I broke a glass today.

Mel gave me three gifts before she left: a bluetooth speakerphone, a pair of champagne flutes, and a broken heart. Well, I suppose there are shattered dreams in there, too, but I wanted to write with a little whimsy today, not be a downer.

Today I broke one of the champagne flutes. I was washing them and it slipped out of my hand and hit the side of the sink. Completely random chance.

The fact that it felt like a bigger message from the gods is really all in my head. But the timing sure is... poignant.

Anyway.

Today I was reminded that "at some point, you really do have to take people at face value and trust them at their word." It was a nice reminder that stuck in my head. My belief in her was not an act of stupidity, nor even of faith. If anything, I am courageous for taking the chance and letting myself believe. It's a pretty normal circumstance... people do selfish, stupid things all the time that cause broken hearts. People break up every day. I am probably no better for the experience, were I to be completely honest. But I am no worse either.

And I'm sure that I've learned something, even if I cannot yet articulate it. Maybe not to date married chicks! Heh. There is always that, I suppose.

(Thank you J. I really appreciate how much you've been checking in on me.)

--

TM has already gone. We had a two minute conversation last night. She said that she had been out with a guy a few times before she met me, and that while I'm awesome, she felt really torn. She feels that she should give this other fellow a fair shot and focus on him to see where it goes. She said I'm awesome, that she feels that it might be a mistake, but that she didn't want to waste anyone's time or hurt anybody.

I told her that, while unfortunate, her honesty was refreshing. I found it kind of sweet, actually.

It is neither here nor there... I wasted a few dollars and a couple of evenings and met someone honest with themselves and with me.

I think that, cosmically speaking, it was exactly what I needed. A little reminder that there are plenty of honest, well meaning pretty girls out there. Even if my timing is bad.

Combined with the champagne flute, it was just that much more symbolic of my new, post-Mel world.

--

I think seeing her cruelty made it easier in some ways. I am not really mad at her, even though I feel like I should be -- dishonesty, cruelty, dismissal, cheapening of our relationship, attacks on my character, etc. The list is long.

What I do feel is better. Aside from the minor insomnia, I'm really happy to get back to my "normal"
life. Tomorrow I'm going to work til 10pm... and I'm looking forward to it! It'll be nice to catch up, to feel the fulfillment from my work, to revel in my remarkably drama-free life.

Heck, with my brother gone now, I don't even have anything to rant about. I guess I'll have to go back to writing a business blog. Heh.

--

I think, in my little peabrain, that my lack of any lasting anger is a sign that I really cared. That in spite of her craziness, I still love her (not so) deep down. Perhaps I'm choosing to see her as simply confused and needing distance and dissonance, even though the idea that she never loved me at all may be the actual reality.

Besides, forgiveness feels really great. I get to move forward, living a life with minimal stress and enjoying the pleasure of simplicity: creating good products, working with smart people, playing a lot of basketball, dating pretty girls, and enjoying good food, good drinks, and good company.

A part of me, of course, realizes that I am forgetting her. Her smell, her embrace, and the depth of her stare are already almost a memory of a memory. Waking up next to her is already gone. These are now only fleeting visualizations, like a montage in a movie, not the breadth of the experiences. It sucks. Those were really good memories.

I do still remember that special smile.

That made me smile, just now. I hope I can always remember it.


Cheers, Melissa. Cheers. I hope your life is as full as you believe and hope, both today and always.

--

Must You Go

How it should've gone down.

Harold looked at her with his black eyes. "Must you go?" he asked. Antonia Fraser wearily considered the logistics of tomorrow: the school run, the research to be done on her biography of Charles II. "No," she said. "It's not absolutely essential." They talked until six in the morning. At this point, [they both] had both been married for 18 years... Between them they had seven children.

Their affair was a great scandal, or at least it was seen as such by the newspapers. No one else seems to have been terribly bothered. Four months into their passion, Hugh Fraser asked his wife if she was in love with someone else. "Yes!" she said. She then revealed this someone's name. "The best living playwright," said Hugh. "Very suitable." Two months later Harold came to talk to Hugh about the prospect of his shacking up with Antonia: "Hugh and Harold discussed cricket at length, then the West Indies, then Proust. I started to go to sleep on the sofa. Harold politely went home."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/jan/17/must-you-go-antonia-fraser

I found her new blog

I don't know why I searched. But I did. And I'm smart enough to find even hidden things on the internet pretty quickly.

She's a really cruel person. So angry. So hateful. So not therapeutic.

I will do my best to not read again. I will do my best to remember her the way I do in my dreams.

--

I suppose, if I were being really honest, that the only woman I've ever been in love with who wasn't a selfish bitch (redeeming qualities or not) was, ironically, slutbag Laura.

I am really bad at this love thing. Heh.

