In another time, another place...

I've been hearing Brian Greene on various podcasts and radio programs recently. He must've had a book come out this past year or something.

He's a physicist of the theoretical kind, pondering string theory, quantum mechanics, and popularizing the theory of the multiverse... that thing that has been out there for quite some time as an idea, but is apparently growing in mindshare, because it's not just in science fiction any more.

Another time, another place, another life. Another me. It is all so very alluring, because it grants us the fantasy that we could have made different choices.

And, for me at least, that they could have made different choices, too.

You combine a couple of pitchers of beer (shared, don't worry), a Friday night, a little too long on facebook looking up ex-girlfriends and even ex-flings, adding to the master list (yes, I have a spreadsheet, and after this past month I had officially lost count...), and wondering about the still-friends and the used-to-be friends, and...

We have Brian Greene.

It is all so very amusing in its self-inflicted sardonicism.

Oooh, that word was too long and atypical. Chrome doesn't recognize it as a word. Well, fuck you, google. You aren't omnipotent yet. Just omnipresent. There's a difference.

 So... yeah. I'm left wondering about the choices that weren't so very different that would have put Serino and I with Danielle and Lauren as next door neighbors, babysitting Frank's kids as we talk about the good times back in Austin. Or the seemingly little choices that would have Mel and I painting walls together next weekend even though I wouldn't really want to. Or, for that matter, the random flukes of chance that didn't land me married shotgun style to any one of (guh) dozens of pretty and kinda pretty girls.

I could've ended up married and miserable just as easily as I could've ended up married and grateful.

None of those choices were really all that harsh, nor terribly "deep" at the time. Nobody faced a court martial or jail time or knew they missed out on marrying Brad Pitt or Mila Kunis. Nobody got hurt... often at all, but surely, at least, not permanently.

(wince)

Ok, some of us got hurt. By some of them. But I digress. Read the archives.

But we were all so close. In a universe so vast as Brian Greene paints it, where everything that could happen probably did, where even the fantastic breadth of what makes us "human" or even "unique" is but a random, but finite, occurrence on a scale so vast that every atom in my body is surely exactly duplicated a quadrillion light years from here on a planet just like ours with a bona fide twin in every possible way...

Sigh. I could have married Texas Lauren. Or Mel or Kim or... any of them. And we could have made it. Loved it. Lived it.

There exists a world, out there, where all of those great things happened and are happening and will happen. There exists a place where someone more like me than, well, me exists and is not blogging right now, not drunk right now, not enjoying a nice Napa cabernet. He has a clingy girl that wants to be a girlfriend and finds it refreshing, not disturbing, as I do. He misses his Mel and his Kim and his Amanda, yet hates his Laura less and loves the world a little more.

Those billions of other MEs out there aren't better or worse, though. They aren't anything. They are merely the end result of the sheer breadth of the cosmos.

Maybe I just found god.

Today is somebody's birthday

I know because facebook tells me so.

I know because I got invited to a party and I didn't go.

Today I am a little less frat boy and a little more outlier.

A little more lonesome.

--

Mel wrote. She called, too, about six weeks ago. From her office phone, which I don't think she realized I had saved.

I may have deleted it since. I don't remember. It made me hold my breath when I saw the call come in. But then she didn't leave a message. It was only the sound of a phone hanging up.

You'd think when you're feeling your heart break all over again you'd actually hear something different.

But c'est la vie, right?

--

I miss her. I don't want to admit it, because I wish I could hate her, but I do. And I don't. Hate her, that is, even though she surely deserves it.

I miss Kim, too, even though she's de facto married and a million miles away. "We live in Concord together" she told another acquaintance that I overheard by way of facebook.

I would not have thought it would hurt so much.

It is surely better that I am not reading Mel's blog, not actively wondering, not seeking, not knowing.

It would hurt a lot too. More than a lot.

Did I ask too much? Did I disappoint you? Did I leave a bad taste in your mouth? Is it too late tonight to drag  the past out into the light?

--

Probably. I probably did. Disappoint. All of them.

Mama's love passed on. I'd love if... if you weren't married. If you were more considerate. If you were blonder. If you were more sexually free. If you challenged me more. If you were smarter. If you were hotter. If you were more supportive. If, if, if.

If you only loved the same god I do.

Oh, wait, no, that's not it, is it?

If I were capable of it. Her, I mean, not me.

Maybe the mirror is still present. Maybe I don't know how to, either.

Or, like I've said many times before, maybe I just like the pain. Maybe I like the loneliness. Maybe the absence of meaningful connection is now so strongly normal and habitual that I cannot change it.

