I feel thankful for nothing. I am grateful only for the basics. Wine and a place to live. Barely breathing, barely realizing good ol' Maslow had a pyramid.
Bastard shoulda put more levels on the thing. Breathing? Level 2, my friend! Heh.
Barely makin' it.
The girl is lost. Tomorrow I will push her away (again), and when she stops calling, she won't be back. None of them ever come back.
Hopefully this way I won't hate her. I'm hating her a little bit every day now... resenting the broken promises, the last place, the no place.
My mom tells me she loves me and acts excited to see me, but never has my back. My girl tells me she loves me and acts excited to see me, but...
I'll never have faith in her if I finish that sentence.
I'm starting to remember that feeling of cynicism. Recalling that faith is stupid.
--
I can't sleep. So tired I can't stand, so angry I can't rest, so hurt I can't see. So spent I can't cry anymore.
It really is quite... pathetic.
Broken.
--
The confidant count is slowly fading. I think I might be down to zero.
Can't tell the religious friend I'm screwing a married chick (or was). Can't tell the sister I think mom's a self-righteous bitch. Can't tell the cousin I'm broke. Can't tell anybody I just want to be a depressed mopey bitch and cry for a month. Can't tell the girl... oh, yeah. That.
Put them all together and I have a whole person! Yay! Just like if I put together a frankenstein chick from my list of ex-GFs I might actually have a good one! Double yay!
--
She said tonight that relationships were hard, that they were work, that this was part of it.
Part of it for you, maybe. Putting up with my incessant demands for, oh, you're PRESENCE.
Not part of it for me. I am not gonna sit around being last place while you go home to another dude. Fuck that. That's not work. That's just bullshit.
Work is Kim. Work is Kaitlin. Work is (oh god) Amanda. Shaping, pushing, growing them. Adapting. Assimilating. Arguing. Compromising. Work is learning to put up with reality TV or struggling to stay physically interested. Work is setting boundaries and enforcing them.
Oh. Yeah. I guess this counts on that last one. Except I'm FUCKING BREAKING UP WITH YOU. That doesn't seem like work. That seems like the end of the damn relationship!
--
I feel unhealthy today.
Broken everywhere.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
mommy issues
Hmmm. The mom thing is still bothering me. I'm not done with that.
Dammit. I have a pseudo-girlfriend. She should be here to listen to this and comfort me! Sigh. Hopefully someday.
So, I think my mother's religion is a crock of shit. It's not even kinda good, other than that, perhaps, its followers are generally upstanding citizens, who work, don't steal, and only lie to themselves. Never mind that a good chunk of them beat their wives and children, there's a general disrespect of education, all types of celebratory rituals are outlawed, and the entire language used by the church is condescending.
But this is a not a polemic on how fucked up the people that proselytize at your door on Saturday mornings when you're hungover happen to be. (But while I'm ranting, how bad can you possibly be at sales? If I got it in my head that this was a good idea, I'd be sponsoring new membership weekly. What the hell are these imbeciles doing? Then again, I guess the product really is hard to sell. Ugggh.)
She is so brainwashed that she sees me as not a good man, solely because I am not a member of her church. I have never said anything as harsh as the two paragraphs above to her. I have said I don't believe that her doctrines are true, that I don't feel one lick of guilt about sex, or my cocky streak, or twisting the truth to make a sale or spare someone's feelings.
She nevertheless does not love her children because we have rejected her church.
Furthermore, she has no compunction about calling me arrogant and blaming that for the fucking fist fight my brother started last week. Excuse me? What planet are you fucking from?
Yes, I'm arrogant. Big fucking news flash. I'm good at most things in the fucking world. And I've have been extraordinarily successful by any measure, but especially given the short bus plan I was put on. Add to that a little repetition of "you're a piece of shit" at a young age and voila! Arrogant prick, at your service. Wanna fuck? No? Got a daughter?
