I thought it was supposed to get easier as years passed. I thought the bitter sting of longing and loss lost some of its pucker, became more of an acquired taste, somehow got tempered by the sour hanging around. (Did you know that sour balances bitter in your mouth? It does. It still tastes like shit, but somehow sour is easier to swallow without gagging than bitter.) All the various slights, oversights and plain old inconsiderate rudeness that make up holidays around here brought the stinging heat of loss with them. It is easier to imagine him being soothing, sweet and considerate. I know the opposite could be true, but when the chance to live it is erased, we always imagine the best case scenario. I never imagine that he may have ended up being just as much of a pain in the ass, his family just as rude and manipulative. A large part of me resists even writing that sentence. My heart just says, "No."
I could imagine my current life before it came to fruition. Not exactly, but I knew the seed was there. I've always known I am something to keep around, for no reason I can discern. No effort is, or ever has been, made to placate me when, well, any mood other than favorable hits. So, I imagine Patrick would've been different. Patrick would've at least tried. Patrick this, Patrick that. There's probably not a whole lot of Patrick left, but fuck if the bile doesn't rise in my throat, wishing he was whole, and there, being helpful and useful.
I have to find a way to make it stop.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Total Whiny Crap
After a whopping two hours and forty five minutes of sleep, I awoke this morning with the name of a guy I didn't even know, nor did I particularly want to, running through my head. To ease my 6:00 AM brain, I, of course, looked him up online. The only mention of him I found was an article about how he bashed someone in the face with a brick in 1992 after a high school wrestling match. He was not athletic, nor full of school pride, as far as I recall anyway. I have no personal recollection of him, I just remember what he looked like. WTF?
Instead of soothing my idiotic brain, this info, or lack thereof, made it run in more and more circles. I wish my body ran as well and as often as my mind. Of course, this meant that a quick few minutes online would not be the solution to getting more sleep.
Then the music started. I could feel it more than hear it, but in my sleep deprived world, it was enough to send my mind racing in another direction. I swear someone from the stupid fucking high school band that lives in my back yard was playing the damn drums. Actually, drum, singular is more appropriate, if a drum at 6:00AM is appropriate in any way, shape or form. Luckily for me, I could only hear it on the side of the house containing my bedroom. As I was getting water, I noticed the vibration had stopped. Then I tripped over a stool and spilled my water. Whoever gets up next is either going to slip or think one of the dogs peer. Whatever. Anyway, as I was approximately halfway through the small ranch house I inhabit, returning from possibly endangering knees, butts, etc. of others, I felt the vibrations start. Fucking awesome. My room is the only room being used past the point of vibration, the extra room is right next to me and of absolutely no help in avoiding the sound.
I can assure you that when I move, I will be inquiring into any prospective town's noise ordinances before I even look at a place. If there are none, like in this town, I'm going to hang up and try elsewhere. I should have known better than to move into a town that greets Easter morning with a roving brass marching band at 3:00AM. Clearly the town has no respect for sleep. The impromptu parades, sirens, band, honking horns and all, after HIGH SCHOOL sporting event wins are another indicator that this place just ain't right.
Do you think there's a charity that supports cross country relocations due to Post Traumatic Band Disorder? If not, maybe I should start one. For the logo, I can have a (fictionalized depiction) of a guy with a tuba shoved up his ass.
Too bad earplugs won't make my bed stop shaking.
Instead of soothing my idiotic brain, this info, or lack thereof, made it run in more and more circles. I wish my body ran as well and as often as my mind. Of course, this meant that a quick few minutes online would not be the solution to getting more sleep.
Then the music started. I could feel it more than hear it, but in my sleep deprived world, it was enough to send my mind racing in another direction. I swear someone from the stupid fucking high school band that lives in my back yard was playing the damn drums. Actually, drum, singular is more appropriate, if a drum at 6:00AM is appropriate in any way, shape or form. Luckily for me, I could only hear it on the side of the house containing my bedroom. As I was getting water, I noticed the vibration had stopped. Then I tripped over a stool and spilled my water. Whoever gets up next is either going to slip or think one of the dogs peer. Whatever. Anyway, as I was approximately halfway through the small ranch house I inhabit, returning from possibly endangering knees, butts, etc. of others, I felt the vibrations start. Fucking awesome. My room is the only room being used past the point of vibration, the extra room is right next to me and of absolutely no help in avoiding the sound.
I can assure you that when I move, I will be inquiring into any prospective town's noise ordinances before I even look at a place. If there are none, like in this town, I'm going to hang up and try elsewhere. I should have known better than to move into a town that greets Easter morning with a roving brass marching band at 3:00AM. Clearly the town has no respect for sleep. The impromptu parades, sirens, band, honking horns and all, after HIGH SCHOOL sporting event wins are another indicator that this place just ain't right.
Do you think there's a charity that supports cross country relocations due to Post Traumatic Band Disorder? If not, maybe I should start one. For the logo, I can have a (fictionalized depiction) of a guy with a tuba shoved up his ass.
Too bad earplugs won't make my bed stop shaking.
