Whether it's marked the beginning of a new emotional growth spurt, or simply the end of my sanity, that remains to be seen. All I know is that this is important and I will give it the consideration it deserves.
If I'm ever going to get over this, I think I'll first have to forgive him for what he did.
There I was, fretting about a love that could never be, while the entire universe spread itself out before me.
It's standing behind me now, tapping me on the shoulder, grunting in my ear.
I see nothing but fog and haze where a person once stood. I am in flux. I am shattered pieces of a soul waiting for reassembly. I am a ghost.
You know how one day you're sitting around contemplating how well you've got your shit together then all of a sudden your entire existence is turned upside-down, inside-out, every which way but loose? You know how suddenly you feel so alive that you wish you were dead?
Tonight they became my allies - no longer tearing and ripping away inside me but instead providing only gentle hints and reminders of the truth.
To cross one range, and see before me nothing at all between me and the next range, to know that the next hour or so of my life would mean nothing and would contain nothing of interest - that's a pretty good analogy for what's going through my head this morning. Except that instead of an hour, sometimes I feel like I can see the next forty years. And instead of hills in the distance, there's nothing.
My heart may be mostly scar tissue now, but it beats faster when I kiss a girl. It warms me more when I hold her hand. It hurts more when I think about sad things.
But her eyes were too deep, and I got lost in them, and I found nothing, and then the moment was over.
To put it all on the line of course means risking it all. This is scary enough, but to risk it all with a lie, with a grand gesture that, if successful, will shortly be held up as the standard by which the entire relationship will be measured - that strikes me as insane.
This is the price I've paid for allowing myself to become human again.
At night, instead of allowing me to sleep, my mind takes these and countless other thoughts and creates elaborate storylines that branch madly, twisting and weaving, joining and separating, spreading and collapsing. None ever finish.
I've always figured that if I'm going to be killed by a tornado I at least want to see the damn thing first.
It pisses me off to no end to think of the ultra-liberals, hating Reagan for no reason other than his political party affiliation, furiously masturbating to the images of his flag-draped coffin.
Tonight I basically tried to be a nice person but apparently failed.
I did not get sick. I just wished that I would.
People are making unwarranted assumptions about me, and while I suppose in some ways that's better than being ignored, it's still not welcome.
The slightly better option was to just keep going. After all, this wasn't 1846 and I wasn't the Donner party.
The chances were good that I'd see an exit or at least a rest stop before I had to eat my own arm to stay alive.
I don't even know what I'm doing on this road. I just followed the stream of traffic, thinking perhaps that all these other people knew something I didn't - that there was something worthwhile up ahead.
Sure, my brain may get a lot more use than its opponents, so it should be able to hold its own in a fight, but c'mon, it's two against one, and the other side is trying extra-hard because they know this could be their last chance for victory.
For most of us the memory of that day no longer haunts us constantly. We can think about it, for a while at least, without welling up or clenching our fists. For a while at least.
A little bit of attention can go a long way for people that don't have the highest self-esteem to begin with, and to ignore them until it's convenient for you, then to expect Pavlovian responses every time you ring a bell, is just flat out rude.
Maybe, in a dark enough room, to a drunk enough observer, while surrounded by lepers and zombies, I might at times be considered not ugly enough to scare children, but I'm enough of a realist to know that about the best I could ever hope for would be simply average.
Not really worth a second look, but also not worth gouging your eyes out to prevent accidental viewing.
Everything that was wrong is now right. Everything that was right is now impossible. Nobody is more surprised than I am, because that which I've been fighting and denying, and which everyone else has been assuming and awaiting, is actually coming to pass. Despite my best intentions, I'm human after all.
My ever-changing mood shifted from sad to irritated, and I found myself hoping that it would stay that way for a while because I'm tired of being sad.
The cows' excitement at having a car in their midst was trumped only by the presence of an actual human being (my lovely self) and those things crowded around me like photographers around a celebrity. Their moos increased their tempo and volume. I was a rock star to those cows.
A hundred thousand years ago I'd probably just club someone over the head and drag her back to my cave.
Oh, I pretty much always babble in real life, so I suppose I shouldn't be too concerned when that tendency shows up in my 'blog, but dammit, I do have things to say and I'd like to be able to say them with at least a modicum of eloquence.
How did I end up to be this person that I am, this person that controlled the keys to his own happiness for over a decade, then out of the blue just pitched them to a person that didn't asked for them, didn't expect them, and didn't want them?
A year ago, I could tell you exactly how I came to be. A year ago it all made perfect sense. A life made up of a series of rejections and betrayals and loss had caused me to wall myself in - to pretend that I didn't need anyone besides myself, that I was perfectly content on my own.
You know, I could probably go on for days, listing all of the times I was an asshole to someone.
This is a new kind of insanity for me.
If most of the women I'm attracted to turn out to be secret psychos, and most of the women who are attracted to me turn out to be secret psychos, what exactly does that say about me?
I can feel that I'm closing myself off again, and I don't particularly like it, but I do understand it.
The next logical step is to prevent people from reaching out to me, so I start rebuilding the castle walls. And if that doesn't work maybe I'll put in a sniper tower or something.
Believe it or not, I am quite capable of being in a bad mood, or a good mood, or an irritated mood, or whatever, without my mood being related to her.
Even when she began to pull away from me and my (obliviously indifferent) lack of responses, that was a hint too. That was a hint that time was running out for me. For us.
If, I theorize, I can think of something interesting and exciting to write about, then maybe I won't be such a loser.
I'm not sure exactly what I want to write. I just know that I want it to be good.
What if I've met the love of my life and I've let her slip through my fingers? What if I never have another friend that I trust implicitly? What if the best years of my life are truly behind me?
I can envision a day when lights will dim when I enter a room. People with pacemakers will clutch at their chest and keel over. Planes will fall from the sky when I go outside to check my mail.
That's what I imagine. The worst. That's what runs through my head whenever I relax too much. Whenever I catch myself imagining the good that's when the bad possibilities rush through my mind and snap me out of my contentedness.