Maybe I should seek therapy. For real. That I could fall for someone so cruel and self-centered... so head over heels with someone this inconsistent, this dishonest with herself....

There is something wrong with me. I felt the inclination to run, and I didn't listen. I loved her already. I even broke up with her, only to backslide again and again. She finally broke me, and I let her have me on her terms.

I don't feel stupid or sad. I feel... lucky.

But I'd like to change it. I'd like to feel that way about someone who is good for me. Someone who is capable of loving me back -- and loving the world around her. Someone who really makes me a better person, not just a more materialistic one. Someone who is incapable of spite, who considers others when acting and reacting.

I've dated plenty of them. Why didn't I fall in love with them, but I cry over Mel and Kim, Chrissy and Manda, Laura and Lauren? Kait or Brie will be fine mates to some lucky bloke someday. It could've been me in either case. Was the fact that they never went to the gym really that much of a deal breaker?

Sigh. Yes, it was.

And some of her cruelty is certainly echoed in my own blog. I am guilty of venting through words too. It is my fault for seeking it out.

Still.... it was quite a shock. "The one who will be crying won't be me." Ouch. So direct and heartless an attack.

I think I've only ever been that way about Laura. But it was 5 years before I ever told her, and it did it in a pretty neutral way. How did it go? "I know you probably already know this. I know that it was written all over my face when we had that drink a couple of years ago. The thing is... you wounded me so deeply that, even now, years later, a part of me really hates you. I'm sorry, but while I can be friendly, I can't actually be friends with you. I do, believe it or not, wish you well, but I don't really want to keep tabs." Then I asked her to say hello to her family for me.

Sigh. Why did she have to cheat? I would've married that girl.

I would've married a lot of them, actually. I want to be married. I want to give up new vagina and have to check in before making plans with the boys.

But anyway. I was telling myself that I might need some help. Apparently I can only fall in love with bitches. That's a bad thing. I should fix that.

Now, I have to ask -- it is my spiel, after all -- is it lack of options? Is it just that I'm attracted to assertive, confident women, and these women are all self-centered whores? Is it possible that the walking contradiction actually doesn't exist?

Or is it me?

--

But normal chicks are terrible in the sack! No, really! Their idea of adventurous is fucking doggy style. That's not adventurous, that's first base! Shaving downtown should NOT be a favor, it should be a given. I WANT to hear an apology when she's in need of a wax or a shave. It's not that it's that big of a deal, really, but it's not special to stay groomed. Ugh. It should be normal. Golden rule does apply, yes.

I digress. It is a conundrum. Frank married a girl who is NOT a freak in the sheets, something he laments often, just so he could have a good mother to his children. And they seem healthy and happy, while I am married to my work and better at flirting than I am at managing people.

--

I still don't understand how she could say she loves me so much and flip the switch to cruel hatred so quickly. Did those words mean nothing? Do they always mean so little?

Is the world really this cold and dark? I don't think so, but I keep writing a version of this entry again and again and again.

More.

She wrote to me today. I can't re-read it, because she was really lame about it. Blog, then send a link, then delete it. Oh, of course all of the positive memories about ME were gone in her briefly reactivated blog.

What a @#$@#. It makes me angry just thinking about it.

I almost understand the need to excise me. You make the decision to go back to your husband -- for real -- and he'll require it. No Alfe. No mention of him. No remembering, no good thoughts, no wondering, no nothing.

I would need that if I were him. And that would be just the beginning. I'd need penitence and micro-managing for, oh, I dunno... how about a year? Yeah. It would be crazy overbearing controlling. Actually, it would piss me off if I had to be, because she would OWE me the act of volunteering any info I needed to know.

So, yeah, I get it. It still makes me angry. But I'll get to that.

So her letter. I don't remember details... Grrr. I would have liked to have reread it. To introspect, to catch the nuance, to understand if my initial reaction was appropriate or not, to understand me a little better.

But it included a lot of disdain. A lot of anger. Not just dismissal of me, my feelings, and our relationship -- she already did all of that -- but at how I created problems at her job of all things.

And then, of course, she went on about how great her husband is. Really? I don't give a FUCK. Your husband is not my concern and never was. I was never there to RESCUE you! I was there because you told me you loved me and I believed it and loved you back you. Duh. Stop being so dense. It was never a fucking comparison. Heck, I wish it were. I'd happily measure up to any contest with any other dude. That would be EASY.

The one thing you miss, Mel, is that our relationship was NEVER A FUCKING THREE WAY. Jesus fucking Christ. I don't want to know his name, I don't care if he's a good man, and I could care less how he feels about you. All that matters is how you feel about ME. That's all that mattered then and it's all that would have ever mattered.

Grrr. This is not an open letter to her. This is not a response to get the last word in. This is about emoting. About feeling my own humanity.

