I'm feeling jealous today. A little mad, too. These feelings will pass. They always do. Only one thing is constant.

And, before too long if it hasn't happened already, the tables will turn, and I'll be the one being envied.

I don't like these thoughts, but neither do I fight them. I just notice them and maybe use them to understand myself a little better. This stuff is interesting to me, the changes that are happening inside me. The back and forth that occurs as I try to find a new equilibrium in this new reality. I sway a lot these days, but I haven't fallen in a long time. Perhaps that power is no longer hers.

None of this can be forced. I've tried and I've failed to rush this. I just have to let it happen, and hope that eventually I'll be better. But if not, then at least I'll still be me, and not some liar denier pretender. I'd much rather be miserable and true to myself than happy and deceptive.

But still, I don't like these particular thoughts. They end badly, for they lead me to a truth that, even now, I'm not ready to accept.

I dunno. It'll pass, I suppose.

I made a choice once. No really, I did. In November.

It was the first choice I'd made since it all began. I went against every instinct and feeling that I had, and I chose to stop. To give up. To turn my back. To walk away. No matter how you want to phrase it, this thing, this last thing, this ending, it was my choice.

I won't lie; I second-guess that choice every single day. Sometimes I regret it, and sometimes I agree with it. Usually, though, I just wish I'd never found myself in a position where I had to make that choice at all.

It's a sneaky bastard, that's what it is. And fucking persistent.

I lock the doors and I bar the windows, and I think I'm safe. I'm not safe. It gets in. It wends its way through the tiniest cracks in my soul.

Hope for what, exactly?

For a chance? That time expired a long time ago.

For a miracle? Nope. Too little, too late.

Maybe, I think, for a series of miracles. At least a dozen of them, each more improbable than the last, culminating in a singularity of...

...something.

I don't know. I just don't.

To nonsensically need what I don't want. To desperately want what I don't need. To count on the impossible. To deny the inevitable. All are true, and all are false.

People say that it's good that I'm finally getting better, finally getting over this, finally moving on.

Those people can suck my dick.

Those people have no idea what it is to be me and to go through this.

To kill yourself, and hope that there's an afterlife.

Or that there's not.

I don't know how to describe this well. I know how to describe it badly, though, and so I guess that's what I'm about to do. You've been warned.

It's like I'm made, not of water and bone and goo, but of clay. Hundred of bits of clay, all stuck together. Ranging in size from that of a marble to that of, say, a baseball.

I walk around, I exist, I go through the motions of life like an actual normal person, but every now and then, a piece of me falls off. It falls off, and it hits the ground, and usually it shatters.

I always notice it, when a part of me falls like that. It's not really painful, not like it used to be, it just something I notice. On those occasions when the piece doesn't shatter, I usually pick it up and try to stick it back on, like sticking a piece of wet clay back onto its vase. It never sticks though. It always falls again. I eventually give up.

What's gone is gone, right?

Right?

But I can't help but wonder what will happen when I run out of clay. When there's nothing left of me to fall.

There, I feel better now. I've had this stupid clay metaphor stuck in my head for weeks.

Tonight CartGirl and I spent time on facebook, looking for people. My old girlfriends, her old boyfriends. First loves, last loves, friends and enemies, people like that. Just getting to know more about each other, hanging out together, having fun. Our circles overlap in a few unexpected places, that's for sure.

One of her ex-boyfriends was already on my friends list. That was weird. CartGirl says they parted amicably, so I'm not going to be weird about it the next time I see my friend.

We looked up my ex-wife's kids, who used to be my kids if you use a particular definition and squint a certain way.

I always thought I'd recognize them, if I saw them again. But I was wrong. I looked at pictures of strangers tonight. She looks like a more beautiful version of her mother now, not like the awkward toddler I remember. And he is really tall and old-looking. though the smile is the same.

I think about them every now and then, not too often, though. The appropriate amount, I think. I expect they've had a good life so far. I hope so.