I still miss them. All of them, a little, but especially the ones I loved. The Amandas and Lauras and Kims and... fucking married chicks.

Sigh.

It will pass. I won't remember what their embrace felt like first... it's long gone with Amanda, for instance... and then their look of affection -- every girl has one -- and then how sex with them, it's own unique and special flavor, felt. And finally, last to go, you forget their smell, their sayings, and finally, their touch altogether. Even the fleeting moments, like the way they looked at you the first time they knew you were getting under their skin, that were memorable and pure...

Gone. It will all be gone.

--

Stupid question?

Why don't you ever realize the brevity of meaningful relationships as they are happening? Why does it always seem like you might feel that way forever? That it could be real? That maybe, just maybe, it might actually last and become the new normal?

Why don't I ever realize?

Sigh. Sometimes I do. Hell, I usually do. And I don't care, because it feels so fucking great. Those few precious moments are worth it.

--

I'm still sad. I don't want to socialize, I don't want to go out, I don't want to date, and I don't want to change it.

(!)

But I am still sad. It's normal, and I'm used to it, and times are not that dire, but the melancholy, the loneliness, and the hopelessness remain. There will be no progeny from me. There will be no wife someday. There will be only the ex-girlfriends. The count will grow, the notches will continue to multiply, and the list of names will continue to extend.

But I will always be alone and sad in December.

Always.

:-(

Things you want to say... but don't.

Hi there.

You've caught me at a pensive moment. Or, rather, your profile has. Apologies in advance. At least you know what you're in for if you reply.

There are those profiles that that make one go "wow". Then you read. And you realize that you'd HATE this person. Ok, yeah, hate is a strong word, but you know what I mean... hate in that "you're really pretty and I'd soo enjoy your company more if you just closed your mouth and stopped talking."

That pretty much counts as "hate" (insert air quotes here) in this context, right?

And there there are the ones where you think "hmm. Yeah, that could work. I'd probably break her heart in three months, though."

Pass.

Usually, given moments of desperation (or just exhaustion, I'll opt for the former. But it's really all just a pacifier for what we're really after. Or, at least, what we all like to think we're after. (A pity that they are so often different things, isn't it?)

And then, occasionally, once in a blue moon, you'll run across a profile that you're actually afraid to reply to. There's this little bit of fear, because, you see, it would just be too perfect... same town, similar outlooks, hotness factor, and their profile makes you laugh out loud. And, to be completely honest, truth be told, (insert yet another silly cliche here), you'd probably blow it.

And then, naturally, you actually DO blow it with some long silly email that really should have showed up on the Craigslist rant page. Uhhhm. (looks around nonchalantly)

--

(No, truth be told, I'm not sure if any of the last bit is actually true. Such is the nature of flirting in the Gen Y era.)

I finally read.

I wasn't sure what I'd find. I found more than I thought possible.

Can I link to it? Would that be ok? Would privacy be lost or trust betrayed?

Tre has been writing for a long time.

A lot of it is about me. A lot of it isn't.

A great deal more is about me than I was ever aware of -- even after the heartfelt letter she wrote me a few short weeks ago.

I don't know what to say.

--

I wanted to comment, but it felt like not enough. I wanted to explain "those girls on facebook are my cousins!" and "those people in Tahoe are coworkers and colleagues!" I wanted to ask for some sort of absolution for seeming improprieties... even though I actually have done nothing wrong.

Except, perhaps, for the lack of courtesy regarding her feelings... unbeknownst or not.

--

I knew on July 4. I didn't "know know" in the sense of the "L" word, the breadth and depth, the rawness of it all. But I knew.

I was in love with Melissa. I was willing to see you (hmm, guess I've switched audiences), because I knew that it was wise for me to get out of love with her.

I knew you were crushing and had been, at least sporadically, for a long time. You started to say something that day like "you mean more to me than..." but I don't remember the rest. I don't think you finished the sentence.

But we were both drunk, then, and it was a holiday, and I've always wondered, and you're a grown up, and even though I didn't love you back, I thought it would be a positive experience.

To be honest, part of me is glad it didn't work out. I do think that we'd have had a great time, and it certainly would have been less costly than what happened instead, but the reality of consummating those emotions while retaining many of the unrequited aspects... instead of being the distant stuff of daydreams and occasional pining, I might be the recipient of four letter words and a catalyst for even more cynicism.

And that would suck.

I think that, honestly, a part of me has pushed you away this whole year because I didn't want that. Better to be the subject of curiosity and wonder than a catalyst for cynicism. The world has enough of that.