Part of me hates that she knows about this. But, well, fuck it. I write for me. If you don't like it, don't read it. It is a part of me, however much hate it has, however much it is but a glimpse in time, however brief it's shutter, how few read it or how much, it just is. All of it should be taken with a grain of salt. All of it is temporary, free flowing like Buddha's river. And all of it is fucking real.

I hate that I feel the need to justify. The blog. Me. My feelings. My actions. God damn it. You're an ex! Stay in my dreams where I can miss you the way you were. Or come back and let me love you the way you are. This terrible place where you....

Ugh. Never fucking mind.

Ok. So she writes this letter. And I read it. And I email her immediately, hands trembling with the breadth and depth of the emotion, and tell her she doesn't know me at all. That it is ridiculous to have such anger, to suspect me of revenge, to call me promiscuous, to accuse me of using her as a conquest.

I'm sorry. I'm not the fucking cheater. And you're angry over your JOB. Yes, I understand that this is a big deal and it would really ruin a week or six of your life, but MY FUCKING HEART JUST GOT RAN OVER BY YOUR GODDAMN DUMP TRUCK. Suck a dick. Oh, and you're in fucking sales. Sales people get fired and hired every single day at every single publicly traded company in the world. EVERY DAY.

Call me sentimental. Call me a fool. Call me emotional, gay, naive, immature, or stupid. Call me whatever you want. My heart is more important than your job.

Yeah, I said it. And it's not like it would have been directly caused by me anyway. Besides, your sales organization is fucking boiler room. They want you to think you can get fired for shitting in the wrong toilet for fuck's sake. But don't get me started on what I think of pressure cooker sales... ugh.

Besides, I made a business decision. I cancelled an order my company had made on services ordered based on the expectation of future business. That business evaporated without apology or explanation. I made the appropriate call based on that. It was a two word email. "[Cancel] it." People do that all the time.

It wasn't like I could call your ass. Jesus.

All of this is just mental masturbation. I'm venting to my blog so I feel better.

That makes me mad too. Not only am I an idiot for falling for her, but I'm now wasting time and energy on the near-worthless experience of getting over it. Fuck.

The idea that I would cause her problems at work out of revenge is offensive. The idea that I looked at her as a conquest, that I'd have had no interest in her if she weren't unattainable... that's just absurd. I can't believe it. I can't believe she would ever even question that.

That's her jealous husband talking. What a self-absorbed bitch! Both of them. God damn it.

This is soooo not fair. This is NOT how the world is supposed to work. This is not right.

You slept with ME. You fell in love with ME. I was just nice. I was just a friend to you. I asked you about him, I pushed you away. I have never acted in revenge in my fucking LIFE! I don't lash out at brothers and fathers, for fuck's sake! Sorry, I know you think you're special and all, but those wounds run a little fucking deeper.

*#&R%@*#&^@#*(!!!!!!!

Sigh. Ok. Catharsis begins.

Her lashing out... these beliefs, this anger, this dismissal of my feelings, this lack of empathy... it is needed for her world.

It is needed to go back to her make believe happy life, filled with her materialism, her supportive (and surely wounded) husband, and her playful pets. It is needed to truly dismiss me from her heart and soul.

And so... it isn't really about me. This anger that I feel... nay, felt... it's appropriate, but not based on accurate information.

Today, again, as I seem to have always done with everything surrounding her, I will be a bigger man than I want to be. Than I really know how to be.

I will read between the lines and answer with compassion.

It's ok, Mel. Go ahead. Be angry with me.

It's ok to hate me. Deep down you know the truth. Or, at least, you know the truth about me.

And as for me... well. I'm a good man. I always was with you and I will do my best to be just as good with everyone in my world.

Today I choose.

--

Heh. Perhaps I should rename my blog to that. It's a bit more empowering, eh?

Sunday Morning

I missed her a lot this morning. Depressingly. I'm pretty sure I dreamed about her... about being together, about how it felt.

It was a like a little mini-breakup all over again when I woke up. I reached for her and she wasn't there.

:-(

--

Spent the evening with TM last night. It was nice getting to know a new person. She's pretty enough, smart enough, and... thoughtful. Down to earth. There are some things I'm curiously hoping won't be big deals if I continue seeing her, but they might prove to be nothing.

She has one major problem, though.

She isn't Mel.

--

There is a healthy comparison, right? Like noting someone's attributes and acknowledging that you want that in a mate -- any potential mate.

And then there is just still being heartbroken. There is the state when no woman could ever compare, when no amount of good times or positive attributes really make a difference because you need that taste of history, that notion of shared experience, that under-the-mask knowledge. Intimacy.

There is knowing that even the focus of your affection and heartbreak couldn't fill the hole she herself left. There is having an emptiness so deep its easy to feel helpless to overcome it. There is feeling alone in a room full of people, feeling disconnected while having sex with someone else, and feeling like you don't know yourself even after hours of introspection.