Wouldn't it be nice to have a snooze button for life? So that when something so horrible, so unbearable happens, and you know you'll have to face it eventually, you can at least put it off for a little while?
This would trip me up. This would shatter my sanity. Like a waiter that drops an overloaded tray of dishes, I'd lose the grip I hold on my own mind, and drop it. Watch it fall and shatter into a million pieces.
I knew that all of my life's questions would be answered by this girl whose eyes sparkled even behind her glasses.
I began to suspect that the word to describe me doesn't exist. Tonight I asked a friend of mine from Rich O's, who is a mental health professional, if he could think of anything that would properly label me. Besides asshole.
I used to really like stormy weather. I still do I guess. I mean I still look forward to the Spring storm season. I've noticed, however, that since I stopped renting and actually bought a house, I'm no longer quite as excited over the prospect of having a tornado tear down my street.
I must have looked like a crazy person, with my eyes tearing up and that shit-eating grin on my face.
All of the times my mind has run rampant, all of the times I lay awake all night as scenario after scenario careened through my head, this was one I never saw coming. This I never even considered.
Everything I do and say is accompanied by this running internal commentary of sarcasm and dark humor.
Since this all started, I've been groping about in the dark. Sometime during the next few days that will change. Sometime, during the next few days, I'll find either a light switch or an exit. Sometime, during the next few days, there will be light.
My hidden agenda, as near as I can figure it (because it's hidden even from me) is to completely alienate everyone so they'll STOP ASKING ME THE SAME FUCKING QUESTION OVER AND OVER.
Way too many women have had a certain person's dick inside them.
What is it that makes me want to sit here in this chair and write out my innermost feelings and my most mundane activities for all the world to see?
Let's face it, if I knew how to turn my frown upside-down I'd have done it a long time ago.
The thing is, the situation is not broken, so it doesn't need fixing. Things are as they are. They are good, they are bad, they are all things in between. There is balance, there is acceptance, there is resolve.
I don't want to go to sleep one night and just never wake up. I want to SCREAM my last breath.
These days, when my phone rings, I don't get excited. These days, when my phone rings, it scares the shit out of me.
I don't know why I didn't stop to put clothes on first. I should have at least covered up my morning erection.
There's something you say to only a few people in your lifetime. To feel it in your heart but be unable and/or unwilling to say it is kind of a pain.
Maybe some day, something will happen. Maybe someday this story will really end. Maybe then I'll be able to fill in the holes. Write the things that everyone already knows, and maybe some things that nobody even suspects.
Some people read this 'blog and they expect something to happen. They expect that I'll eventually get tired of whining and actually do something.
People that think they know me, they keep telling me what a good person I am, how happy I could make someone, how lucky a girl would be to have me. The thing is, I know what I'm capable of. I know what I can and cannot put up with. Also, a risk needs a payoff, and there's just nothing there. The other end of this particular rainbow never reaches the ground.
Walking up to the thing is pretty impressive. I mean, you know it's tall, but you might not know that it's fucking tall. Don't feel bad. It's a fine line between the two.
It was a great night, and I think we helped each other get through some shit, even though we didn't discuss what the actual shit was.
I see in her eyes something I haven't seen in many others - genuine affection. For me of all people.
When he finally notices it, this faint ghost of a feeling, it explodes. He suddenly feels his body again, and it is on fire.
I need to find something that stirs the passions within me. Something that gets these creative juices flowing. Something that enrages me, or makes me deliriously happy. Something that I care about and can't shut up about.
That THUD THUD THUD sound everyone keeps hearing is the sound of my readers dropping dead from boredom.
I'm not going to try to bullshit myself or anyone else by saying that their opinions would be completely unfounded.
Unfortunately, whenever I let my thoughts stray to topics like love, marriage, happiness, whatever, my imagination always reveals the same person standing next to me.
Nobody is going to make me feel better, so what good are they?
I act like I'm a person so people will think I'm a person, then I start to feel like I'm a person, but deep inside there's nothing.
I think if you die and then come back as a zombie you should probably just take Halloween off, because nobody would take you seriously, and if people weren't running away from you it would be no fun at all.
As I type this, Happy is laying on the floor right behind my chair, Buddy is on the bookshelf, and Nugget has stationed himself at the door to my office. All three are watching me type, like they're waiting for something. Or plotting something.
Eventually, I figure, the government will kidnap me, dissect me, study me, to find the secret of my power and use it as a weapon.
Of all the questions I've had scratching away at my brain over the past year or so, I've managed to find the answers to most of them. Sometimes the answer surprised me, sometimes it disappointed me, sometimes it made me happy. But always always always it provided a huge sense of relief. Just being able to know - to no longer have to guess - I'm not sure that I can describe how freeing it's been for me.
She died with her eyes open, so the last thing she saw was me. The last thing she felt was me petting her. The last sound she made was a purr. The last sound she heard was me saying You like that food, don't you Spooky? What a good kitty!
I know how this all reads. It reads like one giant cop-out. One long drawn-out whimper from a little boy, telling tales of monsters in his closet so nobody knows that he's really just afraid to sleep alone in the dark.
As I laid there, reliving the dream, and trying to figure out - where did that come from? - I felt something shift in my head. Some long-forgotten doorway, nearly rusted shut and completely covered by cobwebs, creaked open. The sound was palpable, and the scene revealed was blinding.
I laid there, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, my heart threatening to leave my chest and go bouncing around the room, and I knew. I had the answer to the most important question I've ever asked myself.
I may sound bitter here, but I'm really not. It's always a little disappointing to realize that someone is not even close to who you thought they were, but these antics really did help keep my mind off of other, more pressing issues. For that I'm grateful.
Your heart will skip a beat. A million thoughts will go though your head. You'll try to see me, for the first time, as something more than a friend. You'll imagine us together, and you'll like how that image makes you feel.
Telling me to go to Hell, while both predictable and humorless, is unfortunately not something I'll be able to consider. I've already been there. Didn't like it much.
