I thought of Texas today and felt sad. I wasn't sad because I missed her, or missed a certain feeling, or missed the place, the sensations, or the intimacy.
I felt sad because I can't remember. I remember words and vague images. I remember moments and I remember what it felt like to miss her when she was gone.
But I don't remember her.
I remember saying, a long time ago, now, "it doesn't matter that it didn't, couldn't work out. It doesn't matter if it was all a fantasy that was born, lived, and died in my head, and she just played along in my cast. It doesn't matter, because even if it's only fantasy, even if it was make believe, I want it. I want that feeling, and wasting my time with XXXX and YYYYY, with bitches who aren't the one, with slutbags and idiots, with anyone who doesn't at least come close to that, is just a complete waste of time and energy."
I remember where I was when I said that. I remember what CD was on. I remember who I said it to. I remember from where I came, and I remember the bite of the cold air and the wet ground that met me when I finished that conversation.
But I can't remember that sensation. I can't remember what it felt like to feel that good, nor can I remember how fruitless it felt when I came home to my brothel of women who wanted to love me and never could.
It's good in some ways, of course. I don't remember crying to Smile Like You Mean It, not able to help myself. I don't remember what it felt like to be out with my friends, talking to girls, and leaving, alone, to cry in the car.
But maybe it was worth it.
It was a year ago, this week, when I drove to Texas. I came with a voice mail full of messages from girls who called me from seven area codes and two countries. I left with a lump in my throat, a text message on my phone, and the soft eyes one gets when holding back tears.
I called one of those girls back a couple of weeks ago. It was like the intervening year never happened. But it still fell a little flat.
I'm listening to music, now, to try and cry a little. Seemingly foolish, I know, but sometimes I need to remind myself I'm alive. Where the capacity for a gallon of tears exists there lives a passion for life and love that I fear might be dead.
But songs about Lauren lack bite. Songs about Presh have carried that vague "I hope she found her way" sentiment for a decade. Songs about Slutbag are just annoying.
Amanda's songs still have a little power. Ahh, Jewel. But it's just a faraway memory about a memory. Like remembering a dream from a week ago, in which, in the first place, you watched yourself as if in a movie... so far removed you're not even sure it really happened.
The beauty of apathy is the power to go on, the lack of wallowing, the small joys of enjoying a good meal, of making old friends and complete strangers laugh, of a game of catch with your nephew. The beauty of apathy is that duty carries you, that the small joys of accomplishment in work or school are noticed and appreciated, even if not quite felt.
The horror of that same apathy is the severe, blatant, obvious, and detrimental scourge that is the absence of passion. The fear that kissing a pretty girl might, forever and always, simply be a calculated exercise of pressure and skill, a stepping stone to some sort of physical connection that might lead to a session of memorable pillow talk, rather than the take-your-breath-away experience when time stops and all that is the burden of life melts as if never there in the first place.
I'm not sure I remember passion at all. I think, mostly, I just remember missing those moments when I realized they were gone.
--
I don't think the answer is being contentment through acceptance. I don't think it's a matter of "wanting what you got" as Sheryl Crow says.
I want my passion back. I need it. I miss it.
Even if being older means I'm more chill, more laid back, more able to handle stress and life's wild cards... it's not worth it if it cost me my passion.
Fuck acceptance. Fuck the simple life. I'm already "simple" in my materialism and needs.
But give me back my passion, even if it comes with pain.
(gulp)
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
broken, gone, couch-surfing, and other news
I'm on a couch somewhere east of Sacramento tonight. It's a little short for me.
I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.
Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.
Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.
One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.
I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...
whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.
Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"
Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.
I told him I don't care what she thinks.
I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."
And that was that.
I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.
I hate her for taking that away from me.
And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.
I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...
Sigh. No, I don't.
I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.
I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.
And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...
Die.
--
I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?
Probably texas.
--
Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."
To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."
I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.
For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?
That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"
Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.
I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.
Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.
Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.
One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.
I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...
whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.
Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"
Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.
I told him I don't care what she thinks.
I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."
And that was that.
I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.
I hate her for taking that away from me.
And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.
I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...
Sigh. No, I don't.
I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.
I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.
And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...
Die.
--
I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?
Probably texas.
--
Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."
To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."
I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.
For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?
That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"
Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The Few Preciouse Moments
I'm back in Cali as of last night. I had a good day, full of productivity, a good lunch with a (now) good friend, a reminiscent dinner with an old one, and a late night drink with a really old friend.
I talked to a girl from not so long ago and a girl I'd all but forgotten.
It was her. The her. The one that got away.
I'd forgotten. Or never really paid it any mind. Or something in between that a decade of time clouds, that the Amandas and Laurens obfuscate.
I remember telling Corban years ago, even as he was still sleeping with her, that I thought I'd marry her one day. It was a fleeting moment, when I'd just won my first "real job", when I still drove without a license, and when I tossed the word "love" around in the foolish way that young people do.
I remember not being jealous of my cousin, or of my other friends, the ones that all dated her in turn.
I remember seeing her in intimate places, but not so much for me, and knowing she loved me too, but that we just weren't "there".
I remember being with this girl and that, and she with this guy and that, and...
I don't remember forgetting her.
I always loved her, but I put it in quotes. "love", like a brother, or a friend, or a cousin. "love", like someone who could appreciate her and would always have her back, but would never touch her.
I never did. I wanted to, for sure, but I loved her too much to ever look at her in the way that a young girl responds to. I never saw her as an object to consume, or use, or take, or even have fun with.
I loved her in that way that makes you want to be a better man. And I would have, if she only asked me to.
And tonight was great... reminiscent, nostalgic, yet new and fresh. The shadows of the people we once were, yet very much the grown-ups we have become. And are, at least in my case, trying to reject.
And tonight, I drove home, or, that is, to the good friend's house with whom I'm staying, and I cried.
I cried in the car. I cry now.
I cry for the decade when she wasn't present.
I cry for the person she was, and the present-day me that she doesn't know.
I cry because I love her and I never told her.
I cry because she loves another.
I cry because I believe that, deep down, I always knew.
I cry because I forgot.
And I cry because after eight years, after a month of hiding my excitement, especially and foremost to myself, that I might see her, after thinking that it might not come to fruition, I got to spend a preciouse few 120 minutes with her, and that I don't even really know the woman she has become.
I cry because I see the age on her face, and she on mine, and the hurt and heartbreak we've both endured, and I love her anyway.
I cry because her embrace for me hasn't changed, and it's still the full, open, and completely trusting embrace that we shared half a life ago.
I cry because when her eyes meet mine, it's as if not a day has passed, and she didn't date my cousin, and we both didn't promise our lives to other people, and the last decade was but a brief dream, like clips in a movie trailer, there and gone before our souls touch.
I cry because she still, after all these years has songs that remind me of her, like Name (goo goo), and I don't care (back street) and I wish I was special (radiohead), and she doesn't know. No one knows, until just now.
I cry because, as I drove home, I thought about the now-cliche idea that you meet the girl you're going to marry when you're young, but you don't know it, and then, one day, you look up, and there she's been all along, and you're done. And it's wonderful.
And I stopped crying.
I love her more than my self-pity. I'm not even jealous of her man, nor longing of her attention.
I love you, Presh. I always have, from the first time I met you, when you were all of 14, when those 4 years made such a distinct difference, when Street Fighter was as fun as hanging out with girls, when I hid in closets so we could all tell the truth to our parents, when wine coolers were as evil as heroin, when Sunday morning meant dressing up for church, when painting your ceiling on a Friday night was more fun than anything, and when, no matter how smart I was, no matter my potential, my worth, or my faith, I couldn't spell the "L" word to save my life, and I didn't know how bright, nor how dark, the future would yet be.
It hurts that you were there for so long, and that now, now that I actually am the man I wanted to be, a man who could actually appreciate you, the man you always hoped I would become, I am but a footnote. The special friend you look up when you're in the states for the first time in years, the only male friend that isn't a relative that still gets a phone call... but yet, still a footnote.
And now, I feel like the cliche.
Because I'll always have your back. Whatever you need, wherever you go, no matter how old you one day look, or how far away you might feel, or be, or fall, whatever other man you give your heart or soul to, however more freckles on your face appear, however much your eyes bear the weight of the sorrows you've endured, whatever place you call your home, whatever children you bear, you'll always have sparkles in your eyes to me.
