Problem is, I fucking hate being lied to.
And so, since I know that the answer will be a lie, I can't even ask the damn question.
And so, it will look like I don't even care.
Problem is, I fucking hate being lied to.
And so, since I know that the answer will be a lie, I can't even ask the damn question.
And so, it will look like I don't even care.
Once or twice or a hundred times, every day, I forget.
It's a self-defense activity. My mind knows that, alone and unarmed as it is, it cannot withstand the constant onslaught. So, it does what it can do. What it must do. It retreats. It runs and cowers beneath the rubble of destroyed dreams. It hides from reality.
During those times, I can almost pass for a normal person. Unless you look too closely into my eyes, or let your gaze linger on my face for too long, or ask me a question.
It always me pisses me off, when people ask me if I'm okay, or how I'm doing. Sometimes, people even ask me what's wrong, or if they can help. All those same questions over and over, and always the same answers.
The truth is not always in my words, but the truth is always there. The truth always forces my mind out of its hiding place, out into the open.
Once or twice or a hundred times, every single fucking day, I remember all over again.
(This is a entry from December 2005. I like this entry. I wish it had come true.)
It starts with a sound.
Not just any sound, but the sound of a voice from an almost forgotten past. Just a word or two, snaking their way through the din of the crowd. It's not much, but it's enough. I prepare myself, as much as I can anyway.
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.
I see the sparkles long before I see her. Walls inside me begin to crumble almost immediately. Pressure that has been bottled up for months is suddenly free and unrestrained. Something deep within me is exploding. I cannot prevent it, and I'm suddenly not sure that I want to.
I see her face.
For a fraction of a portion of a second, I am afraid. But the fear is quickly overwhelmed by something else. By desire. By determination. By relief. By the knowledge that the world is finally right again.
I stand up.
My knees are shaking. My heart is pounding. My very soul is shattering and rebuilding at a frantic pace inside me. I take a step, then another. My legs, miraculously, are still amenable to my will. They are no longer a part of me, for I am naught but a heart on fire, but they obey my will nevertheless.
Our eyes meet.
A million eternities pass by in an instant.
I reach out the hand that I somehow still control, and I take hers into it. The circuit between us completes, and it flows with ferocity. Our fingers fuse together.
But it is not enough.
Suddenly aware of the eyes upon us, I crave privacy for what will come next. I pull her through the crowd, then away from the crowd. She resists shyly, more from surprise than anything else. By the time we reach our destination, a dark and empty room, I'm unsure as to who is doing the leading.
We stop. We breathe. We exist. Together. Alone. The heat from her body warms my very bones.
But is it not enough.
I pull her to me and I embrace that part of myself that's been missing for such a long time. I am finally complete. I am finally whole.
But it is still not enough.
I pull my head back, and I open my eyes.
In her eyes I see, not myself, not her, but us. I see everything I've ever sought, and I see a future filled not with pain, but with desire, and with passion, and with hunger for each other.
In her eyes, I see love. Mine. Hers. Ours. It's all the same.
But still it's not enough.
I move my head towards hers.
Our lips meet.
It was the strangest feeling, to not care. So surreal. Like watching myself up on stage, and knowing that I was forgetting all of my lines.
At 5:00 today, my phone woo-hooed. It started blinking.
I answered, of course, but I still didn't care.
Much later my phone woo-hooed and blinked again.
This time, I cared. Even though I pretended not to, I cared as much as I've ever cared about anything.
But it was too late, and I knew it.
Okay, I'll admit it.
I'm getting pretty excited about this weekend.
Not only will I get to hang out with StupidGirl, I'll be able to get away from here for three days.
It changes a man, to see a beautiful face distorted by pain. To see it over and over and over and over and over. To stand helpless and watch the tears flow.
It changes a man, to feel so much and to give so much and to offer so much more, and to know that it's just not enough.
To drain away. To feel the very ground beneath your feet seem to dissolve as you struggle to remain upright. To feel betrayed and abandoned by the universe itself.
To hate yourself.
To look into the eyes of a child and find something you never thought you'd find again. To feel something you never thought you'd feel again.
To look into a mirror and see impending death, not from old age or disease or injury, but from heartache. To feel a dark hope that it will all end soon.