Calm and relaxing. Nice and pleasant. These are the words that describe me and my life now. Excited and apprehensive were replaced with tortured and grieving, and they in turn were replaced with mundane and boring.
This isn't the entry I wanted to write, that entry is still inside me. I can feel it in my head, rattling around, trying to work its way out.
I don't know what caused this particular bit of truth to exhume itself after so many years. I seriously doubt that it had anything to do with Saturn conjuncting with Uranus or whatever. I guess all that's important it that is did reach the surface, and that it did finally, mercifully, kill every last vestige of hope left in me.
Okay, this is strange. I'm having a fucking panic attack. My hands are shaking like crazy. Prescience, perhaps, or just too much caffiene?
Or is it like having monkeys fly out of my ass to give presents to the poor kids? I don't expect that at all, so does that mean that I expect it less than this terrible thing that I both dread and long for?
I feel like that kite would have felt, just after its string had broken. Pretty sure that a fall was coming, but still doing my best to enjoy that which I'd just been granted. No longer bound to anything. Spinning and dancing. relishing the freedom.
You fall in love with a person that only exists for a moment then, once that moment has passed, you're stuck in a relationship with a comparatively boring person.
In the middle of the night, two weeks ago, I lost focus. Not because I'd turned my gaze elsewhere, but because the world itself had shifted around me.
So here I've been coasting along for more than two weeks, unable or unwilling to care about anything or anyone.
People and events call out to me as I pass by overhead, and I may look down upon them with interest or even compassion, but I lift my feet away from their grasp. I'm not ready to care. Not just yet.
So she climbs. Every now and then she falls into the moat. But she gets right back out, shakes herself off, and tries again. Stubborn. I like that. Foolish perhaps, but who am I to judge foolishness?
I can sit here and write about pain. I can talk about pain with my friends, my family. I know pain. I remember everything. But because I don't feel it anymore, it's become something else. Just a concept. Just a memory. It's not real anymore.
I read through my old entries and I try to imagine that pain. I try, in a way, to relive it. I try to feel that way again so I don't forget completely how fucking real it all was. So I don't unlearn the lessons I paid so much for.
There are worse things than nothing. At least a part of me knows that. A part of me remembers, and that part of me screams out in shock and outrage when I make statements like the one I made last night.
I now officially understand why people will get drunk and naked and run out onto the playing fields at sporting events. I wanted to do it myself.
Was it a part of me that stands over whatever small spark of hope for the future I still harbor? Perhaps it was a part of me that still clings to the idea that this can all be fixed somehow, that given the proper opportunity, I can still make everything okay. Maybe even better than okay. Maybe even great.
I hope the person I become is not this shallow self-centered prick I fear is sitting inside me now.
That night, my dear readers, was what you call a golden opportunity. A golden opportunity to be like every other guy on the planet. A golden opportunity to jump in, dick first, without a care in the world for what would happen later.
Things may not have turned out well - they probably wouldn't have - but I'd fucking know. I'd know and I wouldn't still be guessing a year later.
Something inside me shifted gears. Something inside me switched itself off. Something inside me fell out of love and went back to simply missing a friend.
I really wanted to write something good tonight. To change the subject a little. But I've got nothing, so I'll just stand here with my pants down for a while longer.
For so long I tried so hard to get my mind to shut down for just a little while and give me some peace and quiet. Now it's too damn quiet and it's driving me crazy.
I'm a little hesitant. I'm in this mood after all. No longer a bad mood but not quite a good one either. I guess you could call me content. But I'm sure this is only temporary. I think I could tip in either direction, and I'm not sure that I want to.
She knew what had happened, and she pulled me to her.
Because things haven't just been complicated. They've also been ever-changing. Evolving and devolving. Like my mood, my desires and my needs have been constantly reacting to events, thoughts, and realizations.
I sit here and I write about how much I want answers to my questions, but the truth is that I like being confused. I enjoy being kept in the dark about what's going on. If I knew everything, then my life would be boring, and I don't want to go back to being bored with life.
Those coasters, you never really know what they're trying to accomplish. They're sneaky and mysterious.
This is a huge fucking deal! Not that I chose this particular person to think about, but that I finally became capable of choosing anyone at all.
It's like the changing seasons. You have some warm days and some cold days and then eventually Summer is upon you, and Winter is over.
I know that more cold days are coming, but maybe, just maybe, this long Winter is finally coming to an end.
Twice today, I reached out to someone else. That's pretty much my normal weekly quota, used up in a two-hour period.
I think I'd rather be funny. Funny people can always write worthwhile things. People like me, pathetic and whiny people - we have a much more difficult time of it, I think.
That right there, that I could, if only for a moment, bring such beauty into the world, that should be enough to carry me for quite a while.
I was instantly hard, and so I instantly regretted the kiss.
I felt myself exhale, finally, mercifully. I would not have to feign humanity tonight.
I must have reread that sentence a dozen times, hoping that, like in a dream, the words would change with each reading. That they would change to something that would allow my illusion to continue.
Every time I get in the shower I start imagining that the phone's ringing. So I turn off the faucet and it's nothing. Then when I stand at the sink shaving I start imagining that the phone's ringing. So I, once again, turn off the faucet and it's, once again, nothing.
I think that the hot girl from last weekend may have been an Internet stalker. That would be cool I think.
Trying to reason with me is the worst thing you can do. Because I already know all that shit.
And I'll nod and tell you how you were right all along, that I just needed time to heal, and then one day I'll explode into a million pieces.
It's all a metaphor, of course. I like metaphors. You can hide behind them and still get your point across.
Even the familiar thump thump of his heart has stopped. He ponders this, and reaches his hand to his chest, but he finds that he has no hand, and that he has no chest.
Please, ladies, no pushing and shoving. Everyone will get their turn.
Is she sitting alone, trying to imagine me? Is she wondering who I am, what I'm like, and if she'll ever find me? Maybe she's looking at the stars and imagining that I'm looking at the same stars? If I went outside right now, would we share the moon?