You'll always be beautiful to me.
Goodbye, again, P. I'm sorry I forgot.
I love you.
I talked to a girl from not so long ago and a girl I'd all but forgotten.
It was her. The her. The one that got away.
I'd forgotten. Or never really paid it any mind. Or something in between that a decade of time clouds, that the Amandas and Laurens obfuscate.
I remember telling Corban years ago, even as he was still sleeping with her, that I thought I'd marry her one day. It was a fleeting moment, when I'd just won my first "real job", when I still drove without a license, and when I tossed the word "love" around in the foolish way that young people do.
I remember not being jealous of my cousin, or of my other friends, the ones that all dated her in turn.
I remember seeing her in intimate places, but not so much for me, and knowing she loved me too, but that we just weren't "there".
I remember being with this girl and that, and she with this guy and that, and...
I don't remember forgetting her.
I always loved her, but I put it in quotes. "love", like a brother, or a friend, or a cousin. "love", like someone who could appreciate her and would always have her back, but would never touch her.
I never did. I wanted to, for sure, but I loved her too much to ever look at her in the way that a young girl responds to. I never saw her as an object to consume, or use, or take, or even have fun with.
I loved her in that way that makes you want to be a better man. And I would have, if she only asked me to.
And tonight was great... reminiscent, nostalgic, yet new and fresh. The shadows of the people we once were, yet very much the grown-ups we have become. And are, at least in my case, trying to reject.
And tonight, I drove home, or, that is, to the good friend's house with whom I'm staying, and I cried.
I cried in the car. I cry now.
I cry for the decade when she wasn't present.
I cry for the person she was, and the present-day me that she doesn't know.
I cry because I love her and I never told her.
I cry because she loves another.
I cry because I believe that, deep down, I always knew.
I cry because I forgot.
And I cry because after eight years, after a month of hiding my excitement, especially and foremost to myself, that I might see her, after thinking that it might not come to fruition, I got to spend a preciouse few 120 minutes with her, and that I don't even really know the woman she has become.
I cry because I see the age on her face, and she on mine, and the hurt and heartbreak we've both endured, and I love her anyway.
I cry because her embrace for me hasn't changed, and it's still the full, open, and completely trusting embrace that we shared half a life ago.
I cry because when her eyes meet mine, it's as if not a day has passed, and she didn't date my cousin, and we both didn't promise our lives to other people, and the last decade was but a brief dream, like clips in a movie trailer, there and gone before our souls touch.
I cry because she still, after all these years has songs that remind me of her, like Name (goo goo), and I don't care (back street) and I wish I was special (radiohead), and she doesn't know. No one knows, until just now.
I cry because, as I drove home, I thought about the now-cliche idea that you meet the girl you're going to marry when you're young, but you don't know it, and then, one day, you look up, and there she's been all along, and you're done. And it's wonderful.
And I stopped crying.
I love her more than my self-pity. I'm not even jealous of her man, nor longing of her attention.
I love you, Presh. I always have, from the first time I met you, when you were all of 14, when those 4 years made such a distinct difference, when Street Fighter was as fun as hanging out with girls, when I hid in closets so we could all tell the truth to our parents, when wine coolers were as evil as heroin, when Sunday morning meant dressing up for church, when painting your ceiling on a Friday night was more fun than anything, and when, no matter how smart I was, no matter my potential, my worth, or my faith, I couldn't spell the "L" word to save my life, and I didn't know how bright, nor how dark, the future would yet be.
It hurts that you were there for so long, and that now, now that I actually am the man I wanted to be, a man who could actually appreciate you, the man you always hoped I would become, I am but a footnote. The special friend you look up when you're in the states for the first time in years, the only male friend that isn't a relative that still gets a phone call... but yet, still a footnote.
And now, I feel like the cliche.
Because I'll always have your back. Whatever you need, wherever you go, no matter how old you one day look, or how far away you might feel, or be, or fall, whatever other man you give your heart or soul to, however more freckles on your face appear, however much your eyes bear the weight of the sorrows you've endured, whatever place you call your home, whatever children you bear, you'll always have sparkles in your eyes to me.
You'll always be beautiful to me.
Goodbye, again, P. I'm sorry I forgot.
I love you.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
So what does your iTunes playlist say about you?
Tonight, for some reason, The Beatles' "Help!" popped into my head. So I pulled up iTunes, and, as luck would have it, for some reason I thought to grab a bunch o' Beatles stuff at random back when I had terabytes of random MP3s.
It was a really unscientific grab, so I'm actually mildly surprised. All I know is I have way too much country in the damn collection. And Back Street Boys. Why on earth did I grab back street boys? I must've been looking at a directory and not gotten past 'C' or something. So I have Brooks, Garth, Back Street, and Beatles, The. Sigh. Oh well, at least I got Blink. My Coldplay is a little whack, though. I only have Rush of Blood to The Head, which I had on my damn iPod already anyway.
But whatever. No use crying over milk spilt almost 3 years ago. Oh wait, that's pretty much all I do in this blog, isn't it?
So anyway, I was looking for "Help!" today. And of course, I go to google first, which didn't give me any Beatles love until like link 23. And it wasn't even lyrics, it was some blog about nothing interesting whatsoever that just so happened to mention the song.
Crazy blog fuckers jamming their shit up everyone's nose and then doing SEO and external linking to Result-Page stuff. Damn it.
Oh, wait. I do that. Longer sigh.
So I think, hey, wait, I have a shitload of music I never listen to, and after typing in "help" into my "all music" list, I get:
Help! by The Beatles
With a Little Help from My Friends, Fab Four again
Heaven Help by Lenny Kravitz
Help Me, Mary by Liz Phair
Help Me Fall by Mark Wills (wtf? I don't even know who that is!)
Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones x3
Yeah, x3. It's on 3 different Stones compilations. Three version of Mother's Little Helper and not a Spidey soundtrack to be found. Only the first Matchbox 20 CD. And no Dave Matthews to speak of. And like TWO of the 47 U2 albums. Prince, Michael Jackson, Sugar Hill Gang? Nay, a tiny sample, and who the fuck is that.
Bleah! Where's my stinkin' iPod?
Argh, dammit. It has the same friggin' problem. Organized by a friggin' idiot with too many choices. Oh well. At least I got a bunch of Tupac.
And, as I've talked about (or should have, by now) in that other blog, choice immobilizes. Oh, heck. Guess I'll have to write that now. Next week. Or something.
--
I didn't go out tonight. Yes, it's happening. I did go to the gym. I did play some mostly-weak ball for a couple of hours. I miss Scotty and 24. Damn it.
So, yeah, it's happening.
I changed my zip code, my mailing address, and quit my job. Er... got myself fired. Details.
I moved to another state. I enrolled in classes that were supposed to be enriching and interesting. I've been to probably 30 parties and taken out 15 chicks. I've had several naked in my bed, in fact.
I've consumed more cheap beer than... well more than I ever have. In my whole friggin' life. There's a reason yuppies swear off macrobrews, boys and girls, and it's name is beer pong.
I've worked my ass off to engage, and opportunities abound. I can crack the code and hooking up with all the 19 year olds I want, of that I'm sure (it's actually been harder than I thought... damn virgins. My hit ratio has been like 40% so far! Fuck!). I can work out whatever it is I need to do to get good grades in the two classes I haven't dropped yet. I can somehow juggle all the other shit I have in the air.
And I can be the "token old guy" for awhile.
I don't know if it's helping though.
A friend of mine said recently something like "maybe you have to give up the things you cling to in order to get to where you want to be". And, in its own way, moving and changing my life is part of that. I'm forcing some sort of change, right?
But into what?
One thing that's always been true about me is that I've imagined the scenario I want before I achieve it. At 15 it was waiting tables and living on my own. At 18 it was being in charge of something. At 21 it was real estate, stock options, and working with really smart people.
At 25 it was finally hooking up with someone who wasn't a girlfriend.
Then, somewhere between "I'm gonna marry Becky, Alfie" and Slutbag telling me she loved me, it was a picket fence, a retriever, and furniture. No, not nice furniture. Having it at all. You're reading this... you know me, right? Heh.
I don't think I ever cared where. I just wanted the Kinkade-esque version of the American Dream.
