It's happening again

no writey, no bummers, right?

Well, I'm writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here they come.

Release.

--

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

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

--

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

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

--

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

Sigh.

Marriage and such

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

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

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

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

Maybe for me too. Sometimes.

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

Without me.

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

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

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

Arrrgh.

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

Maybe that's the point.

I'm lonely

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

What's the Male version of a Cat Lady?

I think it might be "internet entrepreneur".

'nuff said.

Ok, not enough.

Another girl came and went before she even came. Heck. She may yet come. But she's a flake, and the future is not at all cogent in the way that I had been imagining this past weekend.

Heh. Not like I expected anything... just. Yeah. Let myself get a little carried away.

Easy pickin', she was. Easy. All I had to do was not actually like her.

Sigh. But whatever. When I read this a year from now, I won't event remember who this is about (RJF mean anything?). And that's fine. Because it really isn't that big of a deal.

Still. It is definitely one more whipping pushing me, yet again, in favor of being an asshole. None of this aggressive "let's hang out again, what are you doing, um, tomorrow" bullshit. More like "the only way you get to see me tomorrow is if you're cookin' me breakfast!"

LOL.

I don't want to be that guy. But he gets laid a lot more than I do. And is that happier...? I dunno.

Sometimes.

Sigh.

If the goal is simple being remembered, don't the girls you hurt remember you a lot better than the girls who thought, "wow, really nice, pretty cute, but way too intense. I'm not calling him back."

Yeeaaaaah.

The world is a backwards place.

I loved Kim. I put a lot into "us". And she hates me.

I was unwilling with Jill. And she remembers great sex and roller skating.

I loved Laura. And she remembers... something. I don't really know. I'm just mad that she's happy and I'm not.

I was careless with Sarah. And she remembers great sex and some good Madeira.

I loved Amanda. And she remembers "what was that about".

I was... eh. You get the picture. What do they remember? Are they really so hurt?

I know this argument is old, I know this has been said before, but maybe I keep coming back to it for a reason.

If there really is no hope for whatever fairy tale I fancifully believe in when I let myself forget how much it hurts when she eventually leaves, why not just have great lovers?

Another round trip

Kim came and left again.

I'm almost done with my bottle of wine. I actually went out to get it this time.

It's really, really good tho. PAP level wine. Mmmmm.

I'm coding. Yeah, for money. Well, at some point hopefully. Batch scanning for MC. Woot. Funny thing happens when you are three glasses deep and distracting yourself and no one is calling you. It all seems... less important. Which, actually, it was all along.

I am too hard on my people. It is a flaw. I need to be a better manager.

I am too hard on myself. I need to be a better human.

I am not really that hard on my women. They need to be better.

I loved her. But you see people in their true colors when faced with adversity. Faced with miscommunication. Faced with the unforeseen occurrences of life.

My phone wasn't sending SMS messages today. I didn't know this; it was the result of an unrelated change in service with AT&T yesterday. Some random chick in Louisiana hit "enter" one too many times. Not really that big of a deal.

Except that she felt like I flaked on her. Because I texted. And texted. And texted again, worried.

And she didn't get any of it. But, rather than ask about what went wrong, rather than think out loud about the possibility that technology might have failed, she chose to chew me out.

And I responded with silence. Then a defensive, "so you think I'm being disingenuous when I tell you I tried three times to reach out?"

And she called me a bad person. A flake. A liar. Insinuated that I was cheating. That she was last. That I wasn't capable of love. That I wasn't capable of having a relationship. That I had no regard for her feelings.

Sigh. Well... yeah. I do love her. But, well, fuck her. She was acting like a bitch. Perhaps, in fact, she is a bitch. But then, she probably has to be for me to love her, right?

Sigh again.

So... if I'm actually insane, if I actually crave this drama, some sort of need to prove myself, etc., and I've nonetheless channeled it into my work (MC has to rock, otherwise I'm a big fat loser, woot), then why do bitchy chicks have to be the only ones I'm attracted to?

