
Not that it matters. The world is not a better place because she hurts. It's most likely the opposite, actually.
And I do love her still.
--
If you hurt so much, if you need me so badly, then why can't you just make the call?
It makes me want to dismiss it. Makes me want to call these feelings lies. If you love me, this is easy. If you need me, this is easy.
I think you like it. I think you like hurting me. I think you like going home to your husband and just using me for the parts missing in your marriage. I think that this isn't really love.
And I think that's really lame.
--
I've done similar things with women. I remember in the year after Laura, I juggled 2-3 very well. Sarah comes to mind. She cooked me dinner and was emotionally available. Heck, she was almost perfect. If only she had an IQ over 120 or an additional 5 years of education, I might have never left.
Heh. She was my Phil, probably. Except I never loved her. Never told her that, never thought that, always aware that one day I would leave her.
When I did, I don't think she even cried. Because the fact that I would leave one day was apparent the entire relationship.
That's why it's lame. That's why it's either a lie or stupid. If she loves me, then this is stupid. And if she doesn't -- and not loving me "enough" is the same diff -- then it was all a lie.
I could've handled a "friends with good sex" arrangement. I could have endured being an "on the side fling" for, probably, years. It's being in love I can't handle. It's being in love that makes me want all or nothing.
I probably would have fallen in love with her anyway. I probably would have wondered, probably would have let myself engage a little too much. But that would have been an internal struggle over a longer period of time. It would have been tempered by dating other people, by self-inflicted pep talks, and the distance of weekends.
The rub is how good it feels to be loved back. How hearing her plan a future with me lets my imagination get carried away. How "you're the one I'm supposed to be with" stirs my soul and makes me believe in your fairy tales.
It's not that I think you were malicious, babe. I do think you're dumb. I can't believe that what we had was just a dopamine cocktail. You love me.
I just don't understand how you can't tell your husband. You must think very little of him.
Humph. Maybe it is that she thinks very little of ME.
Heh. My own narcissism comes out. That thought actually hadn't occurred to me until now. (lol)
--
I didn't really miss her today. I guess it's easier for me. I've already cried for weeks, needing her, unable to have her, touch her, talk to her.
She wanted to "be a friend" after the funeral today. To talk.
I didn't let her. I didn't want to know how that felt, only to have it yanked away again in a few short days. By Saturday for sure, right? Always Saturdays. Bitch.
Heh. "Easier." As if.
It's good for her to miss me, I think. She realizes things like "I haven't even been a good friend to you." This is actually true, of course. But her unwillingness to actually be with me is still all to apparent in every other sentence. Every third word.
It still hurts. Even via text message.
--
So, standing awkwardly in my grandfather's house today with my brother and father in the same room? Weirdly not making eye contact with either of them, often because I chose not to look, and when I did because they stared awkwardly at anything but me.... it was surreal.
I am nothing like those guys. They are weird and awkward. I am a man. I was poorly dressed compared to everyone -- I word denim to a funeral! -- but I looked more at ease than my insecure black sheep of a father in his three piece suit and silk tie.
It's definitely more than clothes that make the man.
I think I mentioned this yesterday, but I'll say it again. It is so strange to realize that everyone else except dear ol' dad is normal. I'm weird because I have a need to process it. I'm weird because I had to endure it. I'm weird because I think his bad blood is mine.
It isn't. And I don't.
I doubt I'll ever be a true member of the family. I doubt any of those people will come to my wedding, I doubt that we'll suddenly start sharing Christmases, I doubt that after the initial push to maintain or start some sort of relationship wears off in a month or two, we'll all go back to the habit of our own separate lives.
But it isn't my fault. It's just life. It's normal. It's what happens when you don't grow up together. When you meet your cousins the first time in your 30s. When you're father happens to be a sociopath.
And life goes on. It's not that big of a deal, not really. None of them will ever be the father I needed. None of them can shape me into a better man, mentor me in such a way that I achieve more, or guide me in such a way so that I can have more meaningful work, play, or relationships.
I did all of that on my own. But it isn't a burden. It isn't really a blessing either -- other than the luck involved that allows me to still be here. It just is. They all have their own pain, their own families, their own lives, their own fears and dreams and loves and failures. That I don't need them isn't some sort of spiteful declaration; it's just the result.
All I can do is be a good man. In spite of. Because of. It really doesn't matter. I have daddy issues and trouble finding/maintaining relationships. I struggle in business and life. I am sometimes too cocky.
I'm still a good man. That's what matters. It doesn't matter who your father is. It doesn't matter that I can stare at him in his goofy suit that is actually quite well tailored yet somehow still makes him look like a clown (well, no, I'm sure it's just him) and vaguely still wish him dead. Why'd my grandfather have to die and not you?
It doesn't matter that I look at my brother and wonder almost aloud why he's such a dick.
These things aren't actually my flaws. They are theirs.
My father's girlfriend said hello to me. I shook her hand and introduced myself. She said she knew who I was. Of course you do, I said. All these white people and the more confident one of only two Asian dudes hanging out with my father's daughter. Yaaa think?
I had to ask her name twice, because she didn't introduce herself nor speak without mumbling. I still don't remember it. Figures. My father couldn't date someone with... oh, some semblance of understanding of social norms.
She kept mumbling things my father must have prepped her to say. "I see your pictures all the time. They are hanging in your dad's house." Hmm. I bet mom would like the photos she took back someday. "I hear you are really smart and successful." My grandfather told you that. "You're very independent." Yeah. I guess that's a word for running away at the onset of puberty.