Filthy-minded degenerate that I am, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she'd caught her dad and her dog in a compromising position.
What's wrong is that there's nothing wrong. I feel nothing. Not a fucking thing.
So finally, I've been able to leave my mark in this world. I've always wondered what form it would take.
This was a BIG deal, and it would be a tough fight that I wasn't guaranteed to win. There was no way to know who would emerge victorious from the battle for my identity.
Problem is, it left in such a hurry that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. It left in such a hurry that it forgot to give me back what it had taken from me. I spent about a week being relieved about finally being alone again, then, when the relief faded, I saw just how little of me there was left.
When you're accompanied everywhere by a gorilla, there's really no explanation necessary.
Here's the thing about mistakes: You never recognize one until you've already made it. You might suspect it, but you're not sure until it's too late.
Every now and then I have a thought. Sometimes it's just something I ran across in the past, but since I can't really remember running across it before, I think that I came up with it all on my own.
I may write something here that could be seen as disparaging. That is not my intention.
And that's the problem with hypothetical questions. Reality always comes back and fucks things up.
It was the sound of many small bones breaking at the same time. It was the sound of a skull shattering. It was the sound of something dying.
I've heard that some animals, in the last seconds of their life, will often summon every last bit of energy and strength they have and just run. Run to hide, somewhere safe. Run to heal, somewhere warm. Run to die, somewhere private.
Once again, I'm it really sure where I'm going with this. Once again, I should probably wait until I have a couple of beers in me before I write anything. Once again, I'm bored, so I'm going to do this now.
Sadness didn't sneak up on me, it exploded all over me. Something happened to make me this way. Is it unreasonable to want something equally dramatic to change things back?
That fact is that, no matter how much I protest, the pain is nearly gone.
Don't really feel like going anywhere actually. Especially not tonight of all nights. But it's especially tonight of all nights that I have to go out. Otherwise I'll be admitting to yet another defeat, and I'm not willing to do that. Yet.
I remember back in the 70s seeing news stories about people streaking. This type of behavior seems to be old hat these days, but back then it seemed like a really big deal. Especially to an impressionable, yet groovy, young boy.
I'm showing you people parts of me that nobody, not even my ex-wife, has ever seen. I pose and bend and flex and twist myself around so that everybody gets a really good view.
So this is me. No better and no worse. Like what you see? Good? Don't like what you see? Feel free to look away. If you can.
Am I searching for what's left of myself? Is there anything left to find? Would I recognize it if I found it? Would I run away?
I've noticed a change in the noise level within me. Something LOUD, I think, has either gone silent or is at least running more quietly than it has in a long time.
I spent so much time trying to understand what was happening to me, I lost sight of the real problem. The real problem wasn't that I couldn't understand it, or how absurd it was, or even how much I missed her. The real problem was that it was killing me.
Walking to that window, expecting to see my baby's broken body laying on the ground outside - well I probably don't have to describe how terrifying that was.
Matching tatoos of what looked like a logo for a pizza place or something. I'm just guessing here, but there was probably alcohol involved in their decision to have them done.
The questions we've asked each other for all these months have not been answered. All that's happened is that the doorway to those answers has been opened. Whether we'll decide to step through or not, we just don't know.
The pressure that I put on myself to just shut the fuck up already was almost, but not quite, enough to keep me in check. To keep private thoughts where they should be. In my head. Instead of spewed all over creation.
No pressure telling me to feel a certain way about a certain person. No pressure telling me to stop feeling a certain way about another certain person. I can, for the first time in a very long time, feel whatever the fuck I want to feel.
That day, that conversation, they were certainly important, but c'mon. I remember how she stressed each syllable when she spoke. Almost perfect iambic pentameter. What possible good does that memory do me?
Okay, this has to count as writing something. I quoted Shakespeare. I said fuck. This has to be enough. What else could you possibly ask for?
I am, for the first time in a very long time, both available and vulnerable. Women of the world, consider yourselves warned.
Fate is a silly concept to me. The idea that everything is preordained, that our lives are mapped out by some higher power, that free will is only an illusion - this just strikes me as ludicrous.
Everything I've written here has been the truth, at least at the moment I wrote it. I've often held things back though. Obvious things like names and other specifics, but also deeper feelings.
I resented her for illuminating the dark places within me, and revealing that which was hidden. For distracting me from my pain. For putting me on a pedestal. For being everything I ever wanted except the one thing I wanted the most.
When you decide that it would be a good idea to throw your cell phone into the woods, turn the ringer all the way up first.
Then they ask themselves, Why the fuck should I read this bozo? He's fucking boring!
Acceptance. Tranquility. Peace. All erased by a spark, a glimmer, a splash of light that does nothing but burn the retinas and leave ghost images floating and intruding.
The tension between us was just incredible. I couldn't believe that I was having this conversation with her. That it had come to this. To my having to smile and say that it was okay. To her saying that she was sorry.
But please, for the love of all that is holy, pick one! Either weigh 400 pounds, or dress like a slut. Please don't do both.
Hope for what? Not much, actually. Nothing specific, certainly. Hope only for a reaction. To be noticed. To be, if only for the briefest instant of time, visible.
Meanwhile, this chick told me today that she liked my haircut. This is exactly the same haircut I've had for at least ten years. Maybe she wants it up the butt.
Now you have to admit, that would have been romantic as fuck. It would have taken some pretty impressive stalking skills too, but what the Hell. It was my fantasy.
Perhaps in the future I'll have a cattle prod up my ass that will shock me when someone leaves a message. But, until that glorious day, it may take time for me to respond.
Wouldn't a real failure be going out and returning home alone, with no prospects, and nothing to show for your evening except a bit of a hangover?
You don't understand. It's not that she's important, but that she isn't. I don't care what the answer is, and for once I'd like to find out before I do care.
I want answers. I want quick fixes. I want resolution, absolution, retribution, and evolution. And I want them now now now now!