Or, put another way, will I have to "settle" for some one that does not push my apparently insanity buttons - someone balanced, flexible, understanding, etc., yet not very tantalizing - in order to fake sanity? Or, in order to be... ugh. Successful?

I need a good woman to support my efforts. I need someone to pull me out of work on Friday nights, yet support me on Thursdays. Someone who tells me to go handle my shit on a random Sunday, yet convincing me that a week off next June is totally fine. Someone who supports my work, my gym hours, and my lot in life, yet pulls me out of it just enough to make me a better man than I am all on my own.

The problem is... that chick is out there. And I'll probably find her attractive and have sex with her a few times. But I'll find her boring and long for the next Kim.

Or the last one.

Is this the path? I have to settle for someone who feels boring? Or feel the bimonthly pain of someone I long for?

Is life really this limiting?

Winter Blues

I am alone.

It is cold in my house. It is colder outside. It is cold in my heart.

I hold onto my hate because it is dependable. I hold onto my anger because it keeps me safe. I hold onto my cynicism because it is sometimes all that I have.

I walk out on good women and away from women I love. I shy away from all that might be great, because it has the chance to cause me horrible pain.

I hate women. That I hate at all is a terrible waste.

Will this ever get better? Will I ever face a Christmas without pain and loneliness, without me pining over an ex, without trolling match, without some sort of self-inflicted drama?

I can count my happy Christmases on one hand and still have plenty of room left to flip you off. That sucks.

The answer? Perhaps I need to fly south for the winter. Perhaps, actually, I need to fly south altogether. Fuck norcal, fuck San Francisco, fuck home, fuck bay area elitism, and... damn I really wanted another "fuck". It just felt right rhythmically.

Armchair Therapist

Tracy looked at my profile. I wonder if...

--

Ayla reached out. I wonder if...

--

Kim didn't. I wish I didn't wonder.

--

I hate women. There, I said it. I hate you. All of you. Ok, maybe just superbitch or whatever I used to call her. But that's enough.

It's so trite. I don't want to love, so I won't, so I keep you distant, so I don't say what I feel, so I don't feel what I know, so I don't have what I want. If I never give any woman a chance, they can't leave me. Yadda yadda.

Still, I hate you.

I don't want it anymore. I don't want to love, to be in love, to be loved. You all can suck a dick. Preferably MINE.

Eh. That's just spite for that fanciful "maybe this is funny" exaggeration. When in fact, it's neither true nor funny. But I digress.

Laura was (what did I call her? Bitch-Whore? No, that wasn't it. SlutBAG! YESS! That was it!) the last girl I ever had faith in. I haven't had faith in anyone since -- not Kim, not Lizi nor Brie. Not even Kaitlin. Well. Maybe a little. But I wanted to cheat one her like I've never wanted to with/on any girl before, and, well, that was the end of that. But again I digress.

There may never be another. That is... a fact that should make me sad, but doesn't. Well, a little, but not really.

I'm done loving. I'm done hoping. I'm done with faith.

Someday, some girl will love my body enough to put up with that. And she'll cheat on me. And the world will maintain its balance, even if one frozen amongst the cold, dark hearts of its citizens.

Yeah. I hate you all.

--

Adam said tonight, "you never know with those online chicks. I mean, they are always, by nature, lining up the next date."

I asked how that was different from any "city girl".

"Good point."

--

Sigh. It's not you, it's me. No, really. I'm making use of the cliche because it's true.

There are those of you that are open to a "real relationship". I mean, sure, you're all a little psycho and I'd have to lie to you about going to the gym or some other random meaningless shit, but it'd be fine. I could make a lot of girls pretty happy. I could even be mostly happy myself.

But I still hate you.

I hate that I have to work for it. "It" being everything from attention to affection and appreciation to sex.

I hate that I desire your company even though I find it tiring and typically wasteful.