Friday, November 11, 2011
I'm Gonna Change Her Name to Walter
I'm beginning to suspect that we did not find a rare breed dog in NYC's largest shelter, marked as the wrong breed, by happy chance. I think she was a breeder reject. Someone took one whiff of her ass and said, "No way in hell is anyone going to pay thousands of dollars to smell that bitch on a regular basis." Either that or she was born in the wild, like the American Dingo she is, and someone noticed a reek, went searching for the source, ("Why is there a rotting fish covered in shit in the woods?") found her, and thought it would be a great joke to set her loose on an unsuspecting household.
We noticed it the night we got her. The ride home was bumpy, and every bump I hit (in my MINI Cooper S convertible) made the dog fart. We felt bad for her, foolish morons that we are. "Mom, this dog keeps farting Every. Time. We. Hit. A. Bump. Can you Please drive better?!?!" She was terrified, so we figured she was a nervous farter, and the food in the shelter probably wasn't good for her. Our crabby old dog eats this premium grain free shit, so we figured Ms. Gas Ass would do better on that too.
Seven stinky months later, the damn dog still farts when she's nervous. And when she's annoyed. And when she's playing too rough. And when she sleeps. My favorite though, is when sneaking around makes her fart. My darling son likes to unlatch one of her crate doors at night sometimes. If Stinky Dingo wakes up, she's learned it's beneficial to nudge her doors, just in case it's one of those nights she can escape. She does it quietly, then very s.l.o.w.l.y. makes her way to the bedroom, carefully walking just out of my sight. When she reaches the comforter on the floor, she eschews her usual flop, writhe, writhe, scritch, scratch, sigh and gently eases herself to the ground. Inevitably, BBBWWWWAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPP follows. Then the stench hits my nose, I decide she's not cute enough to suffer a migraine over and I escort her back to her crate. (Stinky farts give me migraines. Yes, I am lucky.)
Sometimes she eases her way onto my son's bed. Since I don't have to smell her when she's in there, I let it go. Until I need to use the bathroom across the hall from his room, that is. As I walk down the hall, my nasal passages are assaulted by her stink cloud. Usually I've waited til the last possible second to pee, so I do that before taking her back to her crate. She'll halfway open an eye, pretending she's asleep and hasn't noticed me. SSSQQQQQUUUUUUAAAAAAACCCCCCKKKKKKK. Subtle. I've left her in there already, but by the time I had to pee again, I could see the fucking fart cloud hanging outside his room, bearing her distinctive fishy aroma. Although my son may deserve it, I can't be that cruel to his still developing brain, so I escort her back to her crate, squeaking as she walks.
Anyone want a dog?
We noticed it the night we got her. The ride home was bumpy, and every bump I hit (in my MINI Cooper S convertible) made the dog fart. We felt bad for her, foolish morons that we are. "Mom, this dog keeps farting Every. Time. We. Hit. A. Bump. Can you Please drive better?!?!" She was terrified, so we figured she was a nervous farter, and the food in the shelter probably wasn't good for her. Our crabby old dog eats this premium grain free shit, so we figured Ms. Gas Ass would do better on that too.
Seven stinky months later, the damn dog still farts when she's nervous. And when she's annoyed. And when she's playing too rough. And when she sleeps. My favorite though, is when sneaking around makes her fart. My darling son likes to unlatch one of her crate doors at night sometimes. If Stinky Dingo wakes up, she's learned it's beneficial to nudge her doors, just in case it's one of those nights she can escape. She does it quietly, then very s.l.o.w.l.y. makes her way to the bedroom, carefully walking just out of my sight. When she reaches the comforter on the floor, she eschews her usual flop, writhe, writhe, scritch, scratch, sigh and gently eases herself to the ground. Inevitably, BBBWWWWAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPP follows. Then the stench hits my nose, I decide she's not cute enough to suffer a migraine over and I escort her back to her crate. (Stinky farts give me migraines. Yes, I am lucky.)
Sometimes she eases her way onto my son's bed. Since I don't have to smell her when she's in there, I let it go. Until I need to use the bathroom across the hall from his room, that is. As I walk down the hall, my nasal passages are assaulted by her stink cloud. Usually I've waited til the last possible second to pee, so I do that before taking her back to her crate. She'll halfway open an eye, pretending she's asleep and hasn't noticed me. SSSQQQQQUUUUUUAAAAAAACCCCCCKKKKKKK. Subtle. I've left her in there already, but by the time I had to pee again, I could see the fucking fart cloud hanging outside his room, bearing her distinctive fishy aroma. Although my son may deserve it, I can't be that cruel to his still developing brain, so I escort her back to her crate, squeaking as she walks.
Anyone want a dog?
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Dear John,
Happy Birthday. I hope today finds you safe, healthy and happy. I know you love fall (even though I still can't understand why), if you are not living somewhere fall has the crispness in the air we do here, I hope you got to visit somewhere that does. I can still picture you trying to explain to me why fall is your favorite season, and why I should stop my campaign of hatred against it. :). I still haven't stopped fighting it. Maybe I'll just never learn in general, but learning to love, or even tolerate fall specifically just isn't going to happen.
