I don't want to write, but I feel like I need to.

My brother took a swing at me today. I hit him back. Frank B broke it up.

I wish I'd hit him harder. I wish I hadn't blocked first, held his arms first, backed off when the fight seemed to be splitting up (he didn't). I wish I'd made him bleed.

I think about it now, about hitting him, and about how it felt... good. He's so evil. He's so cruel. It seems as though he lives his life solely to make mine miserable.

I fired him. Of course. Some things will be hard without him. And so many, many things will be so much easier.

I think he wants me to hate him. I think he's wanted it for a long time.

A part of me does.

--

I broke up with M. last night. I did it via an email longer than the entire Wall Street Journal on a Saturday. There was a lot in it... chronology, calling her on her shit, calling out her husband, calling me on my own.

It hurts to feel her absence.

I suppose I could just copy/paste the whole thing. Maybe later. For now, suffice it to say that I insisted that she no longer live in the same home with her (supposedly ex) husband. Ironically, she's been less my girl since we were "outted" and they filed paperwork. I want to believe that she just needs a little time to sort it out, but I had to take a stand. Doormats don't generally get the girl.

I hope I can hold on to this feeling of love without slipping into malaise. It feels so great.

No. Scratch that. I hope she shows up on my doorstep.

--

I found her.

She's perfect. Smart, beautiful, well meaning, good in bed, nurturing, kind, feisty, ambitious, under 30, and damn sexy.

And married.

So, what did you do this week, Alfie?

Um, yeah, I broke up a 4 year marriage. No big deal, just an 11 year relationship.

Yeah. That happened. True story. Separation papers filed today. No fucking shit.

I am officially a home wrecker.

--

I feel sorry for him. Because it sucks, because of betrayal, because of slutbag, because because because.

But I don't care.

I love her.

Yeah. I said it. Er, wrote it. I am selfish and haughty and spent. And I love her. And I don't care that I hurt some dude I don't know. Or, rather was the catalyst for causing said hurt.

Maybe I was a better man once. Maybe I should be a better man now. Maybe this is all doomed to miserable failure because I'm taunting the karmic balance.

But then, this didn't happen in a vacuum. I didn't seduce some nonchalant, innocent young lady from the throes of Prince Charming. I didn't make a move physically until she was actually in my bed, as a matter of fact. No kiss, no first base, no massages, no nothing. And then she was here. And then she was mine.

This couldn't have happened if he was present. If she were in love with him. If she weren't already separated in spirit.

So, yeah, I don't really feel guilty. I feel sympathy for the other guy. I feel nervous because it is highly likely that she'll leave someday soon. I feel scared because I love her. And I feel that I'm acting more than a little foolish for having the big "L" sensation.

But I don't care. I don't care at all. Why?

Because it feels fucking great. I absolutely love being in love. It has been years, and two weeks or four months of this is worth the same in empty wine bottles consumed alone.

And yes, it will really fucking hurt when she laves me.

But I don't care. Not one bit.

--

The thing is... it's no different than any single chick. I fall in love with one of those, and they don't just have a husband to deal with, they have three ex-BFs they are still seeing and the random make-out partner every weekend. I'm not just up against 11 years of history or the chaos associated with a divorce, I'm up against a chick who isn't actually available at all. I'm up against women who feel like I'm clingy when I fucking call them to hang out more than two days in a row.

Yeah. A woman who is emotionally available almost and who has to make an all-or-nothing choice about me imminently? Hummm.

Is that really so bad? Seems... well, better, actually. Aside from the opportunity for new vagina, perhaps, which is somewhat overrated due to the general lack of access in the male population. Vagina you know is pretty much invariably better... wetter, better understood, and easier to please. Heck, if you're at all playing your cards right, she loves back, and it actually is the best of the best.

There's nothing like sex with a girl that loves you. Ok, that's not true, there's sex with a freak that loves you, which is far, far better. But I digress.

--

Yeah, I'm kinda drunk. Bite me.

--

I wonder if it's possible that she'll be mine someday. I'd like that. Maybe I'll hope a little, even though it'll probably end with tears and wine.

Maybe I like it. Hope feels... nice.

Jason

Ran into Jason J-dawg T. tonight.

He is living in Oregon somewhere. Starts with an "R". Came back to California because he needed to deal with some sort of legal issue.

He did 2+ years in San Quentin for robbing houses in Castro Valley. He served time in 2001.

He found me walking by him as I casually made my way out of Walnut Creek BART station. I was headed to meet my new girlfriend and he yelled out my name. We chatted for 5-10 minutes and I saved his number in my dying Blackberry.