I think this is was they call "devastated". It was that whole day I lost a week and a half ago, the two days of "work" I couldn't even fake through before it, and the inclination to go back to bed at noon in vain hopes that the next dream will present the fantasy you used to believe in.

--

I felt like we could both be better people with each other at our sides.

Why was I so naive?

Tequila, Thai, and Tre

All three were fleetingly present tonight.

All three were better in spirit than in reality. 

Tequila was good, but consuming it neat with a drive home following was not the way it was meant to be.

Thai was good, but the mixed order of ultra safe forgettable Pad Thai and the over-the-top spicy of the two dishes my friends ordered was a far cry from Tuk Tuk. Spicier, different, and somehow a little bit of a let down.

And Tre passed in the night, as if we didn't see each other at all. Hello, how are you, have some noodles, goodbye.

Disaster it wasn't. But it was... not memorable.

--

RJF last night was fantastic. I like her more than I did the first time I met her. I caught more subtleties. She has bouts with depression and sees me as a golden boy. She questions her place in the world and looks at my entrepreneurship as a admirable, amazing, and untenable. She feels lost often and gives herself peace by losing herself in literature, putting her head down and working hard, and cocktail or three.

She's a smart chick. I like it. I like her. I wish she knew that those things make her more attractive, not less.

Like all things in this world, I feel impatient about it. I want to mind meld and have intimacy right this minute! LOL.

But, again like all things, and especially with someone who has disappeared before, who knows. I shall call and email and text and hope for maybes. Maybe fate believes in you even if you don't believe in it.

--

Melissa is still there, one step away, one degree of separation. I got a call today from a mutual customer asking for her phone number. I wanted to ask why they think I would know it, why I would have it, how dare they?! But, of course, I quietly pulled the number up and shared it.

Bitch.

--

I don't want to be too mean... I don't want to be hateful and angry. I love her still.

But, well, I hope she wonders every day. I hope that every time her husband fails to laugh at a geeky joke, every time he forgets to admire a sunset, every time he fails to be a gentleman, every time he doesn't understand some piece of jargon she uses... I hope she winces herself.

Because, well, fuck her. Fuck them.

I hope that every time he fucks her he wonders if my cock is bigger. I hope every time that he looks at her he wonders if he can trust her. And I hope that...

Sigh. I'm lying. I don't hope any of those things. I'm just mad at her for hurting me.

God damn it.

Sometimes it sucks being a good man. It will be a long time before I realize what I've learned these past few months, and someday perhaps it will feel worthwhile. But right now, I just wish I'd looked at her without real affection. 

I wish I'd just seen her as a fuck buddy. In the end that's all I was to her... at best. 

I suppose, if I were really being honest, I feel cheap. Used. Spent. Chewed up and spit out.

Yesterday's garbage. 

It hurts a lot. I'm angry, now, and... I want to lash out. Revenge sex and hateful letters and harsh words. A scene or two. Random acts of violence. Nuclear warfare. 

Heh. Yes, I'm joking. There is so little room in my heart for hate.

She's still a bitch, though. She should have known better. Love me or don't. Fine. But don't lie to me. Or yourself. It doesn't make it less of a crime, really, just because you lacked awareness. That just makes you dumb, too.

You run over a dude in your car, even if it was an accident, and you still go to jail. You're still a felon.

Bad form, Mel. Bad play. Bad times.

The question that's going to be bothering me for the next 15 vaginas is "Should I have known better?"

Probably. But it felt so damn good...

Sigh.

--

zzzzzz. Long week.

Lonely in Visalia

Today was long, and like a fish out of water, it didn't have the  lightning rods of habit grounding me. Here I have only me, a television, and whomever I can call on the phone.

I called no one. My laptop is dead. Letterman just isn't that funny. And watching true blood is the last thing I want to do.

I miss her. There was no blog to read to give me a dose of harsh reality, and so I was left to read yesterday's emails. Yesterday. When she loved me. When she wrote of only a future with me, of crying to herself over the impending divorce, and of how I deserved so much more than she was giving me.

I believed her. It feels so strange to suddenly be so completely alone.

It feels strange to not be able to call her. To not fall asleep and dream about her.

Speaking of. Was that last night? No. Sunday night.

I dreamt that I killed my grandmother. I spent days and days in my dream worrying about hiding the body, of not getting caught, of covering my crime.

I woke up and still believed it was true. I was scared. But then I realized that it was a dream, and when I thought about it, it wasn't any of my actual grandmothers. It was an abstraction.

So I killed someone close to me and didn't want to admit it to the world? And that is a metaphor for...?

For her? For my broken heart? Our love? For something else?

I thought a lot about relationships today. About what I would want if not her.

Right now, she seems one of a kind. She seems like the one. I am sure that this will fade in time, but...

But what if it doesn't. She put me through hell, and still I miss her. What if I'd actually had her?

Wow. That would be really something.