Rebounds

I've been closing over a half dozen bugs a day on my baby. It's tiring.

I've been drinking more. Well, no, not really, but I'm just finishing my third glass now, and such a state makes the current buzz feel constant and incessant. Heh. Love that enthanol stuff.

I started dating Brie again. She was there. She pushed. I saw/see the great attributes she has, I was questioned by friends I trust about my ability to push the few things I find in her I can question, and I decided to give it a go.

I was wrong. I am now an asshole. I will break up with her in a day or two... and it will be terrible. I will make her cry.

Again.

I'm not over the last one. Nothing she could do would be good enough. Nothing she could say, be, or become would change the fact that my heart is still broken.

It sucks. She's such a great girl.

My inability to push her away makes me a prick. I want to push through this and pretend to love her just because.

I might even try for a few more days.

I'm pretty sure it's a bad sign when you turn down sex with the girl you just started dating last week. Right?

I blamed the desire to be romantic. "I don't want to love you and then leave you."

Sigh. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rebound. It sucks. No-strings-attached sex was nice. Free-spirited. Release.

But thinking I could give it a go with someone else... I'm an idiot.

I'm no better than her. Yeah. Her.

I could blame it on the state of drama I'm in, on the fact that my head is and has been spinning for quite some time. And, truly, a god worth believing in would forgive me. A parent worth loving would forgive me.

But Brie shouldn't. Just as I shouldn't forgive Mel.

I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to not push shit downhill. I'm not supposed to crap on employees when I get shat upon. (love that word, "shat". LOL!) I'm not supposed to make another girl cry because someone is careless with my heart.

I'm not supposed to pass on my pain. It is supposed to be the cross I bear, the tragedy I swallow, the melancholy I quiet.

It's not fair.

She's a good girl. When I break her heart tomorrow, I'm pushing her one step closer to being among the self-centered bitches that have scorned me over and over. And over.

This week I have not made the world a better place. I have taken back six months of effort.

This week I am a bad person.

All that is left is for me to decide what I can possibly say to make it not scar.

--

I suppose the best thing to do would be to tell the truth. Figure out what that truth is for myself, first, then convey it as best I can.

The truth is that I need a couple of months of loneliness. As much as I lament it, these times are needed. As strong as I think I am, the truth is that I am weak. I need crutches to make it through life -- work, coffee, gym, booze, and vagina. In that order.

Could it work out with her later? Maybe.

Probably not. She'd have to become more free-spirited, less rigid, and more athletic. I'd have to become less adventurous, more satisfied with less, and place more emphasis on potential motherhood than a mate who can be actually be a confidant, friend, and lover. I need to be challenged... and she doesn't. Not in any way.

A pity. If I were ok with cheating, or overt using... she'd be like manna from heaven.

But the truth is not that either of us are "too good for each other" or "deserve better". We just aren't a good match. I seem attractive to her because... well shit, I don't know. 'cuz I'm awesome! duh! And she seems attractive to me because I'm used to getting shit on and it's nice to have someone appreciate me and show it.

But it's not enough.

:-(

Ok today

I've noticed that people tend to worry when reading this.

I'm ok today. I worked six hours, ran six miles, and drank six beers with friends. I have a date tomorrow with a pretty girl, and I today I saved my last house from foreclosure by cashing out the last of my retirement savings.

My baby (biz) is finally starting to pay off, and life is... full of empowering choices.

Some are stressful. Bitches break my heart. Sweethearts love me unrequited. Tenants are still leeching whores.

But customers show more love and patience these days. Employees, sans lil' bro, are amazing, respectful, and hardworking. And girls are always there... it is, perhaps, my fault for not simply choosing or settling. Missing the last one and the one before don't exactly help. Kim just announced via facebook that she has a new boy... it's struck me a little. Not really a big deal. Surely Mel's blog about fucking and loving her husband is far worse. But yeah, it all bites a little. Or stings. Whatever the verb is.

Sigh. Women.

There are lots of pretty girls out there. Lots who won't even cheat on me. Heck, there are quite a few who are pretty, will cook for me, and are good listeners. 

Why do I want so much? Why do I give up on day jobs to struggle with my own startup, push away the Bries to be with the Kims, or entertain the crazy notions of love from a woman who goes home to another man?

Some days I think it makes me a better man. An innovator. A game changer. Ambitious.

