Another month, another girl. Adieu, SBH.

I was resigned to letting my Snowboard Hottie (SBH) go, having a quick hook up with her a week at a time on holidays and other bay area visits.

I had relegated her to what-if status. "I like her, but..." status.

And then a friend (married, natch) told me I was a coward. That I should grab it by the horns. Ask her. Feel her out. Find out.

Well, I did. I was genuine, and nice, and not Alfie. I was me. I called, I hugged, I felt, I engaged, and I fell.

How far remains to be seen. You never know what you got 'til it's gone, as that screechy voiced chick says. And the good version covered by the Counting Crows.

Tonight I left her, without tears, after a drama free whirlwind romance, after allowing myself to feel and showing up at her doorstep and just wanting to be with her instead of expecting to fuck, after showing the bad boy and then releasing the good.

Tonight I left.

"Talk soon?" she said. "If you want to," I answered.

But I won't call. And she'll call, once, on Friday, before she leaves town for the holidays.

She'll wonder how I'm doing, and I won't call back. Then we'll see each other two years from now, and she'll be with someone who is half the man I am, and she'll see me and want to fuck me, want me to kiss her, want me to embrace her, and want me to let my guard down like it was yesterday.

And I won't. And she'll always wonder.

I'm mad, now, because all you fucks who tell me not to play the game are full of shit. All you fucks who insist that being myself is not a bad play, that the sensitive, nice guy that is not Alfie can find a woman who appreciates him.

FUCK OFF. You don't know shit.

Because I could've fucked her for the next 2 years and loved her in my own way. I could have had her, and loved her, and been loved back, however distant it might be, and it would have been fine. I could have kept her at arms length, while I went home to the desert and fucked my red-headed engineer, my brunette nurse, and my blonde what-the-fuck-was-her-major-anyway, and loved her in a way that is not intense, almost real, and completely eaten up by 99% of the goddamn female population in spite of themselves.

But, instead, I got emotional, I got attached, I started to fall, and instead of fucking her brains out the moment I saw her, I asked her how her day was.

And tonight, she wanted to "have a quick drink". Great. Either she's pregnant or she's breaking up with me.

Turns out it was both. Until we went and bought a goddamn $10 stress-reducing test, of course. And then we were left with no stress, no cell division, no connection and a Dear John.

So, the next time you fuckers want to open up your goddamn mouths, the next time you want to approach me, and tell me to "let go", or call me a coward for not embracing a young lady I think I could fall for, or tell me that there are women out there that don't cheat, or say some bullshit like "quality women are at church", get stuffed.

And now, a little word from my good friend Alfie:

+ Women don't respect you for being nice, for getting the door, or for treating them well. They respect you for your car, your platinum, and you cock size. Put another way, it's all bullshit until you make them cum. Shut up and bend her over. That's the only way you'll make a lasting impression.

+ The smart ones cheat, the dumb ones are still dumb, the old ones are cynical, and the young ones don't give good head. Basically, just find the hottest, youngest tail you can find, because the quality ain't gonna change regardless. At least then your friends will respect you because they wanna fuck your girl.

+ The bad boy with a nice streak play works really well on late-20s cynics. Younger than 25 or slightly damaged, and just be mean. They say they want to be treated well, but that's a crock of shit. Fuck as fast as you can. Nice guys don't get laid. After you fuck, DO NOT STOP playing the game. You can take more liberties, but the moment you feel yourself getting attached, just rest assured that she's cheating on you. Then you'll start acting appropriately towards her, which, ironically, stupidly, categorically contradictingly, will make her more attracted to you.

+ Nice girls just cheat less. Or they're better actresses.

+ Yeah, I'm bitter. Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, shut the fuck up. Oh, and by the way, is your sister single?

+ Further to that thought, I hate you. I hate women, I hate married people, I hate happy people, I hate poor people, I hate rich people, I hate ghetto people, and I hate your mom. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE.

+ One day I will learn. One day I will actually take my own advice and stop hoping.

+ Do NOT spend the night and not fuck. EVER. In fact, unless you have to leave before she wakes up to get to the office where you make the money that got her to spread her legs in the first place, fuck her twice. I don't care if she's sick. I don't care if you're a nice guy. I don't care if you like her. If you have to do a gesture of goodwill, drop off some fucking Nyquil, get her a glass of water, kiss her on the forehead, and then take your happy ass home. Or, better yet, go out with the next girl on your list.