I don't know what to say. I think that I might be getting better at the whole "blink" thing when it comes to potential mates. Just as a girl knows in 30 seconds whether she'd fuck a guy, I'm starting to believe I can make those calls about ladies in a date or two. The ones I actually date still represent a great deal of confusion, but when I know that I'm not going to be "the one", it's coming ever more quickly.

I'll never love you back quite like that, Tre. I'll never want to go to a Karaoke and belt out some 90s R&B in your honor. We could have a great time, and it might -- heck, probably -- be an enriching experience that teaches us both a great deal with very little in the way of "payment" that is heartbreak or betrayal.

But I'm not the one. And from what I know of you -- mostly through our interactions, but now, too, through the blog -- despite your actions to the contrary, you want/intend/desire to be an all or nothing girl. You got angry with me several times because I was temporary. Well, everyone is temporary... until they aren't. And even then, life is pretty friggin' short.

But I digress. This is a tangential argument -- the notion that sex involves "giving" something on the part of the girl, and "taking" something on the part of the guy. Lame. And even purportedly liberal, empowered, feminist women subscribe to this. Like I'm somehow going to like you more if I can't fuck you.

It's actually the opposite. With the exception of the virginal, almost-pure love I felt for Preciouse, I've never loved any girl until after sex. Usually quite a bit of it. Good sex helps me fall in love; bad sex prevents me from falling or pushes me out of it. No sex just makes me frustrated and actually think less of the girl (usually -- I'm not talking about "waiting til the X date" or "taking time to get to know each other", I'm talking about a gal denying herself even though she really wants to have sex just as much, or more, than I do).

But enough of that tangent. If you're really all or nothing -- then it's gotta be nothing. Because I already know.

And I guess, all silly arguments about sex, or whether or not I'm really charming or simply manipulative, or whether or not you really love me this much, or why it is that we never seem to actually hook up even though we've been dancing around it for years now... I guess that this is it.

I am sorry. Really.

:-(

Mama

I forgive you for all that you did.

I forgive you for all that you didn't.

I don't forgive you for today.

Today you judge me because I don't love your god. Today you love me less because I hurt, because I reject your doctrine, because I carry cynicism, because I feel not your great fictional father in the sky.

Today you reject me. Today you tell me, with action, not words, that I am not your son. Today I am last week's fodder, leftovers from a life you've left behind, an almost-human that was once one in which you placed hope, faith, care, and love.

Today I am nothing to you. Today I am but the sum of the parts that I can manage all alone, without you, without the strength you were supposed to give me.

Then. Now.

And everything in between.

Today I still cry. Today I still want the love you held from me every moment I dared exert my individuality. Today I still need you. Today I could use your faith, your trust, your endorsement, and your support.

Today I feel nothing. Today I have nothing.

You may as well  not even try. You're "I'd love you if only" is almost worse than if you weren't there at all.

Today... today I miss, and I (will) cry, and I end my day alone.

Always alone. The world may be my oyster, but I shall consume it alone. No one could ever love me enough.

Here they come. The tears, I mean...

Autumn has arrived.

...and with it, the set in of melancholy.

Much of it, to be sure, is the insane hours I've been pulling lately. I'm exhausted.

Tonight I played ball for almost four hours. And yet afterwards, I felt the urge to pour a glass (bottle? not quite yet) of wine. I should be happy... and indeed, it did bump me from a state of depression to a feeling of wholeness.

I don't miss Mel much.

I have found myself missing Kim quite a bit lately.

And I'm still dating Brie. No, I don't know why. I don't want to hang out. I don't want to have sex with her. And I don't want to hurt her [by sticking around and letting her fall in love with me... more].

The DDS is out there... we've lost touch. I hurt her, she called back anyway, we traded some voice mail, and it has since past into the night.

I miss her... a little. In the way that you miss good sex with someone new, not in the way that you miss someone you love. Not like I miss... even Mel. Not like Kim. Not like any of the real girlfriends. But still.

Brie is soooo not what I want. Wtf am I doing? Ugggh.

--

So. Here I sit, depressed and self-medicating. Again. On a random Tuesday.

Do I still miss Mel? Yes. It's easy to hate her, though, because of how so very quickly she was gone. It's not like she loved me for real, right? I suppose I was, in the end, just a fool.

So be it. I don't mind being the fool. I can mostly afford it.

--

A little part of me wonders if it's simply too late.