Other days I think it makes me a fool.

The question is always the same. The wonder is always an echo.

Am I really holding out for something better? Forging my own path, waiting for the perfect circumstance, opportunity, or ideal package? Or am I just delaying the act of settling, awaiting the day when I choose from the ever-shrinking pool of available options?

I think that, maybe, I will never know. I think that these choices are half-chance. Mel could have left him, and it was nothing I really did or didn't do that effected it. I could yet choose to date/love/marry Brie and be very happy. RDDS could be the one. Someone I've never met could sweep me off my feet tomorrow... or Precious could show up on my doorstep and ask me to love her. Kim could come back and tell me she didn't appreciate me, either. I could run into any of them at a bar next week and we'll both wonder what went wrong. 

Or it's all just bullshit. Maybe I just need to learn to like cock. LOL.

But, yeah... it's always work. It's always vulnerability. It's always scary with a dash of drama. It's always a leap of faith. It's always a mystery what makes one attracted, then crush, then love, then fall in love. Sometimes they are even independent... in love, yet not attracted. Weird, yes. But real.

Sigh. Life goes on. Love goes on. The high of being in love still causes the pain of heartbreak. Broken hearts still cause tears. 

And tears are still feeling alive. And another sigh... and life still goes on.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Happiness is probably not finding the perfect woman. It probably isn't running a successful company, or building a fantastic product. It probably isn't driving an Acura really fast nor a Ferrari. 

Happiness is loving all of these things whether you have them or you don't. Happiness is being... all of the time. Present. Engaged. Pursuing something of value. Enjoying something simple. Believing in something bigger than you, whether it be community, a company, a cause, a god, or even a girl.

--

I should end there. But my world is far too trite, too mundane, and too selfish to be quite so poetic.

I wish Brie were a little better in the sack. I could love her. But I think I'll want to cheat on her. And no, I wouldn't, but wanting to means I'll leave her. It's just a matter of when.

Bummer.

I cried today

I've been working so hard I can't sleep. So focused that the next feature, the next release, the next support question... they are keeping me awake, jerking me to action at 3am, urging me to the next task at hand.

Tonight I retired from my workday at 10pm and went and had nachos and beer. And another. And another. And.... then I declined, but my waitress, who was probably cute 10 years ago, misheard and brought me another.

I went to my car and sat for awhile. I wasn't ready to drive. I felt sad. I felt like sleeping, yet couldn't stop thinking. I felt like crying, yet couldn't feel. I felt like running, yet couldn't find the energy.

I went home eventually. I worked in the meantime, doing thoughtless tasks that only I can do, responding to silly emails about triage and support and 2nd level decisions and ship steering of an aircraft carrier I didn't even know I was responsible for.

I got home, and steered a little longer. I put off thoughts of Mel, of Brie, of Rebecca, of RJF, of Serino and Corban, of uncles and fathers and sisters and brothers. I neglected my heart and my emotions, denying my fading inebriation and heart that is still breaking.

And then I found myself googling "I wanna cry". A moody song by Keith Urban came up. And then the tears came. I'm not sure if it was "everybody knows" or Keith or somewhere in between, but by the time Gravity turned up, my cheeks hurt from crying. I looked at myself in the mirror, and, stopping for a moment to take in how ugly I looked and felt, it was but a small reprieve from the waterfall of emotion that I've been bottling up for weeks. Distracting myself with work. Entertaining futures with ex-girls and wondering about new conquests. Reading more, drilling basketballs more, running harder, pretending to fight with a fire that is usually left to twenty year olds. Hitting on 90 pound central valley transients and drinking martinis with friends and colleagues in a vain attempt to remake memories that shouldn't be so powerful.

And now, all alone on a Tuesday, with wet eyes and sore cheeks, all I remember is how she talked about weddings and cookware and our make believe house that will never be.

Sarah plays on, over and over, to the echo in my brain that no longer fills my dreams with  nightmares nor fantasies. And still her memory lives on, the pain ever so present, the longing of yesterday a memory of a memory, yet the absence of which seems to never subside.

It huts. I hurt. I wish she knew. I wish she could feel it. I wish I could feel her....

I almost just wrote "feel it", but I don;t. This is selfish. I just wish I could feel her. Again. Even if just for a moment, in my arms, in our (my) bed, in my heart, in my soul. Was it real? Would it be like I remember, or a but a painful injection of reality?