To fear sleep, for the nightmares that always accompany it. To fear wakefulness, for the reality that pounds away.
To watch a wonderful soul harden, and to feel your own soul harden with it. Not from pity or compassion or even love, but simply because your souls are irrevocably bound.
It changes a man.
I can't shake this feeling that we're expecting way too much from this. I talked to StupidGirl on the phone for three hours last night. It was, just like always, a friendly and funny conversation. An easy conversation. The hard part never comes until later, when my racing mind digests everything that was said and, more than that, everything that wasn't said.
I haven't been on a pedestal in a long time. Not since MixedSignalGirl. I'm not sure that I like it. Maybe I've developed a fear of heights. Maybe I don't feel like I'm worthy. Gee, I can't imagine why I might have a self-esteem issue.
Mostly, though, I think it's just that we still don't know each other very well. Not the way we should. We only know the best parts, the fun parts, the easy-going parts. I worry about what will happen if we're faced with the darker sides of each other's personalities.
I'm doing something very similar, I know. I'm pinning so much hope on this trip that there's no way I won't be disappointed. These feelings I'm suffering cannot be pushed aside for an entire weekend. Pushing them aside for even a few hours usually requires more strength than I possess. StupidGirl will surely do a fine job of distracting me, but it won't change who I am on the inside. The suffering I feel on the inside.
I can't let my guard down at all. I can't let her see who I really am.
I think we're both expecting that everything will be perfect. I think we're both going to be disappointed. I can only hope that we can rebound from that disappointment.
I just want to say something now.
I'm not retarded. I know that there's a 99.99999999999% chance that I'm wasting my time and that I'm going to die alone and unloved because of it.
But, what if that 0.00000000001% chance is the one that becomes reality?
It's my fucking life, and if I want to keep waiting, well then it's my fucking right to keep waiting.
It's totally worth the risk to me. That's the thing that nobody seems to understand.
How do you explain the inexplicable?
You might try and try and try and try and try, but sometimes a thing cannot be explained. Sometimes not even to yourself.
So instead, you demonstrate it, at every possible opportunity, and you hope with all your heart that eventually it's understood before you die.
Although that can be kind of tough, because sometimes you died a long time ago, and you're just too fucking stubborn to admit it.
Sometimes, I really wish that I was stupid. Then maybe I wouldn't always be thinking about stuff, and things.
It's the things that are the worst.
I do manage to shut my brain down, every now and then, but not nearly often enough. I did it tuesday, and it was really nice. But then Wednesday I started thinking again, and in doing so I became retarded again.
Thinking about stuff and things keeps getting me into trouble. It's would be so nice to just tra-la-la through life, without a care in the world beyond what I'd next put into my mouth and where I'd next put my dick.
Like a caveman, or something. They never thought about stuff and things. They just went and fucking did whatever they wanted to do.
Well, I know what I want to do, but I can't. It's a bad idea, I think. It's inappropriate, I think.
And the only thing worse than thinking, is worrying about what other people think.
Taking today off work, which is always nice. Even better is that I'm having lunch with HatGirl.
Just took my truck down to the garage and dropped it off. The clutch is fucked - the pedal just falls to the floor when pressed, and it only seems to disengage during the final 1/8 inch or so. I could blame my clutch problems on some stick-shift driving lessons I gave her in the truck a couple of months ago, but I won't. It was, after all, a couple of months ago. And she actually did a very good job except for once on a hill.
So now I'm down to just two vehicles for a while. I feel so poor.
It should be perfectly clear to anyone who knows me that I don't know what I'm doing here. Just trying to muddle through, like everyone else. Trying to make the best of out the situations presented to me. Especially this one situation which keeps trying to kill me.
It's weird for me to realize this, but this really is all new to me. I mean, I've lived with it for the longest time, and today I'm no closer to understanding it, no closer to knowing what to do, than I was when it started. It's very probable that I'll never understand it, never know what to do. And so, I muddle.
Muddle, muddle, muddle...
What a funny word.
I wish I could, for just a little while, know what was right. If I knew what was right, I'd do it. I really would. This is too fucking important to always be second-guessing myself.
Talked with StupidGirl for a couple of hours last night, until my Blackberry died. We put together some plans for next weekend. I told her that the only thing I absolutely want to do is go to the Freakin' Frog Friday night so I can have an Alaskan Smoked Porter for my birthday.