Sometimes I envy those leaves. Their most beautiful moment comes at the end of their lives. They don't have to keep living and remembering how wonderful things used to be. And when they fall, they don't have to get back up.
Every now and then a rogue wave will just wash over me, and knock me off my feet, and soak me to the bone.
I run through scenarios in my head, so I won't be taken completely by surprise. I have conversations with people that aren't there, so everything is nice and rehearsed in case they ever are there.
Those of you who've been reading carefully know that this, this so-called gift wasn't, in the end, a gift at all. It was a curse.
Now wait for your whacking victim to regain consciousness. You may want to tie him up first, for your own protection, so use the rope. You remembered the rope, right?
Well, today I realized that there was no point in waiting for that magical day any longer. We weren't going to be going anywhere anymore. So I went to the damn place by myself.
The kid was still scared, still standing there afraid of the six-inch deep water. So I did what had to be done. I called him a pussy and left him in my wake.
See what I mean? Drivel. Pristine, unblemished drivel.
Am I supposed to be happy that I finally have a chance to go back to that bland, boring, fucking content person that I used to be before I met her?
I fell so slowly at first that I wasn't even aware of it, but from that first moment, my fall was inevitable because it had already begun.
There is perhaps nothing sadder in the world than a pitcher of Bud Light.
I'd call my death a metaphor. Some may call it an exaggeration. Others may call it whiny crybaby drivel.
I was supposed to be her hero, and instead I was the dragon and the black knight all rolled up into one.
Even if it doesn't last, even if this turns out to be yet another false sunrise, and even if the darkness returns, this is still the end of an era.
I don't think I have anything to say. Today, absolutely nothing happened at all. Maybe tomorrow something will happen. Probably not though.
Come to think of it, I doubt that it's called murder when you kill a past version of yourself. It's not really a suicide either. Maybe the time machine owner's manual will have a glossary in the back or something.
So I just kind of played it dumb because I didn't want the cops to know that it was me that had unleashed the evil upon the world.
This is quite cool, having storms like this in November. It would be slightly less cool to be killed by a tornado tonight, but at least it would get me out of work tomorrow.
I look down at the swirling blackness below me, and I can't help but wonder, how much would it hurt if I fell to the bottom again now?
When I think about her, I miss just about everything. But holding her hand, I miss that most of all.
Look into the eyes of the one you love, but use caution, because you may not like what you see.
Of course, I could get lucky. I could die sometime in the next couple of days, thus sparing myself the burden of this impossible decision.
That's why I think she's a fantastic writer - because her words, once written, don't need her anymore. Her words, once written, go to where they are needed the most, and they give voice to what would otherwise be silent.
I can take the most heartfelt compliment and twist it into an insult. I can take the simplest greeting and turn it into a goodbye. This is my super power. But I don't use it to ward off evil, I use it to ward off everything and everyone.
If you're going to claim that I'm wrong, then you are an idiot and I don't care what you think.
I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't made it so easy for her to leave that night. I wonder what would have happened if I'd been a real dick about it?
I keep hearing this song, but it just doesn't move me the way it used to. It only irritates me as it inserts its relentless beat into the sounds of my world.
I showed great restraint by actually looking her in the eyes instead of at her chest. The concentration needed for this, unfortunately, also prevented me from saying anything funny.
I don't remember what it was, but something happened. Something that made me turn around.
If my purpose today was merely to be someone to lean against, to be someone who, by my very presence, helped another person get through a tedious journey, well that was fine with me.
One of the waitresses was complaining that somebody took her picture without permission. I told her that it happens to me all the time. I'm not sure what's so funny, but she laughed and touched my arm. She must want it up the butt.
But I'll give it some more time. Probably until the end of December at least. I suppose that, if I can't become evil in a month, then I can't ever become evil.
This one chick should get her money back from her implant doctor. They keep sloshing back and forth after she stops walking. Gross.
Don't try to make me feel better when your only incentive is to feel more comfortable around me. If you don't feel comfortable around me, then kindly stay the fuck away.
Ahead of me, the road stretched to a horizon hidden in fog. I turned my head to look behind me and saw the same visage. I was on a road between two nowheres.
If I stay really quiet I can almost hear the tiny whump! whump! whump! of all that cat hair slamming into me every second of every minute of every day.
Whatever it was that she felt for me during the Summer, it's gone now. I looked into her eyes and I saw nothing. Serves me right I suppose.
A secret kept for so long must have had a damn good reason for staying hidden. Signs are ignored for a reason. Hints are twisted into something else, something innocent, for a reason.
It's just a feeling, really. An inkling of a hint that something is afoot, that something is skulking around just outside my peripheral vision. I turn to look, but it moves with me, anticipating and evading.
I think that I'm ready. I believe that I've steeled myself for what will come next. I tell myself that this is what I've been waiting for, that I'm prepared. That I will be strong.
If only I could have scooped out my brain, and set it aflame, and chopped it to bits, and smashed those bits into pulp. For it has always been my brain that's held everything else back.
Falling in love is not a process, it's an event. Love is when a switch inside you suddenly flips on and then breaks off so it can never be switched back.
So I'll spend some time cleaning up this mess, and I'll try to remember that maybe it is going to happen again, but there's no reason that it can't wait a while. If it's really inevitable, then it's probably worth that wait.
I was way too excited over a couple of beers being on tap at the same time, but I'm bottling everything else up and I need to have some outlet for my emotions, so fuck off.
It is kind of neat though. To look at more or less the same face in the mirror for forty years gets a little old. I only wish this face I still see didn't look so old sometimes.
I still offer you everything you ever asked for, except that which belongs to another. Every day I regret that it's not mine to give. Every single day.
I never cared where it led me, as long as it was far from my starting point. As long as I could finally get to a place where all I saw behind me was the road, and everything else was hidden by the distance and the time through which I'd traveled.
Perhaps I'll have one of those dreams again. One of those dreams that annoy the shit out of me because she isn't in it, but somebody else is. Somebody that I have no business dreaming about.
I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?