I think I might be an idiot. I think the appeal of youth and college and... all of this... might have just been about the girl. That girl. The random one who doesn't remember my middle name who's older sister is not going to marry my friend, who is not going to look me up when she is in Cali next, and who I should probably delete from my facebook and myspace accounts. The one from that random state I'll probably visit again at some point to see my aunt/mother figure and my friend Joe.
When she falls ill or he gets married. Neither of which will happen this year, but both of which will probably happen to them before it does me. In either event.
And I'll call, but her number will be disconnected by then, and she'll be graduated, and have moved to... Cali, probably. As luck would have it.
Sigh. Not that any of it is important. It's just where most people with an IQ more than... well, me, apparently, end up moving. One of the damn coasts. And she's got family out west, so why the fuck not?
But this is all tangential. I'm doing what I always do... babble on about some shit that really isn't all that important so that I can avoid actually thinking about that damn question that seems to rule my existence.
Why the fuck am I here?
In whatever context... typing at 4 in the morning when I should be passed out drunk with some dumb chick snoring next to me, here in the desert, which is absolutely gorgeous weather all of the time, but is singularly about underage drinking and not at all about the things I think about every day, like work, and tenants, and life, and what the fuck I'm doing here. Oh wait, I was on a tirade. Damn it, I ruined my series of rants-in-a-single-sentence routine.
It was good for me, to get out of town, to get out of Castro Valley, to get away from normalcy and the day job and the girls I could call if I really wanted to screw, and the fall back of old friends when I was really down, and that terrible little basement apartment I lived in for a year.
It has been nice to live with roommates again, especially those that have their whole lives ahead of them, for whom "going home" includes parents and dining room tables and private space that reminds them of being in high school, of their first kiss, of their first fight with mom, of that terrible english teacher they had in middle school. It has been nice to wake up at any time in the morning and go outside to bright-ass sunshine, because, yes, it's the fucking desert, and we don't get fucking fog here.
Unless it rains. In which case we get fog for about 20 minutes. It's more of "muggy" feeling, though, not really fog. Not cold, not water vapor, just... not sunny. And humid. And dark. Right. But it goes away. Monsoons last a whole friggin' hour. Weird, I know.
So, right, why am I here. The cosmic question. The procreation question. The purpose question. The happiness question. The fucking kill-me-now question.
And I look through all of these majors... all of these subjects. I want to learn a little more about religion because... so that I can argue with and alienate the friends I have less a little more? Ho-hum.
I want to study business so I can be frustrated by the mundaneness of it all? So that I can argue with the teacher and tell him he's wrong? And then work my ass off to prove it for a B+ because he can't flunk me, even though he wants to, so he gives me an almost-good-enough grade.
I want to study women's studies so I can land in a class that's 90% chicks? eh. Whateverrrrr.
And then there's history, and econ, and film, and art history, and philosophy... all things I'm vaguely interested in, but which won't answer the question.
And the more I articulate, the sadder I feel. Isn't this shit supposed to be cathartic? Aren't I supposed to come to some sort of conclusion, isn't this supposed to help me organize my thoughts, compartmentalize my feelings, understand myself and the world better?
But all it does is serve to remind how lost I am. How lost I feel. And how sad that makes me.
Harumph. "Daughters" by John Mayer just rotated in on my iTunes. There's a line in the song about how basically you can abuse the boys and they'll figure it out, but the daughters will grow up and ruin their relationships.
Well, I'm getting a little old for my quarter-life crisis, John. And you get to bang Jessica Simpson, so shut the fuck up.
Eh. It's a pretty enough song. Reminds me of Crazy Lauren, actually.
--
How about a statement that says how psycho I really am. I miss that chick sometimes. I mean, yes, even while I was in the middle of it, I knew I couldn't engage, because it would be crazy and codependent, but she was ironically really good to me.
The flip side of showing up at my house and keying the ex-GF's car, of socking me in the face when staring me in the eye as I crushed her devotion for the 27th time... the flip side is that she totally understood me. She was a freak, but she was my freak.
Anything I revealed to her didn't make her feel sorry for me. It didn't make her think I was crazy. It didn't turn her off or turn her on.
It just was. Because she had drama too. And she just understood.
There it is.
Epiphany time.
So I go through life, and I fake it, right? I fake interest in stupid girls, I fake a college degree to fuckers who think it matters, I fake being 23 to these undergrads all around me, I fake a healthy childhood to people who get close enough to touch, and I fake being over it for those close enough touch and care.
My life is one big facade, and despite not living in fear -- I really don't give a fuck, because I'm independent now and you can take your job/judgment/pussy/friendship and piss the fuck off -- it still is really draining to act all the time.
I like basketball for that reason. Because out there, I can just be me. If I want to cuss, I do it. If I want to get angry, I do. If I want to give it my all or be lazy, if I want to show off for some girl I don't even know, if I want to shut some guy down just because he's black, or thinks he's good, or used to play in the NFL, or because his girlfriend is watching, I do it.
The mask comes off. And I'm still cool for the most part, but it's ok because they all take it off too. You're just some fucker in gym shorts now. I don't care about anything except what you do with the ball. And neither do you. For those couple of hours, we're really equal, we're really the same, we're really not afraid.
For just a little while, it doesn't matter what I make, or that my parents never loved me, or that I hate you because you have parents and family. It doesn't matter that my childhood ended somewhere around 8 or that I was once so poor that I biked two miles to the next fucking train station so I could save 30 cents. It doesn't matter that my behavior basically says that I don't want to be loved.
And, most of all, it doesn't matter that my iTunes has something that sound pretty goddamn "bow chicka bow wow" sounding music bumpin' right now. (switches windows)
Whew. That's better. I was starting to look around for some big titted chick with a pussy the size of a grapefruit. Which is slightly hot in a really dirty sorta way.
I think.
So I was going to epiphanize (ooh, I like that new word), right? Well, if my life is one big audition, if I'm constantly faking it, but yet it's tearing me up, then what am I so afraid of?
What will I lose if I stop faking it?
I remember, once, when I wore "being real" like a badge of honor. I didn't want to be fake about anything. All natural food, I was also really anal. And I wasn't very much fun.
And then came the fake hair, the nice clothes, the schmoozing, the wit-development, the posturing, the prestige of titles, the BMW, and all of the things that came with it... including the princess (Amanda had one of those princess license plates).
I guess I am afraid. Not of what some schmuck says -- although that "token old guy" comment the other day is still bothering me, even if it wasn't meant to be negative and it's true -- but because I don't like that guy I used to be. He was a dick.
But that's the problem, isn't it. I don't like me very much at all. And achievement is no longer a fill-in. It's a distraction at best, now.
And the fact that I know that makes me not care. About... much of anything.
It's a weird... what's the term Faustian bargain mean? Something about a deal with the devil, right? (googling) OK, that doesn't fit. Never mind.
I was going to ponder goals. They're great for now... they fill in the blanks, because it's easy to work backwards from a goal and come up with a plan, an action, even a way of life.
But -- and here's why it's kinda sorta not really a deal with the devil -- it's just temporary. A go-between starting from something you're lacking and ending with not filling the void you were hoping to.
Nothing can replace, or atone for, the trauma I've endured. Nothing can give me back my childhood... not even trying to fake being 23. And so goals, at this point, are just passing the time. Achievement is not enough and never will be. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I save or how many awards I earn. Heck, I could be the anti-Hitler of the 21st century, and all I'll do is mutter something about letting history decide how to paint my person. But it's not because I don't, or wouldn't, enjoy it. Every single word of praise would be appreciated by the emotional black hole buried somewhere not all that deep inside.
I'd just still be hiding.
The problem is that I don't know how to fill it. Lauren wanted that contract. She promised to love me enough. I just knew I couldn't love her enough... and when it wasn't, I knew that she'd take it away. And oh how that would've hurt. I'd have missed everything about her, from her smell to her sense of humor. As it is, I just miss not having to hide. And vanilla lattes in the morning after hot shower sex. But I could've lived without that. That was just a nice perk. :-)
So there it is. How do I fill it? How do I fill that void that was made when I wasn't protected at 2? Or hit at 13? Or left out to die at 14? Or just plain hated by the very guy that was supposed to be my guardian and protector?