Ok, that was over the top. But this shit pisses me off. It's like my cousin K from two years ago. "Alfie, you're fucked up in the head because you aren't married. You need counseling." Well, how about you bitches mind your own fucking business, because I was having a pretty good day until you decided to be a busybody. And a matter of fact, I've done pretty well for myself without any help from you at all. Especially you, mom. Where were you when I was being called a piece of shit and forming opinions about how the world worked from my enviable position on the short bus?
Dammit. This is not a rant about her shortcomings as a mother. This is about today. I find it highly audacious of her to even insinuate that my arrogance had any influence in my brother taking a swing at me. I freely admit that I act crazy at times. I freely admit that sometimes I question my own sense of "normal". I'm certain on this one. I'm right. That shit was fucked up. I don't care if made fun of his girlfriend, his mom, his penis size, and spit on him. You don't sock your fucking boss OR your brother.
Worse, I did none of that. I treated that dude really fucking well. Not too many kids have an older brother that buys them a house, a car, and then hires them after they drop out of college. Jesus fucking Christ. Just a few months ago I let him "permanently borrow" my 46" LCD TV. I don't have a TV at all because he likes watching fucking football. Hey, I'm not asking to be put on a pedestal here. But a little appreciation instead of scorn would be nice.
Let me have my arrogance. If you want to provide some insight, or some constructive criticism (thank you Mel), great. If you want to call me a cocky prick, fine. If you want to buy me a nice little pin that says arrogant mother fucker, I'll wear that shit for you for a whole afternoon. But if you take a fucking paycheck from me, you check your attitude at the door and you put up with it. You are welcome to call me on my shit. You are welcome to poke fun. You are not allowed to hate me, or slander to investors/customers/partners/coworkers that which you would not say to my face, or fucking punch me in the goddamn nose.
That my mother would choose to take this information and criticize ME for it makes me angry. Because, well, fuck her. Maybe you should've been a little more arrogant, mom. Maybe you'd have married a better man. Maybe my arrogance is a tool I can use to my benefit when I channel it properly.
Maybe your god is an arrogant prick, too. I'm just being more like him. Jerk.
So, yeah. I will make this really easy for my brother and my mother both. She feels conflicted about all of this because she can't have us all over for dinner anymore.
Well, news flash, mom. I haven't been a part of your family since I didn't have a place to sleep in your house at 11. With all due respect to you, your loins, and how hard you worked to get me to school, to make sure I had two pairs of jeans, and to put food on the table until I was left to fend for myself in junior high school, fuck off.
You can have the weak brother. I'm the strong one, I'm the one who will make it, I'm the one no one has ever worried about, I'm the one with seemingly infinite resources, I'm the one who will be there when you actually need something, when some shit actually hits the fan. I will be there and I will have resources and patience and wisdom because I don't fucking hit people. Among other things.
Until then, I'll be happy to eat my family dinners alone. I always have, anyway.
I think, in fact, that I'll tell her so.
--
Just emailed:
Dammit. I have a pseudo-girlfriend. She should be here to listen to this and comfort me! Sigh. Hopefully someday.
So, I think my mother's religion is a crock of shit. It's not even kinda good, other than that, perhaps, its followers are generally upstanding citizens, who work, don't steal, and only lie to themselves. Never mind that a good chunk of them beat their wives and children, there's a general disrespect of education, all types of celebratory rituals are outlawed, and the entire language used by the church is condescending.
But this is a not a polemic on how fucked up the people that proselytize at your door on Saturday mornings when you're hungover happen to be. (But while I'm ranting, how bad can you possibly be at sales? If I got it in my head that this was a good idea, I'd be sponsoring new membership weekly. What the hell are these imbeciles doing? Then again, I guess the product really is hard to sell. Ugggh.)
She is so brainwashed that she sees me as not a good man, solely because I am not a member of her church. I have never said anything as harsh as the two paragraphs above to her. I have said I don't believe that her doctrines are true, that I don't feel one lick of guilt about sex, or my cocky streak, or twisting the truth to make a sale or spare someone's feelings.
She nevertheless does not love her children because we have rejected her church.