I'm really starting to look forward to the trip. I wish, in fact, that it was this weekend. This weekend is going to suck, I predict. Stupid Valentine's Day.
Speaking of my Blackberry, I forgot it this morning when I left for work. So I'm frustratingly out of touch with the world this morning. I'll go get my Blackberry during lunch.
Of course, I want to write something tonight. I'm actually in the mood to write, but I have no stupid power in my stupid house, so I'm typing this thing into my Blackberry. It works, but it's a hassle.
Both of my cats sensed my mood tonight, and both stayed close to me. Nugget stayed on my lap, and Buddy camped-out on the back of the couch, behind my head.
My fire, in its weird way, also kept me company. It's gone out now. I haven't decided whether I want to burn another log or not. That decision will go hand-in-hand with whether I want to have a third Marzen or not.
I was thinking about something I read once. Back in the olden days, before I was even born if you can believe that, they'd chop peoples' heads off. Criminals, mostly. But also, I like to think, people who were just assholes.
Anyway, I read once that some weird dude decided to conduct experiments with the recently beheaded. Right after the *thud* he'd pick up the head and look into the eyes. He was looking for some sign of consciousness, I guess.
Wait, maybe that's not quite appropriate.
There was a movie I once saw. This one dickhead pulled the heart out of some poor dude. He then showed the dude the heart, still beating in his hand. What a dickhead, right?
So the dude knew he was dead, and he also knew there wasn't fuck he could do about it.
Damn, this entry seemed like a much better idea before I started typing it.
I think it's time for another beer and another fire.
One of life's sad truths is that, far too often, one thing must end before another can begin.
In my case, I must die before I can live. I must.
My power is out tonight. It's out all over the place I guess.
I've been sitting in my living room, watching a fake log burn in my fireplace. I'm drinking a Schlenkerla Marzen. It's kinda nice.
Fires are always nice until their fuel starts to run out. Then they sputter frantically, flames licking wildly upward, as if by putting on a good show, they can buy themselves some more time.
But it does them no good. After a while, their fuel spent, the flames die. After a while, all that are left are ashes.
I have plenty of fake logs, and it's still fairly warm in my house.
I'll be okay, I think.
And now, for my next trick, I will pretend that nothing happened.
Okay, so I'm going to be honest for a minute or two.
Not that I'm not always honest, or at least as honest as I can be in this public venue, but sometimes I hold things back.
Sometimes, we all hold things back. Because we live in a society and shit.
But not me, not right now. I'm not holding anything back.
Right now, I am fucking livid.
I'm no longer convincing myself that I'm angry, to keep the sadness at bay. Nope, right now, it's fucking real.
Not because something happened.
Because nothing happened.
But, more than that, because I wanted so badly for something to happen, and it didn't. Hasn't. Whatever.
Fuck you, universe. Fuck you up the ass.
I think I'm not going to bring it up.
It was never my idea in the first place, it was hers. I just said that it was a brilliant idea. Now, maybe it's not so brilliant, but it's not like I've got anything better to do.
So I'll just go on the assumption that tentative has become undoable. It's the safest assumption, really.
I won't mention it unless she does.
And I don't think that she will.
But, if I'm wrong, well that would be cool. And the whole idea would go back to being brilliant.
So, back on December 14th, I wrote that I'd managed to score myself some bottles of yummy Alaskan Smoked Porter. I estimated that those fifteen bottles, with proper discipline, should last me for a year.
Well, tonight I'm drinking my last bottle.
Between my ever-loosening definition of "special occasion" and my totally understandable desire to share my favorite beer with my favorite person, I'm down to one bottle.
I'd been thinking that I should at least save it until my birthday, but now I'm going to Las Vegas for my birthday. And I'll probably be able to buy some Alaskan Smoked Porter there.
Plus, it's been one of the worst weeks I've ever had, so I fucking deserve to have this last bottle tonight.
My only regret is that my swing is gone. I'd love to be able to sit on my swing with this lovely beer. As it is, I'll just sit out in my garage like a sucker.
It's weird. I've been given an infinitesimal speck of hope, and now glaring at my phone has become infinitely more bearable.