I've begun to seriously doubt that I'll ever regain the ability to just shut the fuck up.
I love women. I love the way that every line of their body is a curve, never beginning, never ending.
I asked for this. I actually begged and pleaded and struggled and fought for this. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed.
So people roll their eyes at me, or they chuckle at me, or they shake their heads at me. And I bite my tongue, and I wish I shared their ignorance.
Once upon a time, something inside me snapped, and a part of me that I didn't even know I had screamed. And it screamed, and it screamed.
There I was, wearing my best raingear in hopes of weathering the shit storm that was about to hit, and nothing else happened. Nothing at all.
Just as an experiment, I loosened my grip just a little bit, and I allowed the slightest trickle of that which I'd so successfully stopped back in the Summer. Just to see what would happen.
I was there, and I was miserable, and I had nothing but more misery ahead of me for the next three or four days. I was not going to be cured, or distracted. Not this time.
I get better all the time. Every day I wake up with a little less pain, and every night I go to sleep with a little less feeling that the day was wasted because she didn't share it with me.
This 40-year-old shell of a man that I inhabit, I know that there's more I could do with it than eat, sleep, work, drink, occasionally fuck, and write random journal entries.
It would be like waking up from a beautiful dream, and knowing that I may never see anything as beautiful as that dream again. It would be like waking up from a nightmare, and knowing that I may never again feel anything as strongly as I felt that fear.
I hate this. It's what I wanted, it's what I needed, it's what had to be done if I was going to survive, but I hate it. The fact that I had to kill a part of myself to get to this point, that makes me hate it even more.
Whatever it was, it most certainly was not a crush. And fuck anyone who tries to dismiss it as such.
I know, I fucking know, that I'll never experience any emotion as strongly again. For if I do, then I'm done for.
So I'm not in the best of moods right now. Hard to believe, I know. I'm usually nothing but giggles and grins and I shit fluffy bunnies.
Like an animal raised in captivity, when I became too afraid of the opportunities and obstacles presented by my newfound freedom, I ran back into the comfort and safety of my cage.
For the record, I want to state that this is a horrible, terrible, absolutely flat-out bad idea.
When, at that moment, when she looked into my eyes for the first time in months, did she see anything?
I am not, as it turns out, completely dead inside. I am not, contrary to popular belief, incapable of having a single solitary optimistic thought. I am not, no matter what else you might have read or heard or deduced or even simply felt, I am not a lost cause.
Those orange shorts really make me feel funny in my special place. They need to come off, I say.
Now, I think I just might survive. Whatever that means. However I might define who I am. What I am.
Right now, I just want to lie back, and remember, and imagine, and wish, and smile, and hope, and cry, and long, and laugh, and wait, and dread, and hurt, and love.
So, that was just great, FutureDude was on the rag, and I'd managed to piss him off, and I still hadn't even ordered my beer.
I am learning a lot about myself. I won't deny that. But some lessons are too hard-fought. Some prices are too steep. Some stones are better left unturned. Some monsters are better left lurking in the shadows.
It wasn't so much the babbling that annoyed me. I'm used to that. I'm doing it right now actually, albeit in written form.
I'd rather people know the truth about me. That way I don't have to worry about disappointing them later, when they finally see my true nature.
Maybe this is simply my imagination, yet another manifestation of my unwillingness to let all this go. Maybe this is just another symptom of my insanity.
The thing is, everything was not wine and roses. Or, to put it into words to which I can better relate, everything was not beer and jasmine.
The thoughts are there, running around inside me, but they flee when I try to capture them. They hide behind trivia and inane bullshit, and they snicker among themselves about how easily they evade me.
This morning I proposed, in an email to a friend, that perhaps I'd died in my sleep during the night.
It is but the slightest inkling of the faintest memory of the most tenuous presence, yet it is more real than anything else in this, my world.
One of the dipshits kept trying to talk to me. I answered his questions as efficiently as I could while I scanned the room for a better place to sit.
I tell myself that it's too late for me to take my own advice. I've been telling myself that for over a year. I've told myself so often and with such conviction that I've managed to make it true.
Some other shit happened. There were idiots all over the place. I did my best to keep to myself, and I came home fairly early.
That inertia that served me for so long has gone. Now I've coasted to a stop and I don't know where I am.
That one slut changed her hair. It looks good, but there's no telling what it will look like once she washes all of the semen out of it.
My last day I'd spend alone. Because it would be a fitting ending for a life that's been spent alone.
Is it really possible to blow your only chance at love and then discover that it wasn't really your only chance at all? That it was just another in a series, another rung in a ladder?
I think I've been wrung out too many times.
Though the monsters of this new reality rage all around me I am somehow, miraculously, still here. Still safe.
My sanity is like a game of emotional Jenga right now. It could collapse at any moment.
The nice thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about, but the bad thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about.
I see before me a barrier that I'm unwilling to cross, and a part of me is relieved that I can finally stop this mindless quest.
A terrible diagnosis, a failed final exam, a guilty verdict, a rejected marriage proposal. Hope can be cured in so many ways - it's a wonder that it ever exists at all.
I guess she must have thought I was a bipolar asshole for no reason whatsoever.
All of you sheep, please, fuck off and die now.
So, if you know what I'm talking about, you should consider yourself lucky I suppose.
So I've been pulling hairs out of my mouth since Sunday morning.
I'm pretty sure that I'm in denial. There is just no way that I can be okay with this.
I kept breathing during that time, I just stopped wanting to breathe and I had a tough time coming up with a good reason to keep doing it.
Whether it's shock or denial or a combination of the two, my mind seems to have shut itself down.
I could throw the fuck all of parties, but since I don't like people that much, I doubt that I'll be doing that anytime soon.
Maybe I've been abducted by aliens and replaced by a pod person.
That dark place is not me and that means that I can exist separately from it.
It will take time to fully accept what it is that I've ignored and turned my back on. But time is something that I seem to have plenty of lately.
Man, I'm just full of secrets this evening. And shit. Can't forget that.