Furthermore, she has no compunction about calling me arrogant and blaming that for the fucking fist fight my brother started last week. Excuse me? What planet are you fucking from?
Yes, I'm arrogant. Big fucking news flash. I'm good at most things in the fucking world. And I've have been extraordinarily successful by any measure, but especially given the short bus plan I was put on. Add to that a little repetition of "you're a piece of shit" at a young age and voila! Arrogant prick, at your service. Wanna fuck? No? Got a daughter?
Ok, that was over the top. But this shit pisses me off. It's like my cousin K from two years ago. "Alfie, you're fucked up in the head because you aren't married. You need counseling." Well, how about you bitches mind your own fucking business, because I was having a pretty good day until you decided to be a busybody. And a matter of fact, I've done pretty well for myself without any help from you at all. Especially you, mom. Where were you when I was being called a piece of shit and forming opinions about how the world worked from my enviable position on the short bus?
Dammit. This is not a rant about her shortcomings as a mother. This is about today. I find it highly audacious of her to even insinuate that my arrogance had any influence in my brother taking a swing at me. I freely admit that I act crazy at times. I freely admit that sometimes I question my own sense of "normal". I'm certain on this one. I'm right. That shit was fucked up. I don't care if made fun of his girlfriend, his mom, his penis size, and spit on him. You don't sock your fucking boss OR your brother.
Worse, I did none of that. I treated that dude really fucking well. Not too many kids have an older brother that buys them a house, a car, and then hires them after they drop out of college. Jesus fucking Christ. Just a few months ago I let him "permanently borrow" my 46" LCD TV. I don't have a TV at all because he likes watching fucking football. Hey, I'm not asking to be put on a pedestal here. But a little appreciation instead of scorn would be nice.
Let me have my arrogance. If you want to provide some insight, or some constructive criticism (thank you Mel), great. If you want to call me a cocky prick, fine. If you want to buy me a nice little pin that says arrogant mother fucker, I'll wear that shit for you for a whole afternoon. But if you take a fucking paycheck from me, you check your attitude at the door and you put up with it. You are welcome to call me on my shit. You are welcome to poke fun. You are not allowed to hate me, or slander to investors/customers/partners/coworkers that which you would not say to my face, or fucking punch me in the goddamn nose.
That my mother would choose to take this information and criticize ME for it makes me angry. Because, well, fuck her. Maybe you should've been a little more arrogant, mom. Maybe you'd have married a better man. Maybe my arrogance is a tool I can use to my benefit when I channel it properly.
Maybe your god is an arrogant prick, too. I'm just being more like him. Jerk.
So, yeah. I will make this really easy for my brother and my mother both. She feels conflicted about all of this because she can't have us all over for dinner anymore.
Well, news flash, mom. I haven't been a part of your family since I didn't have a place to sleep in your house at 11. With all due respect to you, your loins, and how hard you worked to get me to school, to make sure I had two pairs of jeans, and to put food on the table until I was left to fend for myself in junior high school, fuck off.
You can have the weak brother. I'm the strong one, I'm the one who will make it, I'm the one no one has ever worried about, I'm the one with seemingly infinite resources, I'm the one who will be there when you actually need something, when some shit actually hits the fan. I will be there and I will have resources and patience and wisdom because I don't fucking hit people. Among other things.
Until then, I'll be happy to eat my family dinners alone. I always have, anyway.
I think, in fact, that I'll tell her so.
--
Just emailed:
I am under the distinct impression that you blame me just as (brother) does.
So, you are welcome to not invite me to dinner anymore. I won't hold it against you. I'm a bigger man than he is. If you choose to invite me back after some length of time, great. If not, I shall still be here when called upon.
Today I learned that my mom doesn't actually like me. It matters not what I accomplish, or how nice I am, whether I marry a fine young lady, what I buy her, or how good of a brother I am.
I furthermore believe that the guidance she can offer me in life, love, or random facts to be limited.