Was that day on 4th street when I first accepted, realized, and believed in a future with her all just a lie?

Ironic... that was just a few days from the end. A few days before she was gone, even if reality took several weeks to catch up.

I suppose I will never know. I will just forget the power of the emotion as it fades to a faint memory. I will only have the public facebook photo and the faulty, ever more fuzzy representation in my minds' eye.

I miss her soooo much. When I admit it, when I think of her, when I realize how alone I feel without her, it hurts as bad -- maybe worse, even, because I can really feel it and don't have the luxury of denial -- as the day she left. As the first audience of her harsh words that I was nothing, am nothing, will ever be but a blip, mistake, and fraud in her life story.

I don't need to be remembered by her. No, this is much more selfish. I just miss her.

I don't want to seek.... but I wish I knew what was going on in her life. The harsh reality of her return to married life without me would probably do me good.

--

Brie is back. Or would like to be.

I went to her birthday BBQ a week and a half ago. We chatted. We joked. We drank. We played.

We slept together.

I went to breakfast with her on her birthday. I met her Mom, her aunt, and was welcomed, gingerly, into her family.

"Wow, he's really nice. I pictured him so much more... macho." they said, per Brie. As in douchebag.

It is hard. I told her half the truth. I told her that I was reeling from a recent bout of "drama" with a "girl I shouldn't be so affected by, but nevertheless am". I told her I needed a couple of weeks, at least, before I could date anyone. Even a great girl like her.

She is great. Loyal, compassionate, smart, pretty. I wish she hit the gym... um, ever... but.

But.

She sure isn't Mel.

I don't know. I have a date with her in two weeks. I better figure it out before then.

--

I'm not sure why. I should marry her. But I'm afraid... she doesn't call me on my shit. She doesn't work out. She doesn't want the world. She just wants babies. I'm not even sure she really wants my babies. Maybe any good-enough guy with moderately favorable genes and a cute smile would do.

Maybe that should be good enough.

But then, I don't dare actually tell her I'd like to kill my dad. I don't dare tell her that she's not that good in bed. I don't dare tell her that most days I'd rather be alone. I don't dare tell her that my mom is a selfish bitch who loves her make-believe god more than she'll ever love anyone, including her children. I don't dare tell her that I could deal with her being a lot less clean and even more selfish if only she were a little more ambitious, wanted to fuck a little more freakily, and could run the lake without.... oh wait. Run at all.

Shane said, "yeah, dude, you could be crazy. You could date her for awhile just to see. But mostly, it just sounds like you aren't that into her."

Sigh. She would treat me as good as any girl since Kait. And... no one before that.

I may be a fool.

--

So I went out with RDDS last weekend. Not RJF, but another one. Same first name, yes, but this one is a dentist-to-be.

Preppy. Completely uncool. Her language is off. She uses terms she heard twice on MTV, but she uses them wrong. Like with extra consonants where they don't belong. "Hells yeah" -- that kinda shit.

Nerd. Pretty enough to overlook it, but the nerd is so strong, this isn't an "adept at hiding it" situation. She's not a pretty girl who happens to be smart. She's a nerd who happens to be kinda pretty.

But she's a freak in the sheets. Yeah, first date hook-up. Woot. Strike that one from the bucket list.

It was awesome.

I like her in spite of her nerdiness. Because of it, probably. Someday I'll correct her on those extra consonants, though -- it sounds like a six year old trying to use profanity, for cryin' out loud -- and for a girl who has fallen back on her brain for self-esteem most of her life, I'm not sure how well that'll go over.

BUT. Friggin' hot lovin'. Worth it!

If I could just put her and Brie together... I'd get... oh. Right. Mel. Single, with a slightly higher dash of compassion, kindness and introspection.

Or just single. The other parts were there when she wasn't rushing home to her husband and forcing the dissonance required to make her double life rational.

Fuck.

Why couldn't Brie just be a little more..... sigh. Never mind. Maybe ambition/sexuality/adventurousness is mutually exclusive to nurturing/compassion/loyalty. Maybe I'm not an anomaly; maybe I'm just lying to myself. Maybe I'm not both extremes.

Maybe no one is.

--

Yeah, I'm drunk and tired. This shit is making no sense.

Sigh.

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?