The strangers kept getting louder and louder. Eventually they progressed beyond simple loud talking and entered the WooHoo Zone.
I found myself getting irritated because I'm not supposed to be content in that place.
I am not heartbroken, though I should be. I am not happy, though I long to be. I am not sad, though I deserve to be. I'm finding, more and more lately, that I'm simply content.
The lady looked at me, sneered a little, and said, "I'll get my own phone, Whitey."
There's just not really anything there that I need to see. It was all too long ago. It was another life, and not a particularly good one.
The taxidermist must have spent a lot of time perfectly preserving that bison's asshole.
What started as screams are now nothing but whispers, and even those soft voices are fading fast.
Time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes they leave scars, and sometimes those scars stay with us forever.
Pain from long ago can sometimes wash over us, but that doesn't mean that we're going to have to relive it all. Sometimes scars just itch, and all it takes is a scratch to make it feel better.
She says that her life is like a nightmare where all of the hallways twist around and keep leading back to the same place. Back to me.
Idiots leave and new idiots immediately fill the void. There's no end to the cycle of idiots.
Enough whining. On with the drivel.
... you'd smile at me, and my heart would stop, and a part of me would silently wish that it would never beat again, so that I might die in such a perfect moment.
I continue to be astonished by the fact that I'm still alive.
The problem with having them walk in that door is that they've both been dead for years.
I write a few words, or a few hundred words, and I realize that it's all drivel. And I delete it all.
And my eyes will become so spoiled by your face that they will from that moment on refuse to see anything else.
That loud popping sound you hear may be my head exploding.
A comfortable chair. A comfortable friend. Silent camaraderie. Life exhales and allows itself to relax.
What a load of crap it was. But I fell for it each and every time.
The piss and the swill hadn't been the world. It had only been a very small part of it.
It's such a cruel world that let's me love every single thing about a person, but that won't let my heart take that extra step.
The words don't give up though. They fester inside me and they wait.
It's not such a bad life that I find myself living. I walk this beautiful beach and, though I am alone, I am safe.
I have such a convenient memory. Such a nice fancy pair of rose-colored glasses. Such a fucking idiotic way of seeing only what I want to see and completely ignoring anything that doesn't fit into these delusions that I use instead of hope.
When searching for ourselves we don't always find what we expected.
When battling our inner demons the good guys don't always win.
It's like I walk through life wearing shoes that just don't quite fit.
Breathing seemed like such a simple thing to do until I ran out of reasons to do it.
Damn pod people. I hate them so much.
It really is just like in the movies. You sit in a room, and you wait for somebody to come and give you an update.
I kinda feel like everybody around me is just standing in my way, blocking me from where I'm supposed to be going. This irritates me. Mostly because it's an illusion. There's no place to go.
Don't be nice to me. You're not the one. So stop. Just stop distracting me.
It's like there was a secret meeting wherein these people all got together and worked out the best way to give me a disappointing and shitty night.
Halle Berry is hot, in case you've been living in a cave on Mars and didn't know yet.
Climbing is hard work, but falling, falling is effortless.
I relived those moments, as I relive them far too often as I lie staring at the ceiling but seeing only her eyes.
...there's always the chance, however unlikely it may seem, there's always the chance that I'll be wondering and I'll be honest with myself at the same time. Don't laugh, it's bound to happen eventually.
One of these days or weeks or months or years, I'll allow that door that I've kept sealed in my head, that door that holds the truth at bay, I'll drop my guard and I'll allow that door to creak open. And all the monsters will come rushing out.
I still tremble. I'm doing it right now. Sometimes I remember what it was like to feel safe, but that memory is like a hazy dream that I'm not sure I ever really had.
It pisses me off that the thing that opened my heart to the possibility of happiness is the same thing that stands in the way of my finding it. Some would probably call this irony, but I have harsher words for it.
I wonder, if I were to look out my office window right now, would I see God's wang?
I think I've lost my entire train of thought here. Basically, I'm being a baby. I'm complaining about piddly bullshit. I'm making mountains out of molehills.
Ah, there they are. I'd been wondering when my emotions would show up. Funny, I didn't expect anger to be leading the way.
I am stupid, after all. I think that's been well-established.
My dreams, foolish as they were, broken as they are, they deserve better than this.
Tonight, it wasn't the past's broken promises that determined my mood. It wasn't the future's faded dreams that guided my emotions. Tonight, both the past and the future were irrelevant to the stark reality of the here and the now.
I am so sad that I could sing and dance. I am so happy that I could slit my wrists. I am overflowing with nothingness. I am upside-down, inside-out.
She keeps telling me her name. Like I care.
It's like I'm watching some movie and I just can't believe how stupid the main character is being.
This confused her. I fear that her brain may explode now.
It's amazing to me that I haven't given up. That I haven't just raised my middle finger to the world and stopped even trying to get along with other people. So few are worth any effort whatsoever.
The things that you read, the things that I write, they're not fiction. I am not a storyteller. I'm not even much of a writer most of the time.
It's a funny thing. I know that I cannot fly. But I stand here once again at the edge of this abyss with my arms outstretched. I dream. I crave. I hope.
Every now and then I manage to impress myself, and if you know me at all then you know that this is a precious and improbable feat.
These things in my head, these thoughts and memories and inklings - I wonder how many of them are real and how many exist simply to hide the truth.
What if that one loud bitch is that one dude's new girlfriend? If so, I may vomit.
Some people insist on talking about politics and religion in here. Some people suck. In many cases, these two groups overlap. Coincidence? I think not.
Did you ever see a shooting star so brilliant that it just took your breath away, and you just stood there watching it blaze across the sky, so awestruck that you forgot to make a wish? Did you ever then realize that you're wish had come true anyway?
I'd heard some scary stories about her pussy but it was really quite nice. You just have to know how to treat them.
Wondering is a bad thing. It must be stopped. It must be drowned with alcohol.
I am apparently much more disgusting and typical and hormonal than I thought I was.