I hate that I am attracted to you even though you aren't as smart as me, you don't work out enough (if at all), you're idea of ambition is a master's degree, and you aren't really a nice person.

I hate that all of you are either insecure or supreme bitches. Why is there no in-between? Better yet, why are most of you BOTH?!

I hate that you whine about waiting for me, but then your idea of fun is reality TV. Why exactly did you need me to be here in order to feel happy? And why must I sit through bullshit when I could be doing something productive in order to win your affection?

I hate that you need two hours to get ready and criticize my dress when we go out with your friends, but my friends get to see you in sweat pants.

I hate that you expect me to include you in conversation, but when I do, you have nothing interesting to say. Make your own social context. Adapt! Oh, wait, you're a cute chick. You've never had to work to entertain anyone for anything and can therefore only talk about the two things you actually care about with any sort of passion -- reality TV and that useless master's degree you're getting.

I hate the dance. We have to flirt for a sufficient amount of time so that you'll remember me before I can ask you for your number, even though you've been checking me out every 15 seconds for the last hour, you've whispered to your friends about me, and you've wondered aloud about my cock size. But no, I have to make you laugh eight times and clown on you in some subtle way so that I create an emotional spike in your evening that you'll remember when you sober up in 36 hours and get my voice mail. Couldn't you just remember me for me and, knowing nothing at all about me, take the risk on fucking coffee after you've been complaining about the lack of quality guys since last March? But no, I'm supposed to be fucking Robin Williams over here and charm your almost-hot little (or not) ass off, make you simultaneously laugh and cry, and provide you with ten minutes of mental orgasm (minimum). Why? Just so I get a fucking return phone call. How about I just be a fucking monkey and carry around some goddamn cymbals? At least then I'd get tips for my effort.

I hate that you fight with me for no reason because I'm better than you. Yeah, I make you insecure. I'm stronger than you. I'm smarter than you. I'm faster than you. I'm better. In other words, exactly what you've hoped for since the day you realized that not all men were created equal. But, no, instead of embracing your good fortune and adoring me for simply adoring you, you have to fucking fight with me for no reason in hopes that one day I'll fuck up and you'll actually be right about something. Are you fucking kidding me? If I wanted a cock-fight I'd go to Mexico or the Castro. I don't compete with you. I'm not insecure about your income or your education. Heck, I'm even starting to get "cool" about ex-boyfriends. Why do you feel this need to? I am your mate. That means I got your back, not that I'm looking for some way to undermine the very confidence that attracted me in the first place.

But, mostly, I guess, despite the obvious self-fulfilling prophecy, I hate that you leave. Because all of you do. Some of you leave on false pretexts, some of you leave because I can't love you enough, some of you leave because you were never really there, some of you leave because you can't help yourselves. Some of you just leave because you are fucking slutbag bitch-whores from hell. And some of you leave because I ask you to.

But all of you, without fail, are temporary. And before you go quote that cliche -- yes, the one that I referred to above -- do remember that I gave you a chance.

I didn't always hate you. I didn't always despise your gender. In fact, at one point, I favored you. I lauded you. I appreciated you as being nicer, warmer, more nurturing, capable of love where men were not. I thought you worth of trust, admiration, and even love.

Yeah, I never got laid in those days. It seems that despising you is a prerequisite for procreation. But again I digress.

I hate you because you have hated me. You ate me up, used me for all of my resources, and spit me out with little regard. You ignored my feelings and my faith, discarding the shadow that remained after you tore my heart out carelessly. Repeatedly. Horribly. Unabashedly.

I hate you because you deserve it. You, who took my dearest wishes, my innocence, my heart and soul, my faith.

I hate you because it is all that I have left to defend my empty heart against yet another defeat.

I hate you because to offer you love, hope, or faith would be a squandering of whatever small shred of humanity I haven't already spent on undeserving slutbags.

I hate you because it is all I have left.