How do I take that away?
Sigh.
I feel a need to tell you you're full of shit now.
(1) Therapy. Yeah. Tried. Did. Seemed to work. Or not. I suppose I could go back and blow $120 a week for the next, oh, forever. And that would make me feel slightly better. Because someone appreciates my fucking checkbook.
Uh huh. Sure. Go ahead and recommend it. I did it for two years. I could do it for two more. And... it might even make me not type so much. But if the problem is actually solvable, why do I need some idiot to just sit there and not tell me what to do?
(2) Drugs. Um. Personally, I don't see this huge difference between cocaine and prozac. I mean, sure, we could go into the biological differences, which would actually be pretty interesting, but they're both mind altering drugs. One just has a regulated dosage and drug content per unit metric.
They both have side effects. They both fuck up your head so you can't think straight. And, frankly, if I thought drugs would solve my problems, I'd already be a fucking alcoholic. For real.
(3) Finding that special someone. I think that no woman could ever fill that void forever. If she's out there, great. But like I love to say, you tell me where the fucking book club where the attractive, intelligent, 20-something, emotionally available gym bunnies hang out, and I'll show up with 60 roses.
In other words, fuck off. If you're recommending this, you probably have someone and didn't work for it, which means you're basically a trust fund baby telling me to get a fucking job, even though I'm black, my dad beat me, I got busted for a felony 'cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I was twelve, and can barely read because public schools suck ass.
If I sound a little bitter, well, yeah. If you think I'm "missing the point", blow me.
(4) Self analysis. Finding myself. Meditation.
My other blog has had shit like this in it since '03. I've been writing this shit down on paper since fucking '93. It helps. I'm already doing it.
Suggesting it doesn't exactly help anything.
(5) Losing the chip on my shoulder.
Ok. That's like telling a blind man what the color red looks like. Care to elaborate on how?
(6) Going back to school, changing venue, moving, or otherwise shocking the system with some big physical change.
Ahem. You haven't been reading very long, have you?
(7) Fuck all and kill yourself.
Crossed my mind a couple of times. Next?
(8) Go have a chat with your dad. I'm sure he loves you on some level.
You know, I have friends from my adult life who have said the very same thing. Then they met the guy.
Hitler really was a better man. At least he rationalized his evil. If you started with the basic flawed set of rules, everything else fit.
My dad is a sociopath. The clinical definition. Go wikipedia it.
And yes, I'm sure he does. Hitler loved the Jews, too. Ethnic cleansing is an act of love, goddamn it. Any problems with your moral reckoning on that statement?
(9) You know, a lot of people have it worse...
Yeah. I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Been over that already. Or haven't you read through my archives?
So how do I take this achievement, this talent, this luck, this blessing, and actually make something out of it?
How do I keep from always being this way?
How can I be happy? It's kinduv a prerequisite before I can "realize my full potential". Whatever that means.
Then again, maybe I was the best man I was ever destined to become years ago. And all of this is just hot air outlining the fall from the great man I could've been if only I'd stepped into the wind on some road long since forgotten.
Or not.
(10) Dude. This is life. This is the way it is. You have what you have, you are what you are. Stop dwelling on it. Have some sex, learn some shit, help some old ladies across the street, and just hop from one fun experience to the next. Everybody gets depressed when they sit at home and blog for two hours straight.
You're probably right.
But that's not enough for me. I want more. And, btw, the "trust fund" clause from item #3 applies, too. How about you go have a chat with your dad about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to take your call and won't call you or your mom a mother-fucker/cunt, not even once.
Next?
(11) Your need to find Jesus.
See "trust fund" clause above.
I realized something about Christians the other day while reading one of my books on Islamic thought. It was describing ancient Mesopotamian religions and comparing them to ancient Egypt.
Christianity is the ultimate mind fuck because it serves both human needs. For the assholes that get shit on, it has Original Sin. You get shit on because you deserve it, bitch. Just be glad I'm, even holding out the option of heaven to your sinful ass, you piece of shit.
For the elitist imperialistic suburban soccer playing, gold swinging fucks, you have Grace. Well, you're inherently evil -- you know this because you happen to know your wife blew your priest back in the day -- but the Grace of god means you now deserve the butt warmers in the H2 that runs on the blood of dead Iraqi children. You deserve all of the "blessings" that have been handed to you on silver platters most of your life. Because you worked for this and that, yes, and because Jesus saved you. God is just like you in look, spirit, and culture, you elitist fuck.
So, if you're in the former group, go back to the barrio and keep selling your food at the farmers market. I really like your tomatoes. And yes, you should send little Pablo to community college so he can learn a trade. His tithe will be bigger, damn it.
If you're in the latter, you've never really considered god, because you've never had any hardship. And no, your wife blowing your priest doesn't count. I'm talking about how the fuck am I going to eat, I have no one to call on the planet, nor even a quarter to make the fucking call if I did kinda hardship. You better believe that fucker ain't gonna carry you. Life is not Footsteps. And you don't deserve that H2, bitch. Go trade it in for something that didn't cost 18 square miles of rain forest. Take your butt warmer money and send it Bono so he can feed Africans, you imperialist bastard.
If Jesus were so great, I wouldn't be whining about drama that started in the womb. He'd have carried me then, too. Free will? Blow me. We have a judicial system and we're fucking humans. We stop people from doing bad things through deterrence and direct intervention. So why can't god do that?
Because he doesn't exist, that's why. Or He's just a pussy. Either way, next.
It was a really unscientific grab, so I'm actually mildly surprised. All I know is I have way too much country in the damn collection. And Back Street Boys. Why on earth did I grab back street boys? I must've been looking at a directory and not gotten past 'C' or something. So I have Brooks, Garth, Back Street, and Beatles, The. Sigh. Oh well, at least I got Blink. My Coldplay is a little whack, though. I only have Rush of Blood to The Head, which I had on my damn iPod already anyway.
But whatever. No use crying over milk spilt almost 3 years ago. Oh wait, that's pretty much all I do in this blog, isn't it?
So anyway, I was looking for "Help!" today. And of course, I go to google first, which didn't give me any Beatles love until like link 23. And it wasn't even lyrics, it was some blog about nothing interesting whatsoever that just so happened to mention the song.
Crazy blog fuckers jamming their shit up everyone's nose and then doing SEO and external linking to Result-Page stuff. Damn it.
Oh, wait. I do that. Longer sigh.
So I think, hey, wait, I have a shitload of music I never listen to, and after typing in "help" into my "all music" list, I get:
Help! by The Beatles
With a Little Help from My Friends, Fab Four again
Heaven Help by Lenny Kravitz
Help Me, Mary by Liz Phair
Help Me Fall by Mark Wills (wtf? I don't even know who that is!)
Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones x3
Yeah, x3. It's on 3 different Stones compilations. Three version of Mother's Little Helper and not a Spidey soundtrack to be found. Only the first Matchbox 20 CD. And no Dave Matthews to speak of. And like TWO of the 47 U2 albums. Prince, Michael Jackson, Sugar Hill Gang? Nay, a tiny sample, and who the fuck is that.
Bleah! Where's my stinkin' iPod?
Argh, dammit. It has the same friggin' problem. Organized by a friggin' idiot with too many choices. Oh well. At least I got a bunch of Tupac.
And, as I've talked about (or should have, by now) in that other blog, choice immobilizes. Oh, heck. Guess I'll have to write that now. Next week. Or something.
--
I didn't go out tonight. Yes, it's happening. I did go to the gym. I did play some mostly-weak ball for a couple of hours. I miss Scotty and 24. Damn it.
So, yeah, it's happening.
I changed my zip code, my mailing address, and quit my job. Er... got myself fired. Details.
I moved to another state. I enrolled in classes that were supposed to be enriching and interesting. I've been to probably 30 parties and taken out 15 chicks. I've had several naked in my bed, in fact.
I've consumed more cheap beer than... well more than I ever have. In my whole friggin' life. There's a reason yuppies swear off macrobrews, boys and girls, and it's name is beer pong.
I've worked my ass off to engage, and opportunities abound. I can crack the code and hooking up with all the 19 year olds I want, of that I'm sure (it's actually been harder than I thought... damn virgins. My hit ratio has been like 40% so far! Fuck!). I can work out whatever it is I need to do to get good grades in the two classes I haven't dropped yet. I can somehow juggle all the other shit I have in the air.