He was still there when I got back at 11pm. Mel and I had had dinner, three martinis each, and had a solid lovemaking session in the back of her SUV.

He was waiting for a ride. Someone from Oregon was coming to pick him up at the train station. I waited past a missed train. We talked for almost half an hour.

I told him about almost getting married once (Amanda), about making almost $2MM by 23 and losing it all a half year letter, about traveling the world and "doing time" in Britain and Spain. I told him about girls that hurt me and dating blondes. Dating a lot of blondes.

He told me about prison. He told me about living in the same space as lifers, about having his bunk mate try to kill him with a hair pin (is that what it was?), about trying to commit suicide by hanging himself on a phone cable by wrapping it around his neck, standing, and leaning into it until his consciousness started to fade.

It is poignant to recognize that the difference between him and me was a couple of smart decisions and a couple of lucky ones. It is relevant to consider that we were boys back in the day, that we were equals, that 25 cents felt the same to either of us -- one quarter of a slurpee or one game of Street Fighter. Is it because I have a higher IQ? Or because I simply look white? Is it because I got read to at 2? Or just a little extra tenacity when hiring managers at fucking fast food joints told me to take a hike?

He stood there, speaking, talking, lamenting, ranting, and almost crying. He stood there, and I knew him better than anyone had known him in over a decade. And he knew me more, better, realer than my own mother.

It was a religious moment just as it was simultaneously a fleetingly penitent one.

That could've been me. I was one bad decision, one negative review, one firing away from the same fate.

--

As I stood there, taking him in, it was a strange juxtaposition of emotions.

I thought of the hot bourgeoius private school high maintenace chick I had just finished cumming on as she professed her love to me. And I thought of waiting tables, and doing time for disrespecting authority (stupid traffic violations or not).

I thought of my company and how I was frustrated that the 55K salary I am making is less than I made at 22 and how my time investment alone represents a sacrifice of $150K annually. And then, I thought of being mad when, in the summer of 1997, some random Mexican stole my orange and I felt violated, only to be reminded "You're in fucking jail! Just be grateful all you got taken from you was a fucking orange!"

I thought of being in charge, of sitting in meetings and commanding attention, authority, respect, and

(I don't know why, but when I went back to retrieve this and post it, it was truncated. Maybe I got a phone call and never finished?)

friday nights and lonely sundays

i hate them.

all of you. them.

there is no solace in knowing the game. no comfort in realizing how to PR, front, fake, and mimic my way to pussy, affection, and attention.

i hate you anyway.

In fact, dare I say it, because I can see how I can get you, because I see what I must manipulate, if only I choose to do the work, to "get" you, I think less of you.

I've been out on about 12 dates in the last 30 days. All of them were great. Most of them... I don't know... well (counting)...

Yeah. I think I can/could have gotten a date with all of them without much effort. Two phone calls and a quick pitch. If that.

And that means, if I played my cards right, I could get laid in about 5 days. From... yeah, right now.

And I don't want it. I don't want them. I don't want... well, ok, the thought gives me pause. It's been awhile.

But yeah. I hate them. All of 'em.

There's more to say, but I'm drunk, I have to work all weekend, and, well, no one reads this anyway. Yawn.

It's happening again

no writey, no bummers, right?

Well, I'm writing.

Part of it is it that I want to cry. I want to feel a glass of wine (or two), I want to enjoy the solitude, feel alive in my own solace that is... that just. Is.

A part of me misses ex-GFs. A part of me hungers for the new ladies that are out there, floating, teasingly, just out of reach, wanted, like only someone I show the "real me" exists... unattainable. Therein, I suppose, lies the neverending source of angst. Why aren't I good enough as-is? Why must I put on the mask of confidence (or arrogance), the mirage of having it together, the distance of selective unavailability?

Why can't I just like you. Just want to be with you. Just hunger for it, not have "better things to do", have responsibilities. I do... for real. I just want to like you so much I'll set them aside. And that's... bad?

Or I can stay out too late, tease the animal that is a potential relationship that scares me. I can respond to an 11pm invite for tea and be put in a situation that can't end well. A situation that makes me an asshole for leaving, or her a slut for letting me stay, or me immature for wanting or not wanting or hoping or rejecting. Makes me feel evil no matter what I do.

But then, of course, I feel pretty shitty a great deal of the time anyway. And, likewise, maybe so do they. And so, then, why not have more sex? Why not have more teasing? Why not have more touch, more mock-intimacy, more pleasant dreams even if short lived? Why not?

I don't know why not. I think, generally, that more sex is good, that more intimacy, faux or not, makes people happy, that the world would be a better place if only we all screwed more.

But maybe I've been sad and angry and in pain for so long that it's just more comfortable. Maybe I like it.

