Autumn has arrived.

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

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

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

I don't miss Mel much.

I have found myself missing Kim quite a bit lately.

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck that.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

And most of it is, actually, stupid shit.

The sky will always be falling for someone.

The world will always be collapsing for someone.

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

But it doesn't actually matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heh. Both!

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

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

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

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

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

Today I wonder if this is all there is.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels honest.

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

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

And I like it.