Humm. Perhaps that is too harsh. Perhaps I'm just hurt that she doesn't actually love me. I mean, yes, she does, but it's almost a matter of duty. She love me because of my biology. She love me because I remind her of being a mother, of making her smile just by saying her name however many years ago. Nostalgic affection.
But where it counts -- having my back, loving me without judgment, appreciating me for my both in spite of and because of my (fill in any adjective here) -- nope.
It is a sobering epiphany.
Today I'm grateful for being able to enjoy a moment. M. came by today. Twice. I played hooky. She lay in my bed with me for a time, noting my distance, feeling my presence without the same warmth I had two weeks ago.
The second time, we made love, teary, close, intimate, and present. It was like nothing was different. And so it is -- the sensation of being in love, of not feeling sad about where she came from, about how we only have workday hours and no weekends, about where she will go home to in a few short hours time.
She shared that she felt she was supposed to push me away. That she was not supposed to be with me. Funny how she forgot to mention that when the decision was actually made.
I'm not mad at her about that... I think that good intentions make that readily forgivable. I'm also quite sure I was, and have been, wearing a rose-colored hearing aid at many points in our relationship.
Sigh. "[Alfie], I need you. I can't be away from you. I can't let you go." feels so damn good.
It seems the whole world is telling her that I am but a fling. A distraction, perhaps. Or a catalyst. Or just an enemy to be despised.
I've never had this sensation before. This experience of having a woman love me and not being free to experience it. Part of me is simply confused... those chains are in your mind, girl! Lincoln abolished slavery almost two centuries ago! And another part of me is starting to realize that maybe I just don't understand what marriage means to her. Or is it what the husband means to her?
No matter. Today I am choosing to have faith. Tomorrow I may be lost and depressed and lonely again. But today, I will enjoy how her love feels, despite our questionable status, the relative lack of wisdom, and the incredibly long shot said faith may well represent.
Today I will just be in love and enjoy it.
I furthermore believe that the guidance she can offer me in life, love, or random facts to be limited.
Humm. Perhaps that is too harsh. Perhaps I'm just hurt that she doesn't actually love me. I mean, yes, she does, but it's almost a matter of duty. She love me because of my biology. She love me because I remind her of being a mother, of making her smile just by saying her name however many years ago. Nostalgic affection.
But where it counts -- having my back, loving me without judgment, appreciating me for my both in spite of and because of my (fill in any adjective here) -- nope.
It is a sobering epiphany.
Today I'm grateful for being able to enjoy a moment. M. came by today. Twice. I played hooky. She lay in my bed with me for a time, noting my distance, feeling my presence without the same warmth I had two weeks ago.
The second time, we made love, teary, close, intimate, and present. It was like nothing was different. And so it is -- the sensation of being in love, of not feeling sad about where she came from, about how we only have workday hours and no weekends, about where she will go home to in a few short hours time.
She shared that she felt she was supposed to push me away. That she was not supposed to be with me. Funny how she forgot to mention that when the decision was actually made.
I'm not mad at her about that... I think that good intentions make that readily forgivable. I'm also quite sure I was, and have been, wearing a rose-colored hearing aid at many points in our relationship.
Sigh. "[Alfie], I need you. I can't be away from you. I can't let you go." feels so damn good.
It seems the whole world is telling her that I am but a fling. A distraction, perhaps. Or a catalyst. Or just an enemy to be despised.
I've never had this sensation before. This experience of having a woman love me and not being free to experience it. Part of me is simply confused... those chains are in your mind, girl! Lincoln abolished slavery almost two centuries ago! And another part of me is starting to realize that maybe I just don't understand what marriage means to her. Or is it what the husband means to her?
No matter. Today I am choosing to have faith. Tomorrow I may be lost and depressed and lonely again. But today, I will enjoy how her love feels, despite our questionable status, the relative lack of wisdom, and the incredibly long shot said faith may well represent.
Today I will just be in love and enjoy it.
Friday, June 18, 2010
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.
--
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.
--
Saturday, June 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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?)
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?)
Saturday, May 8, 2010
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.
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