We discussed this. I got permission to write this.

We went into this with good intentions. Maybe not the best of intentions, but still good ones. Innocent ones. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. It wasn't supposed to end like this, but it was supposed to end. Someday. But not like this.

We were so well-balanced. Not lopsided at all. Not the way my last relationship was. That was so fucking lopsided that there are many who wouldn't call it a relationship at all. Well, fuck them, I say. It most certainly was a relationship, just a very lopsided one.

Anyway.

The two of us, we were balanced. We knew each other quite well. We trusted each other. We liked each other a lot. And we'd each learned some tricks in the last three years, so that part was fantastic. And the timing was good. We needed each other. Each of us on the rebound, each of us desperately seeking distraction, neither of us looking for anything long-term, neither of us ready for anything serious.

Nothing serious with each other, I should clarify.

It was supposed to be fun, and it was certainly fun. It was supposed to be a distraction, and it was definitely that as well. It was supposed to be casual, though, and that's where we fucked up.

We didn't want to progress at all, but we did. We went from fuckbuddies to boyfriend/girlfriend before either of us realized what was happening. This was bad, because neither of us wanted that kind of relationship. Neither of us was ready for that kind of relationship.

Not with each other, I should clarify again.

So we found ourselves in a dilemma. The casual relationship we'd initially tried to have wasn't going to be enough for us, but the more serious relationship that had developed - it had developed too soon. It was doomed, from the second it began.

These torches we carry, see, they're not for each other.

We asked ourselves and each other a question.

Would we have a better chance trying to tough it out right now, or should we wait a few months and see if we're ready then?

We both came up with the same answer. Whatever might happen in a few months is irrelevant. What's relevant is that right now, there is no way we could make it work. We're both in love with someone else, and those feelings must and will take priority for us, even if they don't deserve it.

This is not about waiting or hoping for a lost love to come back into our lives. Nope, this is about acceptance. When we can accept, in our hearts, that we're alone, then that is when we'll be ready to stop being alone.

This may take a long time. It may take forever. It may never happen. Such is life, and such is love.

I'm thinking that I won't bother writing a blog entry about last night, as the title pretty much says it all.

'Cause I'm all efficient and shit.

And rabid.

And straight, in case the title made you wonder.

I'm in a pretty weird mood today. Lack of sleep I guess, the blame for which is shared equally between a bout of insomnia keeping me awake and a thunderstorm waking me up.

I want to write today. More than that, I want to be a writer. Whatever that means. Vomiting words and somehow having them splatter into readability. A Rorschach test to reveal things about the writer, and maybe about the reader as well.

You ever just have one of those lives?

I'm waiting again. That's what I do. The present holds little interest for me, and the past is annoyingly immutable, so I wait for the future. I hope that, once I finally catch up with that elusive asshole, that this will all make sense. That I'll understand why I've endured.

I need to get out of this house, and out of this mood.

It was one of my big concerns, actually, that I wouldn't let this end quietly. That, once this beast was no longer looming ahead of me but was instead standing beside me, that I'd lash out. Or at least try to defend myself.

I haven't really done that, I don't think. Nope, I'm just letting it beat the shit out of me, and hoping that it'll tire before I die.

---

Another concern is that the end will never be a part of my past. That I'll pick it up and I'll carry it with me for the rest of my days. Burdened by its weight, encumbered by it's size, but unable and unwilling to let go because it will be all that I have left to prove that I ever existed in any way that mattered.

---

I lie awake, and I doubt the truth of every word that was ever said to me.

And the amazing thing was the rapidity with which it all took place.

I never in my life saw anyone sober up so quickly, and then, once the crisis has been dealt with, I never in my life saw anyone go back to being so drunk so quickly.

It really was uncanny. I looked around for Allen Funt, but he wasn't there. I think he might be dead, come to think of it.

Anyway, I really do like to feel useful. It's all a matter of perspective, of course. What to one person is an obvious manipulation, a blatant advantage being taken, to another person - my lovely self in this case - it's nothing more than an opportunity to feel useful. These opportunities are especially welcome because I never thought they'd happen again.

HatGirl says that I should stop defining myself by what I mean to others. My response to that is that I can't think of a better measurement.

I'm just rambling now. I went to Denny's after we left Jack's, and I thought it was a lot later than it was. So now I'm wired because it's only 2:16 instead of 5:16.

If time flies when you're having fun, I guess that means it drags when you're miserable?

I didn't think I was miserable. I thought I was in a pretty good mood - it's the feeling useful thing - but I guess I was wrong. Maybe I was so miserable that I somehow looped back into a happy place.

Weird.

The thing that I can't seem to get to stick in my head is that there's nothing I can do.

I didn't do enough before. No matter how hard that is for me to accept. Even though I did so much, more than I'd have thought possible and more than most people would have done, I simply didn't do enough to be good enough.

During, I did too much. I was honest and forthcoming. Too much of each, because I was also hurting. In shock by the suddenness and the brutality of what was happening. I should have taken the time to let things digest. But, I didn't. I screwed up and I let my emotions take over. Oops, right?

And after? After, I don't know what's been going on. I've either been doing too much or too little or the exact right amount, but it doesn't matter, because it's been out of my hands, and it's still out of my hands, and I wish I could accept that fact instead of forgetting it every 10 seconds. Instead of always trying to do something, anything at all, to fix this.

I'm doing it right now, with this entry. Trying to fix things.

Wasting my time, some would say.

Standing my ground, others might counter.

I get so damn impatient sometimes. You'd really think, after all these years, that patience would be something I'd be really good at.

You'd be wrong.

I have this competitive side. Not a lot of people see it, except when I'm shooting pool, but it rears its ugly head every now and then for other things. Bowling. Horseshoes. Euchre. Darts.

Darts is what caused it to awaken tonight.

The first game, OtherDave was kicking my ass at first. I couldn't get the damn house-darts to fly straight, let alone in the direction I desired. I think he closed out everything except bulls before I closed 20s.

But, I found my elusive alignment, and I came back and I won that game. Via luck, OtherDave insisted.

The second game was a joke. Although I really was trying, OtherDave constantly accused me of fucking around as I mowed through the scores, easily winning by a score of about 11,000,000 to zero.

The third game, I threw one dart to his three darts per turn. Once I'd closed everything but bulls, I switched to throwing left-handed. I don't think OtherDave noticed - he was too busy trying to find the dartboard along with the proper words to describe his new hatred for me.

"Teach me a lesson," I implored. "I'm being a real dick right now. Make me regret it."

But alas, it was not meant to be. I won that third game as easily as I'd won the second, just with two-thirds fewer darts. And opposite-handed, at the end.

I can certainly be a dick sometimes, because of my competitive side, but I always try to make up for it in other ways.

Like tonight, I paid for his beers.

I'm not all bad.