And I can be the "token old guy" for awhile.
I don't know if it's helping though.
A friend of mine said recently something like "maybe you have to give up the things you cling to in order to get to where you want to be". And, in its own way, moving and changing my life is part of that. I'm forcing some sort of change, right?
But into what?
One thing that's always been true about me is that I've imagined the scenario I want before I achieve it. At 15 it was waiting tables and living on my own. At 18 it was being in charge of something. At 21 it was real estate, stock options, and working with really smart people.
At 25 it was finally hooking up with someone who wasn't a girlfriend.
Then, somewhere between "I'm gonna marry Becky, Alfie" and Slutbag telling me she loved me, it was a picket fence, a retriever, and furniture. No, not nice furniture. Having it at all. You're reading this... you know me, right? Heh.
I don't think I ever cared where. I just wanted the Kinkade-esque version of the American Dream.
I think I might be an idiot. I think the appeal of youth and college and... all of this... might have just been about the girl. That girl. The random one who doesn't remember my middle name who's older sister is not going to marry my friend, who is not going to look me up when she is in Cali next, and who I should probably delete from my facebook and myspace accounts. The one from that random state I'll probably visit again at some point to see my aunt/mother figure and my friend Joe.
When she falls ill or he gets married. Neither of which will happen this year, but both of which will probably happen to them before it does me. In either event.
And I'll call, but her number will be disconnected by then, and she'll be graduated, and have moved to... Cali, probably. As luck would have it.
Sigh. Not that any of it is important. It's just where most people with an IQ more than... well, me, apparently, end up moving. One of the damn coasts. And she's got family out west, so why the fuck not?
But this is all tangential. I'm doing what I always do... babble on about some shit that really isn't all that important so that I can avoid actually thinking about that damn question that seems to rule my existence.
Why the fuck am I here?
In whatever context... typing at 4 in the morning when I should be passed out drunk with some dumb chick snoring next to me, here in the desert, which is absolutely gorgeous weather all of the time, but is singularly about underage drinking and not at all about the things I think about every day, like work, and tenants, and life, and what the fuck I'm doing here. Oh wait, I was on a tirade. Damn it, I ruined my series of rants-in-a-single-sentence routine.
It was good for me, to get out of town, to get out of Castro Valley, to get away from normalcy and the day job and the girls I could call if I really wanted to screw, and the fall back of old friends when I was really down, and that terrible little basement apartment I lived in for a year.
It has been nice to live with roommates again, especially those that have their whole lives ahead of them, for whom "going home" includes parents and dining room tables and private space that reminds them of being in high school, of their first kiss, of their first fight with mom, of that terrible english teacher they had in middle school. It has been nice to wake up at any time in the morning and go outside to bright-ass sunshine, because, yes, it's the fucking desert, and we don't get fucking fog here.
Unless it rains. In which case we get fog for about 20 minutes. It's more of "muggy" feeling, though, not really fog. Not cold, not water vapor, just... not sunny. And humid. And dark. Right. But it goes away. Monsoons last a whole friggin' hour. Weird, I know.
So, right, why am I here. The cosmic question. The procreation question. The purpose question. The happiness question. The fucking kill-me-now question.
And I look through all of these majors... all of these subjects. I want to learn a little more about religion because... so that I can argue with and alienate the friends I have less a little more? Ho-hum.
I want to study business so I can be frustrated by the mundaneness of it all? So that I can argue with the teacher and tell him he's wrong? And then work my ass off to prove it for a B+ because he can't flunk me, even though he wants to, so he gives me an almost-good-enough grade.
I want to study women's studies so I can land in a class that's 90% chicks? eh. Whateverrrrr.
And then there's history, and econ, and film, and art history, and philosophy... all things I'm vaguely interested in, but which won't answer the question.
And the more I articulate, the sadder I feel. Isn't this shit supposed to be cathartic? Aren't I supposed to come to some sort of conclusion, isn't this supposed to help me organize my thoughts, compartmentalize my feelings, understand myself and the world better?
But all it does is serve to remind how lost I am. How lost I feel. And how sad that makes me.
Harumph. "Daughters" by John Mayer just rotated in on my iTunes. There's a line in the song about how basically you can abuse the boys and they'll figure it out, but the daughters will grow up and ruin their relationships.
Well, I'm getting a little old for my quarter-life crisis, John. And you get to bang Jessica Simpson, so shut the fuck up.
Eh. It's a pretty enough song. Reminds me of Crazy Lauren, actually.
--
How about a statement that says how psycho I really am. I miss that chick sometimes. I mean, yes, even while I was in the middle of it, I knew I couldn't engage, because it would be crazy and codependent, but she was ironically really good to me.
The flip side of showing up at my house and keying the ex-GF's car, of socking me in the face when staring me in the eye as I crushed her devotion for the 27th time... the flip side is that she totally understood me. She was a freak, but she was my freak.
Anything I revealed to her didn't make her feel sorry for me. It didn't make her think I was crazy. It didn't turn her off or turn her on.
It just was. Because she had drama too. And she just understood.
There it is.
Epiphany time.
So I go through life, and I fake it, right? I fake interest in stupid girls, I fake a college degree to fuckers who think it matters, I fake being 23 to these undergrads all around me, I fake a healthy childhood to people who get close enough to touch, and I fake being over it for those close enough touch and care.
My life is one big facade, and despite not living in fear -- I really don't give a fuck, because I'm independent now and you can take your job/judgment/pussy/friendship and piss the fuck off -- it still is really draining to act all the time.
I like basketball for that reason. Because out there, I can just be me. If I want to cuss, I do it. If I want to get angry, I do. If I want to give it my all or be lazy, if I want to show off for some girl I don't even know, if I want to shut some guy down just because he's black, or thinks he's good, or used to play in the NFL, or because his girlfriend is watching, I do it.
The mask comes off. And I'm still cool for the most part, but it's ok because they all take it off too. You're just some fucker in gym shorts now. I don't care about anything except what you do with the ball. And neither do you. For those couple of hours, we're really equal, we're really the same, we're really not afraid.
For just a little while, it doesn't matter what I make, or that my parents never loved me, or that I hate you because you have parents and family. It doesn't matter that my childhood ended somewhere around 8 or that I was once so poor that I biked two miles to the next fucking train station so I could save 30 cents. It doesn't matter that my behavior basically says that I don't want to be loved.
And, most of all, it doesn't matter that my iTunes has something that sound pretty goddamn "bow chicka bow wow" sounding music bumpin' right now. (switches windows)
Whew. That's better. I was starting to look around for some big titted chick with a pussy the size of a grapefruit. Which is slightly hot in a really dirty sorta way.
I think.
So I was going to epiphanize (ooh, I like that new word), right? Well, if my life is one big audition, if I'm constantly faking it, but yet it's tearing me up, then what am I so afraid of?
What will I lose if I stop faking it?
I remember, once, when I wore "being real" like a badge of honor. I didn't want to be fake about anything. All natural food, I was also really anal. And I wasn't very much fun.
And then came the fake hair, the nice clothes, the schmoozing, the wit-development, the posturing, the prestige of titles, the BMW, and all of the things that came with it... including the princess (Amanda had one of those princess license plates).
I guess I am afraid. Not of what some schmuck says -- although that "token old guy" comment the other day is still bothering me, even if it wasn't meant to be negative and it's true -- but because I don't like that guy I used to be. He was a dick.
But that's the problem, isn't it. I don't like me very much at all. And achievement is no longer a fill-in. It's a distraction at best, now.
And the fact that I know that makes me not care. About... much of anything.
It's a weird... what's the term Faustian bargain mean? Something about a deal with the devil, right? (googling) OK, that doesn't fit. Never mind.
I was going to ponder goals. They're great for now... they fill in the blanks, because it's easy to work backwards from a goal and come up with a plan, an action, even a way of life.
But -- and here's why it's kinda sorta not really a deal with the devil -- it's just temporary. A go-between starting from something you're lacking and ending with not filling the void you were hoping to.