So, guys can be gross.

I'll stop for a few seconds to let that sink in...

I'm pretty sure that even the most innocent girls reading this journal will know what a urinal is. Guys pee into them. While standing up. Go ahead and be jealous, we're all jealous of your ability to have multiple orgasms.

The civilized way to use a urinal is that a guy will walk up to one, unzip his pants, extract the appropriate appendage, urinate, re-tuck the aforementioned appendage, zip his pants, then walk away.

That's the civilized way to do it. Of course, there are minor variations of style. Some of us, for example, need two hands during the extraction phase, while others don't need any. Some guys will stand at the urinal for minutes, perhaps imagining waterfalls as they pray for their flow to begin before they die of starvation, while others can just let loose and it's off to the races. Some guys will issue a strong and steady stream, yet others get festive with a multi-directional spray borne of prostate problems.

But those differences are all minor, and irrelevant. The important steps remain the same.

1. Step up to the urinal.
2. Extract your junk.
3. Do your business.
4. Repack your junk.
5. Leave the urinal.

Some guys, who I will call disgusting assholes, like to mix things up a bit. Most often, they'll turn away from the urinal with their junk still flopping around. They'll walk away from the urinal while still repacking and then zipping their pants.

Less commonly, a disgusting asshole will sometimes begin unzipping and extracting the instant he enters the restroom, when he's still several feet away from the privacy of the urinal.

Here's a little secret: If you're a guy in the restroom and there's a guy leaving the urinal with his flag waving around, you're going to look. You're not going to want to look, but you're still going to do it. So then you're the guy who looked at another guy's junk, and there's not a thing you can do to erase that stigma.

Today at work I went into the restroom only to be presented with a sight of another guy's junk, as he walked from the urinal to the sink while repacking and zipping.

Although somewhat shaken by that sight, I still managed to do my business the civilized way. Then, while I was washing my hands at the sink, I was presented with the other disgusting asshole action. A guy came into the restroom, already half undressed and seeming to barely make it to the urinal.

In a single trip to the restroom, I'd experienced a double whammy.

I did get over these traumas, but I shouldn't have had to. Neither event should have happened, and they most definitely shouldn't have happened within 30 seconds of each other.

Damn, I miss that kid. We would have had a blast playing with this.

I had the weirdest dream. I can't figure most of it out.

I was living in Seattle, but with my parents. I had to go on a trip to Las Vegas, and I was trying to talk my dad into taking me to the airport, but he was being a real dick about it. And I was going to Las Vegas to marry HatGirl. The dream was very clear about it being HatGirl because I was worried that StupidGirl would get mad about it.

Apparently at some point in the past I had decided to rip, using my teeth, my shirts into little strips before I packed them into a suitcase. This was to prevent wrinkles, I think. I realized this was a bad idea when I started ripping one of my favorite shirts. Der.

At one point there was a chick who looked exactly like LaptopGirl but wasn't LaptopGirl. I was thinking that she'd be a perfect replacement for LaptopGirl, but then I thought about it and realized that I didn't want to go through all that shit again.

Very strange dream, but fun and interesting to me.

I was thinking about something earlier today, and then I thought that a good opening line for an entry would be, "I was thinking about something earlier today."

And I got so excited about my fancy new opening line that I totally forgot what I'd been thinking about.

I'm easily impressed. I think we all know that by now. And easily distra oh look a kitty!

Anyway.

I say that a lot. Anyway, I mean. I guess it's a little classier than saying um all the time.

But not by much.

And so that inkling became an idea, which quickly became a desire which even more quickly became an impulse acted upon.

No time for doubt before, only for embarrassment after. In the morning. Unnecessary, unneeded, unwarranted, unwanted embarrassment.

For what?

Beautiful, that's what it was. No other word will do it justice.

Do not be embarrassed. It was necessary. It was needed. It was beautiful.

Just like you.