Just a quck something off my chest

Another family-derived hook up this past weekend. We'll call her Snowboard chick. We met three years ago, but I "always had a girl on my arm".

We slept together four days in a row starting thanksgiving night. I'm pretty bummed today, because I left her this morning with few words, wondering if I was going to get teary.

"Well. You live far away, and I'm moving god knows where in 4-6 months anyway, and even if you did live here we're both really busy.

"So I'm left with... enjoying our time together. Enjoying you, and us, today, and the experience.

"I mean, yes, call me, don't get me wrong, I want to see you again, and I miss you just thinking about it, but all we can do is enjoy each other for right now.

"Besides, you'll be back to the bay area before too long. Stay with me next time."

Yeah, she's awesome. I just can't help but wonder why it took so long to hook up. Why not this time a year ago? Heh.

So... I'm not teary. I'm bummed, to be sure, and obviously distracted (I have 20 hours of work to do in the next 8, but am I working on that!?), but not actually down. Not hopeful, either, but perhaps wondering if I should be. I guess we'll see, right...

--

btw, Ayla, Happy Birthday. I thought of you this week and wondered where you were and what you were doing. I hope that you had fun and that you're well.

Childhood memories

The women from my childhood seem to be showing up in droves this year.

First there was Brandy, who I ran into at Starbucks right before I left the state. Was it two kids or three? Married for a decade. A little chubbier, a lot older, and a lot less flirtatious. Then again, I was a scrub that day -- it had been a week since I'd shaved, I was in gym clothes and a sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure I needed a haircut.

I do remember actively choosing not to ask for her number. I'd hate to ask for it and then not call. I do remember offering her the seat opposite me and telling her she should stay and chat. She was off to work, however. So far off the radar now (I knew she got married years ago), but it is food for thought in this context.

Then there's Presh. Boy was that an internal roller coaster ride. I haven't spoken or even traded email with her since that day I saw her. I suppose I just don't know what to say... not wanting to hide the feelings seeing her evoked, yet certainly not wanting to convey them.

I wonder if I ever really told her. Not like that, I didn't. Of that I'm sure. The one that got away, I suppose. It's a bit strange to realize that I have one of "those".

Then this week there's Mary jam (a nickname someone gave her years ago. it never really took in a way that, say, "aflie" did). I saw her on the train on Thursday, met for lunch on Friday, hung out with her last night.

It was great. The double-edged sword that is a lifetime of history created an odd dynamic. We got together, and it was like old friends catching up. Instead of "What do you do?", we had "Have you seen so-and-so?", "Do you still go to the same church?", and "How's your mom?" to work with.

We trusted each other right off the bat. There were no axe-murderer or Fatal Attraction worries. Everything bad that we both hold back was already out there. We knew each others parents already, for godsakes, and so the Hitler explanation (my dad) and the busybody mom (hers) were simply passing references that needed hardly an explanation. There were certainly no eyebrows being raised nor wondering about just how psycho the other party might be. We already thought one another insane; the reality of any interim maturation was an improvement over the memory anyway.

But the history was a negative, too. The rumor-mill repercussions, the opinions of relatives (who could care less about a date with a stranger/potential axe murderer, ironically), and the vague idea that any drama would be magnified ten-fold hung over our heads. She held back flirtation and I reciprocated. I was less agressive and she kissed pensively. I've no doubt that we've collectively had sex literally thousands of times, and yet our initial romantic interactions were, like two virgins, clumsy and tentative.

It was nice. Nicer than I thought it would be. Cloudy from history, certainly, yet intimacy was immediate from that same history. It was downright refreshing to just "let it all hang out", because, again, she already knew far worse than the reality of the present-day me could ever rightly convey, even abstractly.

Now, the rumors will traverse the network of relatives pretty quickly. At least 3-4 people on both sides know that we "hung out".

Hopefully I'll have left the state again by the time it circles back 'round. Hey, it could happen. Even if Thanksgiving is this week... (gulp)

Back "home"

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)

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.

Sappy But Perfect

(See last post for context.)

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.