I fear, in fact, that my needs have been satisfied. And now, now my wants have nothing to anchor them. So they wander aimlessly.
It is important that I know what I'm doing here. Life has offered me a second chance. I doubt that there'll be a third.
The lamp in the corner served only to illuminate itself - its light no longer reached the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling. Or the grotesque scene on the bed.
So I didn't want to do things to her because of a desire for her. It was because I knew that, with our tongues fighting for supremacy inside her mouth, she'd have to shut up for a while.
If you don't want to know, then stop reading. I don't know how I can be any more clear than that.
Years of experience have told me that random hot girls have no sense of humor, and I can only assume that random hot foreign girls are no different.
What I have to do is look the other person in the eyes and say, "I'm sorry, but I have to go take a shit."
I quit playing that particular game a long time ago. I lost every single fucking time, and I never once had fun. I have no desire to ever play that game again.
Maybe tomorrow I'll write something brilliant. Everybody can start holding their breath now.
This is stupid. What am I doing here?
Part of the problem is that the things that are funniest to me, they're funny only from my perspective.
Am I as stupid as that ugly little dog, running simply because it's the only thing I can do?
I don't really know what's going on here.
I was just thinking about people that suck, and about how they outnumber the people that don't suck by a very wide margin.
Grief is simply there with you, beside you, inside you. Fucking fused with you.
I have no desire for company. Not that kind anyway. Not the real kind. The kind where you have to smile and talk and laugh at the proper times. Fuck that.
She tore off my blinders, and forced me to look at the world I lived in.
Happy Birthday to LaptopGirl. There, I fucking said it. Fuck off if you don't like it.
I don't like November. I don't like what November does to me. I don't like what November reveals to me. About myself. About my friends.
Well, this entry just isn't going to let itself be written. I'm trying to be cryptic here, and I guess it's working because I'm not even making sense to myself.
I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I didn't dare open them. I didn't dare look up. I couldn't look at her. It would ruin everything, if she saw my eyes.
It's pretty cool, to be astonished by the familiar. I highly recommend it.
Like a pile of kittens, they untangle themselves from each other, and they stand on wobbly legs, and they open their eyes.
People might start trying to talk to me all the time. That would suck.
They were having a wedding reception in the Special People Section, and I had three heart attacks and a couple of strokes before I got up the nerve to look in there.
It's weird. You'd think that deliberate cruelty would be worse. Than apathy. Than ignorance. But it's not.
I could make myself be noticed. I could become relevant. It wouldn't even be that hard. I could end the apathy and the ignorance.
There's something going on that just isn't right. I don't really want to elaborate. But there is context to all this random boring crap that I write.
I like this feeling, but I probably shouldn't. It's dangerously close to happiness. Close enough that I can almost touch it. I can almost take that extra step, and shift my weight onto my leading foot, and see if it will hold me.
She could have stuck her tongue in my ear, and I wouldn't have been more surprised than I was when I heard those words come from her lips.
Stupidity and fear separated us. Kept us cowering in opposite corners of this cell in which we found ourselves locked.
I'm always a little surprised, when I open my eyes and you're not there.
This little annual ceremony of mine has been polluted and corrupted. It's not even close to what it once was.
Take a good hard look at where you're at. At what you're doing. You can do so much better. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, but it can also breed apathy - and that can be much worse.
She is my strength, and I weaken when too many hours pass without her.
I kept trying to protest, pointing out that I'm both straight and white.
One of the fun things about being a crazy person is that I get to fool myself into thinking that good things might happen.
I guess there's a fine line between solitude and loneliness, and at some point over the past few months I've crossed that line.
I need to be pulled, kicking and screaming, from here. I need this trance to be broken. I need to be bound, gagged, and blindfolded, and whisked away to another place.
Yesterday I talked to this girl during lunch who looked almost exactly like Sarah Silverman. In other words, hot. In even more words, fucking smoldering hot.
These thoughts and feelings and words will find an escape. It will happen.
I thought, back then, that I was being romantic. But I wasn't. What I was being was needy and clingy.
"Huh?" I asked. 'Cause I'm all eloquent and shit.
I have officially run out of women. Time to dig out that little black book from high school, and start over.
I want to find someone who will love me as I love her, someone who'd choose to spend her last moments gazing into my eyes while I gazed into hers.
I surround myself in fog and mystery, because I do not want to see. The darkness comforts me, because I know what the light could reveal. I fear the light.
I hope it's just denial, and I hope that someday soon reality will trample its way into my head and my heart and destroy me.
I have enough friends. I want something else. Something more.
Hope is what separates us from the animals. Hope is what makes us human. So we keep looking. Even after failure after dismal failure, we keep looking for hope.
And, when we find ourselves in love, we also find the hope that's been buried so deeply within us that we almost forgot it existed. Love unearths it, and breathes new live into it, and resurrects it.
I wonder if Supergirl's hymen is as indestructible as the rest of her. That would suck for her, and for any of her boyfriends.
I could start to pull away right now, but that would not lessen the blow.
Well I drove all the way to St. Louis and back, and I never did find myself. I'm a slippery bastard I guess.
Sometimes, to be sure, inertia takes over for a while, and our choices seem to dwindle, but I think that's as close to fate as we get.
I managed to completely fuck over two wonderful relationships. One because I wanted too much, too soon and for no apparent reason. And the other because I didn't want enough until it was too late.
And, to be clear, blogging is writing. It just writing without any of those pesky assumptions of accuracy, or that annoying expectation of eloquence.
It is, believe or not, quite difficult to look cool and carry a bright pink shirt around at the same time.
My gaze was always too wide with her. My focus, too unfocused.
She thanked me for saving her from a terrible night, and I thanked her for saving me from a meaningless life.
So I dropped to my hands and knees, and I crawled. I needed it to hurt, and I needed to make it last as long as possible. Delay the inevitable as long as I could.
I found myself today, after work, and we wept and laughed together.
Tonight, for a few minutes, I found myself thinking about whores, and how much I hate them.