I'm almost there. (sip of wine) I can almost feel the tears coming. I want them. I want to feel. Something. Anything.

I want to love and hope and dream. I want to be angry and hurt and feel pain and hate. I want to scream for no reason and laugh instead of cry. I want to cry just know I'm alive.

I want to remember them. I want to remember them all. I want to remember the pain from when they left. And I want to love the world enough to heal it, to heal myself, to gain, to feel, to earn... to deserve to be loved back.

Here they come.

Release.

--

I don't miss anyone today. Whether that means I'm over them all, or just used to the solitude is anyone's guess.

I must like it. I've rejected dozens of fantastic, attractive, intelligent women for seemingly no reason.

--

The contradiction is definitely there... I think of these "new", unattainable women, and yearn, yet know that once I have them and they want me on Mondays and Tuesdays I'll feel stifled, pressured, and smothered.

No, I don't get it. Yes, I think it's possible that someone out there could be compatible with me, as contradictory as I am. No, I have no idea how I'll ever find her drinking wine and crying alone. Yes, it's lame. No, I don't give a fuck.

--

Maybe I just need a god damn vacation. Oh, wait, that's right! I only do those with women I care about.

Sigh.

Marriage and such

I was just facebooking and was struck by how many of my peers are married.

It makes my singlehood feel a bit weird. I know, this is nothing new, but it is somehow more "real" seeing pretty much every single girl I've ever dated married or pregnant. Or, you know, both. I guess that happens sometimes too. (muted snicker)

"Raining in Baltimore" is playing on my not-a-goddamn-iPhone. It wasn't for you, J., but I still remember. I really really need a raincoat... really need. Really need...

Unfortunately, I don't think he's about to get laid and looking for a condom. I think it's an allegory to the storm of living with depression -- whatever the cause. Bummer for him.

Maybe for me too. Sometimes.

Slutbag is with a dude she's into enough to announce it to the world on Facebook. Her cousin is getting married. Her best friend who wanted us apart ("why would any girl living in the city ever have a boyfriend?!") is married and just had a kid. All the girls I ever loved (ok, except the last 12 months) are married, having kids, and by all external appearances, are very happy.

Without me.

Julia Dempey (sp? correct?) from that scene in Before Sunset comes to mind. "It's not that I wanted to marry them. It's just... why didn't any of them ever ask?! Why did they stay with me, live with me, love me, and then break up, only to marry someone else right after?" The quote is obviously very fucked up from the 5 years and 200 bottles of wine since seeing it. The idea is close, though.

I don't really miss any of them. Well, maybe Kim, because it's recent, but that's fading every day, and I'm not even sure what I miss. The level of intimacy, perhaps. The feeling that she had my back and was on my side. Which, I guess, she was... sorta. Weird. She could drop me over nothing yet I felt like if faced with external hardship she was my girl through and through. Probably a side effect of being crazy. Her, in this context, but yes, both of us.

But anyway. I'm not really all that sad. I have found a certain solace in my work and a good glass of wine. Could it be that this is it? Acceptance of "never finding someone" or whatever the cliche is?

Arrrgh.

I suppose I don't really care. I really, really want to be so genuine with women right now, despite the fact it never seems to work that way. No girl ever wants to date me when I'm touchy-feely, attentive, and actually excited about them. I've never met one.

Remember your training, young Alfie. Selective unavailability. It's not hard. You run a startup for fuck's sake.

LOL. #1 way to get out of a relationship fast: fall in love with them! I hate to say it, but I totally used that back in my "I hate women" stage. Maybe not quite love, but certainly a flavor of it. (Hi, we just had sex and I totally think your bed is uncomfortable and want to bail and sleep in my own bed. So what do you think about kids? Picket fences? Suburbs? Oh. Yeah, I guess I can go. You want me to leave? Really?)

It's pretty fucked up that the road to actual intimacy involves a shitload of pretending you don't like someone when you actually do.

--

I suppose the problem, actually, is that I'm still nuts. I want to fall in love in three dates and feel intimate in 4 days. Like, well, back in the day. Fairy tales and being sixteen and all that jazz. I know it's crazy, but I actually kinda like that about myself. I kinda like that romantic fairy tale notion, that idea that it could just work with a stranger you just met.

It's fucking stupid. But I miss that in myself. And I wish I still believed in it.

I guess part of me still does believe. Or, at least, wants to badly enough to hope for it.

Another part of me thinks it is downright pathetic. Yin and yang. Maybe they will always juxtapose.

Maybe that's the point.

I'm lonely

There's really nothing else to say. The problem with being the guy everyone turns to for answers is that no one ever calls just to say hello.