Something unexpected happened a little after 6:00 Friday evening. Something welcomed, certainly, just very surprising.
You know how sometimes you're just having a really bad time with things, but then you maybe start to get used to how horrible things are? And then you maybe start to think that there's a chance that someday you might want to live again, if you can only get through this rough patch?
And then something unexpected and welcomed and surprising happens and you forget all about the bullshit?
Well, me too.
And so now, I fear, it will all start over again.
Anyway, it ended up being a good night. One about which I should probably write.
But not now. Now I've got cabin fever. So I'm going to the local casino for a while.
Don't wait up.
UPDATE: I didn't get to go. Other surprising and unexpected stuff happened, and I had to stay closer to home. Oh well.
ALSO: I just extended my Las Vegas trip by one day.
Why did I do this?
Why, thank you so much for asking. That's really sweet of you.
I did this because I'm sick of being such a fucking pessimist all the fucking time.
I imagine that what I'll think about, if I ever get to the point of being able to think again, is just how quickly it all fell apart.
I really don't know what's going to happen. Hell, I don't even know what's happened already. I just know that it's happened so damn fast that it's made me dizzy.
Well, I've gone ahead and booked my trip to Las Vegas for my birthday weekend.
I'm already having a bit of buyer's remorse. It's a lot of money to spend on a two-day trip, even without having to get a hotel room.
StupidGirl is really excited. Maybe a little too excited.
I hope she doesn't murder me, chop me up, and make a stew out of me.
I think I'd taste better in a spicy chili.
I don't have any real idea how to describe it, and I'm not really going to try. Just in abstract terms.
Maybe it's a vase. Yeah, that should work. Just imagine a vase. A fancy one. Wait, maybe it's an urn, like one that might contain the ashes of a deceased loved one. Whatever. It doesn't matter what it looks like. It holds shit. I suppose it's waterproof, though that's irrelevant.
Man, I'm rambling already. Oh well.
So you take this thing, this vase or urn or whatever, and you drop a tiny grain of sand into it. Maybe it makes a tiny clink as it hits bottom, but if you can hear it your ears are a fuck of a lot better than mine. Whatever, it doesn't matter if it makes a sound. I was just trying to do something there. Build the scene or some crap like that.
You drop in the grain of sand, and the next day you drop another grain of sand. And maybe the next day is really fucked up so you drop two grains of sand. You keep doing this, day after week after month after year. You just drop your little grains of sand into your vase or urn or whatever.
At first, it seems like you'll be able to keep dropping sand forever. I mean, it's a big vase or urn or whatever. Did I mention before that it's big? Well, it is. And the grains of sand are tiny, as grains of sand are so wont to be. So it doesn't ever really hit you that there will ever be a problem. You keep having fucking grains of sand, but you've got a place to put them, so it's okay, and it seems that it will always be okay. You've got a system and shit.
And then one day, perhaps one day in January of 2009, you notice, to your great surprise, that your vase or urn or whatever is totally full of sand.
And you've got no place to put your grains anymore, and you certainly can't just stand there holding sand like an idiot, so you drop it on the ground at your feet, hoping that nobody will notice.
Oh, but they fucking notice.
Eventually, nobody remembers who you used to be. You become The Guy Standing In The Big Pile Of Sand and that's all anyone thinks of you as.
And then you're fucked.
So what do you do when something weird happens? Something so weird and unexpected that there is just no way to prepare for it ahead of time? And no way to react with anything besides reflexive babbling?
Like when you find yourself having a conversation that you'd been expecting to have six months earlier? A conversation that you'd thought was never going to happen, because so much time had passed, and so much trust had been earned and built?
Well, I now know what I do when something like that happens.
After the aforementioned reflexive babbling, I go to Rich O's, and I text OddlyFamiliarGirl to come see me. Then I talk to OddlyFamiliarGirl about various things for several hours.
Oh, and I also have four glasses of Marzen (7778) but three of those are gone before OddlyFamiliarGirl shows up.
Still trying to find some decent airfare to Las Vegas for my birthday weekend. So far the cost of airfare is more than eating away any savings I'd get from staying with StupidGirl.
I'm not giving up, though. I just might have to arrive later than I'd prefer.
And there's a very slim chance that HatGirl might be able to get away for the weekend, too. That would, of course, be totally awesome.