Nothing can replace, or atone for, the trauma I've endured. Nothing can give me back my childhood... not even trying to fake being 23. And so goals, at this point, are just passing the time. Achievement is not enough and never will be. It doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter who I save or how many awards I earn. Heck, I could be the anti-Hitler of the 21st century, and all I'll do is mutter something about letting history decide how to paint my person. But it's not because I don't, or wouldn't, enjoy it. Every single word of praise would be appreciated by the emotional black hole buried somewhere not all that deep inside.
I'd just still be hiding.
The problem is that I don't know how to fill it. Lauren wanted that contract. She promised to love me enough. I just knew I couldn't love her enough... and when it wasn't, I knew that she'd take it away. And oh how that would've hurt. I'd have missed everything about her, from her smell to her sense of humor. As it is, I just miss not having to hide. And vanilla lattes in the morning after hot shower sex. But I could've lived without that. That was just a nice perk. :-)
So there it is. How do I fill it? How do I fill that void that was made when I wasn't protected at 2? Or hit at 13? Or left out to die at 14? Or just plain hated by the very guy that was supposed to be my guardian and protector?
How do I take that away?
Sigh.
I feel a need to tell you you're full of shit now.
(1) Therapy. Yeah. Tried. Did. Seemed to work. Or not. I suppose I could go back and blow $120 a week for the next, oh, forever. And that would make me feel slightly better. Because someone appreciates my fucking checkbook.
Uh huh. Sure. Go ahead and recommend it. I did it for two years. I could do it for two more. And... it might even make me not type so much. But if the problem is actually solvable, why do I need some idiot to just sit there and not tell me what to do?
(2) Drugs. Um. Personally, I don't see this huge difference between cocaine and prozac. I mean, sure, we could go into the biological differences, which would actually be pretty interesting, but they're both mind altering drugs. One just has a regulated dosage and drug content per unit metric.
They both have side effects. They both fuck up your head so you can't think straight. And, frankly, if I thought drugs would solve my problems, I'd already be a fucking alcoholic. For real.
(3) Finding that special someone. I think that no woman could ever fill that void forever. If she's out there, great. But like I love to say, you tell me where the fucking book club where the attractive, intelligent, 20-something, emotionally available gym bunnies hang out, and I'll show up with 60 roses.
In other words, fuck off. If you're recommending this, you probably have someone and didn't work for it, which means you're basically a trust fund baby telling me to get a fucking job, even though I'm black, my dad beat me, I got busted for a felony 'cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I was twelve, and can barely read because public schools suck ass.
If I sound a little bitter, well, yeah. If you think I'm "missing the point", blow me.
(4) Self analysis. Finding myself. Meditation.
My other blog has had shit like this in it since '03. I've been writing this shit down on paper since fucking '93. It helps. I'm already doing it.
Suggesting it doesn't exactly help anything.
(5) Losing the chip on my shoulder.
Ok. That's like telling a blind man what the color red looks like. Care to elaborate on how?
(6) Going back to school, changing venue, moving, or otherwise shocking the system with some big physical change.
Ahem. You haven't been reading very long, have you?
(7) Fuck all and kill yourself.
Crossed my mind a couple of times. Next?
(8) Go have a chat with your dad. I'm sure he loves you on some level.
You know, I have friends from my adult life who have said the very same thing. Then they met the guy.
Hitler really was a better man. At least he rationalized his evil. If you started with the basic flawed set of rules, everything else fit.
My dad is a sociopath. The clinical definition. Go wikipedia it.
And yes, I'm sure he does. Hitler loved the Jews, too. Ethnic cleansing is an act of love, goddamn it. Any problems with your moral reckoning on that statement?
(9) You know, a lot of people have it worse...
Yeah. I'm a fucking lucky bastard. Been over that already. Or haven't you read through my archives?
So how do I take this achievement, this talent, this luck, this blessing, and actually make something out of it?
How do I keep from always being this way?
How can I be happy? It's kinduv a prerequisite before I can "realize my full potential". Whatever that means.
Then again, maybe I was the best man I was ever destined to become years ago. And all of this is just hot air outlining the fall from the great man I could've been if only I'd stepped into the wind on some road long since forgotten.
Or not.
(10) Dude. This is life. This is the way it is. You have what you have, you are what you are. Stop dwelling on it. Have some sex, learn some shit, help some old ladies across the street, and just hop from one fun experience to the next. Everybody gets depressed when they sit at home and blog for two hours straight.
You're probably right.
But that's not enough for me. I want more. And, btw, the "trust fund" clause from item #3 applies, too. How about you go have a chat with your dad about it. I'm sure he'll be happy to take your call and won't call you or your mom a mother-fucker/cunt, not even once.
Next?
(11) Your need to find Jesus.
See "trust fund" clause above.
I realized something about Christians the other day while reading one of my books on Islamic thought. It was describing ancient Mesopotamian religions and comparing them to ancient Egypt.
Christianity is the ultimate mind fuck because it serves both human needs. For the assholes that get shit on, it has Original Sin. You get shit on because you deserve it, bitch. Just be glad I'm, even holding out the option of heaven to your sinful ass, you piece of shit.
For the elitist imperialistic suburban soccer playing, gold swinging fucks, you have Grace. Well, you're inherently evil -- you know this because you happen to know your wife blew your priest back in the day -- but the Grace of god means you now deserve the butt warmers in the H2 that runs on the blood of dead Iraqi children. You deserve all of the "blessings" that have been handed to you on silver platters most of your life. Because you worked for this and that, yes, and because Jesus saved you. God is just like you in look, spirit, and culture, you elitist fuck.
So, if you're in the former group, go back to the barrio and keep selling your food at the farmers market. I really like your tomatoes. And yes, you should send little Pablo to community college so he can learn a trade. His tithe will be bigger, damn it.
If you're in the latter, you've never really considered god, because you've never had any hardship. And no, your wife blowing your priest doesn't count. I'm talking about how the fuck am I going to eat, I have no one to call on the planet, nor even a quarter to make the fucking call if I did kinda hardship. You better believe that fucker ain't gonna carry you. Life is not Footsteps. And you don't deserve that H2, bitch. Go trade it in for something that didn't cost 18 square miles of rain forest. Take your butt warmer money and send it Bono so he can feed Africans, you imperialist bastard.
If Jesus were so great, I wouldn't be whining about drama that started in the womb. He'd have carried me then, too. Free will? Blow me. We have a judicial system and we're fucking humans. We stop people from doing bad things through deterrence and direct intervention. So why can't god do that?
Because he doesn't exist, that's why. Or He's just a pussy. Either way, next.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Title here
I missed Amanda tonight. I'm not sure what I missed, actually... I watched Spidey 3 tonight after I got home (or, rather, the 2nd half), and I remembered that the first Spider-man movie came out the summer I broke up with her.
I saw it twice in the theatre. Neither time was with her. I saw it with a big group from work. And I saw it with Destiny, the ex before Amanda. Nothing ever became of that... I had changed too much, and she hadn't changed enough. But that's another story.
It's a little strange living and interacting with people so young all the time. Everyone's world is so wide open with opportunity. There's such joy in almost everything. I mean, yes, people bitch all the time... people are people. But I can't remember the last time I talked to someone and actually got a real sense of cynicism.
Actually met someone like me.
I like that. But it might be the catalyst for thinking about old relationships. Especially the one where I was last like that. Where I was wide open with expectation and wide eyed with amazement. When being in a relationship with someone was new in every respect...
I'm not sure that I miss it, actually. Or her. I do miss being that way.
I don't think I'm going to learn it here. I don't think that any of these little girls can do any more than remind me of the boy I once was. I lose myself, perhaps, for a few minutes here and there, but it's just a fun game.
Which sort of begs the question, can I actually love again? Can I give my all like Amanda got? Can I have the faith that Laura squandered?
It makes me sad to say it, but I don't think I can.
I say that I value intelligence in a date/mate/counterpart above all else. I don't know if that's true anymore. In a world where your wife is your best friend, where she becomes a part of you, where that "one flesh" business is actually true, then I hold "her" to the same measure I hold myself to -- which is, to say, she has to work at being perfect. Pretty much constantly.
But it's not. No woman could ever be all of those things. No one could. And no matter what some guy named Paul said, in today's world, I have no business putting faith in some girl. One flesh? Humph. That just means sex without a condom and falling asleep in coitus. Intimate, wonderful, and probably the single most content any man can ever feel, but really, nothing all that hard to accomplish.