I found the entire interaction excruciating. Who the fuck are you and why do you seem to think I care? You're just the dumb broad my father is banging. You're not intelligent or witty. You're not even pretty. And you happen to somehow find the one man I wish dead on the planet attractive. That means your self esteem has to be about the size of a flea and that if I show you any of the real me you'll cower in fear and awe. I am a god to you.
It's funny. Before I spoke to her, I felt sorry for her. After our interaction, I just felt dumbfounded. I felt like I'd walked through the twilight zone. I felt like I had endured a small animal trying to hump my leg and was grossed out by the semen left behind. Like a 10 pound dog was trying to exercise its dominance over me and I let if get its rocks off by not kicking it. Like an attempt at mental rape had just occurred, but it was so silly and small and pitiful that I just let it happen and then was annoyed at the mess on my pant leg.
Humph. At least I made it. Two whole days and not a word to my father. I did look him in the eye once, at the church yesterday, when he kept talking to my sister and I from the bench behind us.
He's why I didn't say anything. No anecdotes about my grandfather during the open mic period. I'm pretty sure that "I really appreciate that my grandfather had to work really hard to maintain relationships with my siblings and I and did so." wouldn't have gone over very well. Because, you know, "seeing as how our father is rightfully hated, despised and excommunicated by everyone" would've sneaked in there whether I said it out loud or not. And the resulting scene would have been inappropriate.
I'm not angry about it. I'm not angry at all, actually. Ok, maybe a little at the doggy cum on my leg, but I can change my pants. It is nevertheless a pity.
I wondered aloud today, briefly, if my ongoing hatred of pops makes me flawed. That if I were the man I want to become, I'd forgive and even be a friend to him.
I'm gonna go with no. Not really. Yeah.... no. Not so much.
Again with the god thing... but yeah. My father is proof that god doesn't exist. There is no omnipresent, omnipotent, benevolent super-being out there. Sorry.
He should have been aborted. I don't care if I go on to save millions of African children, my sister designs the next Eiffel tower and Taj Mahal, and my brother builds a prototype warp drive. The good of even his genes aren't enough to make up for the pain he has brought to everyone he has ever interacted with.
If there is some greater plan in there that I don't understand, god, then when did you become such a selfish prick? Your plan sucks, yo. You should've found another way. You're fucking GOD, right?
But anyway. I was introspecting.
I don't think that being a friend to my father is a hurdle I need to jump. It won't bring me catharsis, it won't make me a better person, and I am already a jedi. So, yeah, fuck it. And it's not like he deserves it or anything.
I have plenty of loving and deserving people to take care of. I have lots of people to love who are capable of loving me back.
Heh. Even Mel.
Hopefully one day soon I'll say "especially Mel". Hurry up, darling.
--
I wish she had been there with me. She'd have made me dress up. She'd have impressed the aunts and uncles. I would have felt stronger with her there. More at ease, in command, normal. Successful and independent (talk about irony) like everyone said.
I didn't need her for the grief part. Kk was there for that. I did need her to face all of those strangers. Especially dad.
They'd have called her lovely and pretty. CEO uncle would have said "you make a very fetching couple". Pianist uncle would have called her a doll when she stepped away. Step-grandma would have said "it's so nice to see you with a great woman. And she's so smart and pretty, [Alfie]. Really." I think it might have been code for "I thought you were gay," but we'd have joked about it later.
Cyclist aunt would have asked where in the world I found her, how long we'd been dating, and delighted in our work stories. Great aunt would have been embarrassed to talk about the family drama that we both so desperately need to share with each other, but they'd have networked and discovered a dozen shared contacts. Her mom is probably in the same rotary clubs. Heh.
My father would probably have made an effort to say hello. He'd have awkwardly fumbled, trying to flirt in his pathetic way that just comes across as creepy. It would have grossed Mel out and made me angry. But it'd have been ok. He'd see us, briefly, having sneaked away into a hallway, happy, embracing, and know I'm supported. He'd have spoken to her long enough to convey his sexist condescension and have her politely protest with skill and brilliance, rendering him speechless in surprise. No, actually, mom is kinda dumb, dad. I can only surmise that you seek out the dumb FOBs to reinforce your sexism. All two of them in 40 years of dating.
He'd wonder how I got such a great girl. And just like every other achievement or good fortune I've had since I was five, he'd have been jealous.
And I'd have been oblivious. I'd just have wished my granddad could have been there to meet her.
He'd have flirted, too, in a charming and flattering way, the way old men should with their eventual granddaughters. And she'd have kissed him on the cheek, appreciative and beautiful. He'd have made her laugh with his silly puns and she'd have impressed him with her charm, grace, and smarts. He'd have delighted to talk about biology and anatomy with her. And she'd have understood a part of me that I wish I'd gotten to know better.
--
My fantasy. It makes me sad to think about. It makes me miss her. It makes me miss him.
The day she wore the black, green, and white summer dress was the last time I saw him. I was late for dinner because of her. She could've been there then. She could've been there today.
It all could've actually happened.
How many more memories will you miss, Melissa?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Reason #589 why my brother is a dick
Aside from ridiculous accusations made to the EDD (hello, "my position was eliminated" is the best way to go if you're ever let go! DUHHH), he un-friended me on Facebook.
Who does that?
Douchebag.
Who does that?
Douchebag.
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