Part of being happy -- or, (wince), simply surviving -- is finding solace and acceptance in the cards that are dealt. People can be happy working hard at jobs they don't enjoy, with mates they don't cherish, and with hopes that have long since been quelled for the harsh reality of the life that is given them.

I've probably said this many times. It may be that I'm so used to being single and alone that I don't know how not to be.

Maybe that's why the fleeting moments with a girl that isn't (wasn't) mine felt so great. Maybe just the act of believing -- nay, fantasizing -- was a respite from the harsh (relieving?) loneliness that is reality.

That makes me a little angry. Pondering it, that is.

Fuck that.

What? Yeah, I dunno either. I'm confused, too. I'm not sure. I just feel mildly angry now...

It's not at Mel. It's not at Brie. It's not at the world. It's not at women.

I suppose I'm angry at myself for... ummm.

It passed. I'm not angry any longer. Just tired. Just alone.

And I kinda like it. Don't tell, ok?

--

No one can put pressure on you when you're alone.

No one can try to compete with the gym, with work, or with you when you're alone.

No one can prevent you from banging a reasonably hot DDS for hours at a time on Saturday nights when you're alone.

No one can call you on your shit when you're alone.

I miss that. Yet I like it. It's complicated. Just like the "marital status" select-list in my baby. (Yes, just like on Facebook, you can choose "It's complicated" to designate the marital status of a contact in MC)

--

I hate being old(er) when I can't dunk anymore. I hate it when it's 8pm and I really should go work out but a glass of wine and bed at 9 seems like a reasonable alternative.

I love it when I realize I don't give a shit. I can handle Mel drama. I can handle 6+ direct reports. I can handle a business partner that lies. I can handle 15+ tenants. I can handle stress, juggle tasks, and look enemies in the eye all on the same day and still land on my feet.

One of the joys of being over 30 is that you realize how little stupid shit matters.

And most of it is, actually, stupid shit.

The sky will always be falling for someone.

The world will always be collapsing for someone.

Some of these people pay you. Some of them love you. Some of them cry when you leave. And some of them leave you and make you cry.

But it doesn't actually matter.

Because, at the end of the day, I have my blog. I have my simple needs. I have my brain and my looks to fall back on. I have people that believe in me, even when I tell them they can't have something.

And as much as I stress out, I deal with significantly more BS than anyone I've ever met.

Someday I'll meet Bill and Warren. Someday I'll ask them what it was like to build shit from scratch. I'll relate my experiences, I'll convey that the shit is harder than I ever imagined, that as an entrepreneur I ended up sacrificing more than I ever thought humanly possible, that going it alone was far more painful than I had imagined in my mind's eye, that the pleasure of building something just to marvel at its greatness when completed was lost along the way.

Someday I'll ask them if they feel like they missed out. I'll ask about their wives. I'll ask if they wish they had fucked more chicks, or taken more time away from the office, or climbed Everest while they were still able-bodied and sans wrinkles.

I think I know what they'll say. I think I'll be disappointed.

I think I have it harder than they did. I think I worry and stress about more, about different things, about bigger (or just smaller) things than they ever did.

I think that most people are happy with the Bries. Or the Kaitlins. Or even the Kims and Mels.

I think that even the entrepreneurs are, mostly, just lucky. I don't think that Bill or Warren ever had the chip on their shoulders that I have.

This begs the question, of course... am I advantaged or flawed that I have so much to prove?

Heh. Both!

Like all things... complicated. Grey. Multifaceted. And simultaneously endlessly unresolved and self-resolving solely because of its inconsequence.

The contradiction is intentional. Or, more accurately, an expression of how I actually see the world.

I enjoy being alone, yet yearn for the fantasy that I felt with Mel however briefly. I wish for a girl like Brie, yet... ok, no, I don't. I wish for Brie with a streak of freak. Yet I want to push her away.

Sometimes I end these entries with an upbeat notion. "Someday I will...."

Sometimes I end them with only sadness, depression, or faithlessness.

Today I wonder if this is all there is.

Today I wonder if this is as good as it gets.

Maybe I'm ok with it if it is. I'll die young of sclerosis and lack of faith. I'll leave behind only those that dared love me in spite of all this... which is to say, the bros, a lil sis, and... that's it.

And that'll be ok. I'll be ok.

I feel a little sad right now. I want to cry.

But you know what? I like crying. It feels human. Familiar.

It feels honest.

It feels like me. The real me. Not the CEO, not the good boyfriend, not the basketball player, not the dancer, not the engineer.

Just me. With all else stripped away. All I have is my pain.

And I like it.

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.

:-(