Nothing all that special.
I wish I could have it back. I wish I felt it when I took these little girls out. But they're no different than any of the other silly girls. They just haven't moved to the city yet. Heh. The funny part is that I'm actually serious. The last date I went on? Her plan after graduation is to move to San Francisco.
Sigh. So, what then?
I read something recently about three levels of peace. I think it was during some research I was doing for my class on Islamic thought. (I'd try to go find it, but I haven't the foggiest on what keywords to search for -- I only remember my paraphrased version, and that's spotty.) In the first, people find pleasure/respite/purpose in some activity or thing. The example given was sports, but it could be anything -- from chess to mountain biking. One finds pleasure in the act of doing and purpose in the refinement of that act. My skating, dancing, and basketball have all fulfilled that for me. So has work, and even, , to a certain extent, dating women.
The second level is investment in a person or persons. Apparently, people find pleasure and purpose in giving themselves to another person -- a wife, and later, children.
No comment.
I'm pretty sure the last one was god. Or, rather, "God". Devotion to something greater than yourself, giving back to the community, etc., were in there, too, I think, but basically, it was about submitting and contributing.
I don't really remember the last one all that well. It wasn't pertinent to my paper and I was on a mission. Besides, I kinda snorted at the second paragraph and lost interest. Heh.
So, basically, since I don't believe in a god and I don't believe in people, I guess I better start making a list of goals I want to accomplish in the next century.
'cause that's about all I got.
--
So I kinda lost the point of the 3 levels of purpose. I think that I miss Amanda so much because it was the last time I was anywhere near that second level. Maybe the only time.
And I'm still looking for that, aren't I?
No matter how much I repeat this little exercise of telling myself I don't have hope, that no woman is worthy of faith, that this is the way the world works, so just deal...
I'm not trying to teach anybody. I'm trying to convince myself.
It would be easier, I think. I'd be a little dead inside, sure, but that part of me has been beaten up for years anyway -- the death would be a respite from the turmoil. And then I could just have fun... there wouldn't be as much of a chip on my shoulder. There wouldn't be any ulterior motives other than having fun and having sex, which are so much easier to accomplish than "being happy".
The problem with squashed hope, you see, is that it hurts like hell. And I always hope... even if it's only just a little bit. I tell myself it's stupid every time I feel it -- so yes, 326 times every day -- but it's still there. Lingering. Pestering. Annoying.
Painful.
--
I emailed Amanda the other day. She has a new boy. Or maybe not a new boy. I don't know. She said he was new, so I'll assume it's not that old. Whatever.
She sent me photos of them. He's a good looking guy. They -- or rather, she -- looked peaceful with him. Not with the stars in her eyes I imagine when I see photos of us from years ago, nor the posing I remember from her solo photos. Guess she aged some, too. Heh.
I wonder what happened to those photos she and I took on that cruise ship. We paid a lot for those as I recall. I don't remember them at all... I just remember taking them with her. And how mad at her I was. I don't remember what about, specifically, but I remember looking at her with disdain when we shot those.
Maybe Amanda saw that in those photos and that's why she kept them. Or tossed them.
Weird. I haven't thought about that trip in five years. I do remember that we were dressed to the nines, though. We must have looked amazing. I wish I could remember.
--
Anne -- my date the other night, who is about as fun as a glass of water (gift from heaven at certain times, but overall not that interesting) -- talked about Disneyland for a minute over dinner. She talked about going there while in high school. I remember thinking "I fell in love there once" while she talked about cutting in line on Space Mountain.
I didn't feel old. Not envious. I didn't miss anybody. I just noticed. I suppose that I vaguely wondered how Anne would react if I said that, but that was mostly just self-amusement.
--
Wow. Talk about Peter Pan complex, huh? I so don't want to grow up that I packed up my shit and moved away from everything I knew just so I could pretend.
I am a fucking nutball.
Too bad it's too late. I'm fucking old. I don't get angry much, I have experience all over the place, I've lost whatever faith I ever had, and I know how to eat pussy.
I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do now? Don't normal people marry the chick they always knew they would and get saddled up with a mortgage around this point?
What do people do at my age when they don't have those options? I mean, aside from going back to college so they can hit on 19 year olds, of course.
Well?
--
There's this one little ache I have. In the section just above, I referred to "marrying the chick they always knew they would".
That really bothers me. Because I have no candidates. Everybody I know who is married knew the girl for years before it happened. Maybe they didn't always know, but there was always something.
And I don't have one of those. (Unless you count Alicia. And that's not bloody likely.)
Maybe it's one of my ex GFs. Maybe one of them will come back into my life someday and it will just click. Let's see... Jeanette probably still smokes, so she looks 40 by now. Des has to be crackin' 200 by this point. Amanda... well. I don't wonder about her at 4 in the morning for nothing. Chrissy... kinduv a long shot there. Laura is, and ever shall be, Slutbag. Crazy Lauren disappeared off the planet.
Ok. One of the short-termers, then? Alicia? Sarah? Tejas Lauren? Jill? Jamie?
Yeah... not so much. Guess I have to relive my 20s after all. Heh.
I saw it twice in the theatre. Neither time was with her. I saw it with a big group from work. And I saw it with Destiny, the ex before Amanda. Nothing ever became of that... I had changed too much, and she hadn't changed enough. But that's another story.
It's a little strange living and interacting with people so young all the time. Everyone's world is so wide open with opportunity. There's such joy in almost everything. I mean, yes, people bitch all the time... people are people. But I can't remember the last time I talked to someone and actually got a real sense of cynicism.
Actually met someone like me.
I like that. But it might be the catalyst for thinking about old relationships. Especially the one where I was last like that. Where I was wide open with expectation and wide eyed with amazement. When being in a relationship with someone was new in every respect...
I'm not sure that I miss it, actually. Or her. I do miss being that way.
I don't think I'm going to learn it here. I don't think that any of these little girls can do any more than remind me of the boy I once was. I lose myself, perhaps, for a few minutes here and there, but it's just a fun game.
Which sort of begs the question, can I actually love again? Can I give my all like Amanda got? Can I have the faith that Laura squandered?
It makes me sad to say it, but I don't think I can.
I say that I value intelligence in a date/mate/counterpart above all else. I don't know if that's true anymore. In a world where your wife is your best friend, where she becomes a part of you, where that "one flesh" business is actually true, then I hold "her" to the same measure I hold myself to -- which is, to say, she has to work at being perfect. Pretty much constantly.
But it's not. No woman could ever be all of those things. No one could. And no matter what some guy named Paul said, in today's world, I have no business putting faith in some girl. One flesh? Humph. That just means sex without a condom and falling asleep in coitus. Intimate, wonderful, and probably the single most content any man can ever feel, but really, nothing all that hard to accomplish.
Nothing all that special.
I wish I could have it back. I wish I felt it when I took these little girls out. But they're no different than any of the other silly girls. They just haven't moved to the city yet. Heh. The funny part is that I'm actually serious. The last date I went on? Her plan after graduation is to move to San Francisco.
Sigh. So, what then?
I read something recently about three levels of peace. I think it was during some research I was doing for my class on Islamic thought. (I'd try to go find it, but I haven't the foggiest on what keywords to search for -- I only remember my paraphrased version, and that's spotty.) In the first, people find pleasure/respite/purpose in some activity or thing. The example given was sports, but it could be anything -- from chess to mountain biking. One finds pleasure in the act of doing and purpose in the refinement of that act. My skating, dancing, and basketball have all fulfilled that for me. So has work, and even, , to a certain extent, dating women.
The second level is investment in a person or persons. Apparently, people find pleasure and purpose in giving themselves to another person -- a wife, and later, children.
No comment.
I'm pretty sure the last one was god. Or, rather, "God". Devotion to something greater than yourself, giving back to the community, etc., were in there, too, I think, but basically, it was about submitting and contributing.
I don't really remember the last one all that well. It wasn't pertinent to my paper and I was on a mission. Besides, I kinda snorted at the second paragraph and lost interest. Heh.
So, basically, since I don't believe in a god and I don't believe in people, I guess I better start making a list of goals I want to accomplish in the next century.
'cause that's about all I got.
--
So I kinda lost the point of the 3 levels of purpose. I think that I miss Amanda so much because it was the last time I was anywhere near that second level. Maybe the only time.
And I'm still looking for that, aren't I?
No matter how much I repeat this little exercise of telling myself I don't have hope, that no woman is worthy of faith, that this is the way the world works, so just deal...
I'm not trying to teach anybody. I'm trying to convince myself.
It would be easier, I think. I'd be a little dead inside, sure, but that part of me has been beaten up for years anyway -- the death would be a respite from the turmoil. And then I could just have fun... there wouldn't be as much of a chip on my shoulder. There wouldn't be any ulterior motives other than having fun and having sex, which are so much easier to accomplish than "being happy".
The problem with squashed hope, you see, is that it hurts like hell. And I always hope... even if it's only just a little bit. I tell myself it's stupid every time I feel it -- so yes, 326 times every day -- but it's still there. Lingering. Pestering. Annoying.
Painful.
--
I emailed Amanda the other day. She has a new boy. Or maybe not a new boy. I don't know. She said he was new, so I'll assume it's not that old. Whatever.
She sent me photos of them. He's a good looking guy. They -- or rather, she -- looked peaceful with him. Not with the stars in her eyes I imagine when I see photos of us from years ago, nor the posing I remember from her solo photos. Guess she aged some, too. Heh.
I wonder what happened to those photos she and I took on that cruise ship. We paid a lot for those as I recall. I don't remember them at all... I just remember taking them with her. And how mad at her I was. I don't remember what about, specifically, but I remember looking at her with disdain when we shot those.
Maybe Amanda saw that in those photos and that's why she kept them. Or tossed them.
Weird. I haven't thought about that trip in five years. I do remember that we were dressed to the nines, though. We must have looked amazing. I wish I could remember.
--
Anne -- my date the other night, who is about as fun as a glass of water (gift from heaven at certain times, but overall not that interesting) -- talked about Disneyland for a minute over dinner. She talked about going there while in high school. I remember thinking "I fell in love there once" while she talked about cutting in line on Space Mountain.
I didn't feel old. Not envious. I didn't miss anybody. I just noticed. I suppose that I vaguely wondered how Anne would react if I said that, but that was mostly just self-amusement.
--
Wow. Talk about Peter Pan complex, huh? I so don't want to grow up that I packed up my shit and moved away from everything I knew just so I could pretend.
I am a fucking nutball.
Too bad it's too late. I'm fucking old. I don't get angry much, I have experience all over the place, I've lost whatever faith I ever had, and I know how to eat pussy.
I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do now? Don't normal people marry the chick they always knew they would and get saddled up with a mortgage around this point?
What do people do at my age when they don't have those options? I mean, aside from going back to college so they can hit on 19 year olds, of course.
Well?
--
There's this one little ache I have. In the section just above, I referred to "marrying the chick they always knew they would".
That really bothers me. Because I have no candidates. Everybody I know who is married knew the girl for years before it happened. Maybe they didn't always know, but there was always something.
And I don't have one of those. (Unless you count Alicia. And that's not bloody likely.)
Maybe it's one of my ex GFs. Maybe one of them will come back into my life someday and it will just click. Let's see... Jeanette probably still smokes, so she looks 40 by now. Des has to be crackin' 200 by this point. Amanda... well. I don't wonder about her at 4 in the morning for nothing. Chrissy... kinduv a long shot there. Laura is, and ever shall be, Slutbag. Crazy Lauren disappeared off the planet.
Ok. One of the short-termers, then? Alicia? Sarah? Tejas Lauren? Jill? Jamie?
Yeah... not so much. Guess I have to relive my 20s after all. Heh.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Uh oh. It happened.
I'm sad today.
I got drunk with my roommates tonight playing baseball pong, a slightly altered version of beer pong. I thought it would help the comraderie aspect of my housing situation.
It probably did.
But I got drunk and tired, and now I'm sitting in my room coming down from the inebriation, and sappy music is on, and there's no naked girl in my bed to distract me.
And I missed (gulp) Texas again a couple of minutes ago.
And then I thought of home, a little, and I missed Jupiter with Sam and Banana Cream pie with Ayla.
Neither are that bad. I'm not that sad. But the feelings are there, present, and I don't feel at liberty to call anybody.
I kinda just wish I had someone in my bed right now so I could cuddle. I know, gay. Fuck off.
She'd fall in love with me, and I'd feel good for just a little while. And tomorrow I'd make her a cup of coffee and bring her a bowl of cereal in bed before going to class. It would be oatmeal, but I just ran out. Oh well.
sigh. Tomorrow, I will get up at 8am and do Calculus. Then I will go to class and try not to fall asleep. And I will grab the one hot girl in the class (the other one dropped) and make a study date with her.
Then I will find the Lauren in my Religion class and get her number. Lauren from Prescott. I know, I know. Whatever. She's a cute, petite brunette. Imagine that.
And then I will go to lunch with Jenny from psych and sweep her off her feet. After which, I will come home, work for four hours, go to the gym, and then go to one of the 15 parties on my facebook event list.
Ok, it's not 15. It's more like 4. But whatever. I invited like 40 girls to this frat party my bros are throwing, only to have them "cancel" the party over some bullshit non-endorsement policy. It's a house party thrown by the people in my frat, but we can't call it a frat party. So the president of my frat cancels the event because of the powers that be, and I look like a schmuck to every vagina on my friends list. But whatever. The fucking moron didn't put the address on the invite anyway, so no one will show up.
Which means that, instead, I will probably bail on the frat party at 10:09 and head over to either a sorority party (for one of the greek groups who actually throws fundraisers and shite) and have some pancakes and meet hot 19 year olds. Yeah, it's a pancake fundraiser party. I don't know, don't ask.
Or, I'll go to... oh hell. I don't remember what the other event was. But there are a bunch of my girlfriends (the kind I don't fuck) going, and so the odds are good that I won't be writing this kind of shit tomorrow night in either event.
bedtime. If my goddamn roommates will shut the fuck up. sigh...
I got drunk with my roommates tonight playing baseball pong, a slightly altered version of beer pong. I thought it would help the comraderie aspect of my housing situation.
It probably did.
But I got drunk and tired, and now I'm sitting in my room coming down from the inebriation, and sappy music is on, and there's no naked girl in my bed to distract me.
And I missed (gulp) Texas again a couple of minutes ago.
And then I thought of home, a little, and I missed Jupiter with Sam and Banana Cream pie with Ayla.
Neither are that bad. I'm not that sad. But the feelings are there, present, and I don't feel at liberty to call anybody.
I kinda just wish I had someone in my bed right now so I could cuddle. I know, gay. Fuck off.
She'd fall in love with me, and I'd feel good for just a little while. And tomorrow I'd make her a cup of coffee and bring her a bowl of cereal in bed before going to class. It would be oatmeal, but I just ran out. Oh well.
sigh. Tomorrow, I will get up at 8am and do Calculus. Then I will go to class and try not to fall asleep. And I will grab the one hot girl in the class (the other one dropped) and make a study date with her.
Then I will find the Lauren in my Religion class and get her number. Lauren from Prescott. I know, I know. Whatever. She's a cute, petite brunette. Imagine that.
And then I will go to lunch with Jenny from psych and sweep her off her feet. After which, I will come home, work for four hours, go to the gym, and then go to one of the 15 parties on my facebook event list.
Ok, it's not 15. It's more like 4. But whatever. I invited like 40 girls to this frat party my bros are throwing, only to have them "cancel" the party over some bullshit non-endorsement policy. It's a house party thrown by the people in my frat, but we can't call it a frat party. So the president of my frat cancels the event because of the powers that be, and I look like a schmuck to every vagina on my friends list. But whatever. The fucking moron didn't put the address on the invite anyway, so no one will show up.
Which means that, instead, I will probably bail on the frat party at 10:09 and head over to either a sorority party (for one of the greek groups who actually throws fundraisers and shite) and have some pancakes and meet hot 19 year olds. Yeah, it's a pancake fundraiser party. I don't know, don't ask.
Or, I'll go to... oh hell. I don't remember what the other event was. But there are a bunch of my girlfriends (the kind I don't fuck) going, and so the odds are good that I won't be writing this kind of shit tomorrow night in either event.
bedtime. If my goddamn roommates will shut the fuck up. sigh...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)