Jane's Addiction was on the radio yesterday. As it always does, it reminded me of you. Whenever I hear those dogs barking in the beginning, I smile and am whisked back in time, to that dark basement so many years ago. The spastic flailing you called dancing still makes me giggle in a mixture of horror and amusement. Do you own a comb yet? Oh my. I hadn't considered this before ... Are you gray yet? How about bald? Do you still end up with your glasses tipping off your face by the end of the night? I always thought you looked sort of like a mad professor. Do you still?
I know you had started running and sailing, and stopped smoking after Gumby died. Have you kept up with these things? If they make you happy, I hope you have. I hope you are happy. Really and truly happy. You deserve it. Ever since the night we met, the night I convinced Gumby to play that song so you'd dance with me, then had no idea what to do with what I got when it finally happened, I've wanted you to be happy. I'm glad I got to make you smile and laugh. I hope you have someone who does the same now. I never bought your "solitary life is fine" story. I hope you've stopped trying to buy it too.
Although, I suppose I do have mixed feelings about this. Mostly because I've sworn that should I ever find you again, I won't waste any time in telling you what you meant to me, and if you've got everything you need, that'd make it pretty awkward for us both, but I think the likelihood of that happening is slim to none at this point, so I guess I'll just try to be unselfish and hope you don't even miss me. :)
Love,
Me
Jane's Addiction was on the radio yesterday. As it always does, it reminded me of you. Whenever I hear those dogs barking in the beginning, I smile and am whisked back in time, to that dark basement so many years ago. The spastic flailing you called dancing still makes me giggle in a mixture of horror and amusement. Do you own a comb yet? Oh my. I hadn't considered this before ... Are you gray yet? How about bald? Do you still end up with your glasses tipping off your face by the end of the night? I always thought you looked sort of like a mad professor. Do you still?
I know you had started running and sailing, and stopped smoking after Gumby died. Have you kept up with these things? If they make you happy, I hope you have. I hope you are happy. Really and truly happy. You deserve it. Ever since the night we met, the night I convinced Gumby to play that song so you'd dance with me, then had no idea what to do with what I got when it finally happened, I've wanted you to be happy. I'm glad I got to make you smile and laugh. I hope you have someone who does the same now. I never bought your "solitary life is fine" story. I hope you've stopped trying to buy it too.
Although, I suppose I do have mixed feelings about this. Mostly because I've sworn that should I ever find you again, I won't waste any time in telling you what you meant to me, and if you've got everything you need, that'd make it pretty awkward for us both, but I think the likelihood of that happening is slim to none at this point, so I guess I'll just try to be unselfish and hope you don't even miss me. :)
Love,
Me
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Family
When I iwas younger, the idea of stability and family was horrifying, completely and utterly horrifying. My relationships clearly showed this terror. Now, I just wish I had what terrified me before. My grandmothers were never what you'd classify "sane", but apparently decorum and marriage reigned them both in. Now that both are widows, "cunt" works pretty well as a descriptive term. Uh huh. Yeah, I just went there. I called both my dear, sweet grandmothers cunts. I'm not wrong.
An example: My brother, his wife, their 19 month old daughter and five week old son drove eight hours to visit my parents last weekend. We'll just ignore them and focus on the cunt. (Backstory -- the cunt lives up the street from me. I haven't seen her since before my 9 year old son called and invited her to his 7th birthday dinner, and she never responded, in any way.) I happened to be there when the cunt got there. My brother and his wife held back their dogs as dear, sweet grandma said hello to my brother and sniffed and scowled toward his wife. Five minutes later she realized his wife was not, in fact, me, and stated, while sitting next to me, "Oh Holly, I'm sorry. Hi! How are you? I thought you were Megan before." Uh huh. I managed to avoid pummeling her and lasted a whole fifteen minutes before leaving. *pats self on back* It should be noted that I have two heroin addict cousins who are both in and out of jail. She was speaking highly of both of them, while studiously ignoring me.
Cunt.
The other side of my son's family is about the same as my family, so the poor kid has no one but his dad and me. I can barely tolerate his dad, but I try (most of the time). Except I'm kinda getting tired of trying. I have this notion that it would be nice to not have to try, or at least not have to try so hard, to be able to stand the person with whom I live. Or maybe just live alone and see how that goes. Novel concept, huh?
This is all fine and dandy until I think too hard about the fact that I haven't worked in well over ten years, since two weeks after my close friend passed away, in fact. I made one, possibly two shifts after his death, and that was it. Over this time, I've lost any ability to take shit that doesn't keep a roof over my head. Hmm, I guess maybe I could look at a job that way, huh? I have just never had one that pays enough to do just that, keep a roof over my head. *sigh* So then I come back around to "Is it really that horrible to deal with stupidity and selfishness and not have to leave the house to do so?" But then there's that whole lack of a family, ever issue. Grrrrr.
I guess this is just a long winded way of saying I need to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. It's been two and q half years since the only goal I had was taken from the earth. I suppose it's time to make a goal that doesn't include someone who may not make it to see the goal line. Yuck.
An example: My brother, his wife, their 19 month old daughter and five week old son drove eight hours to visit my parents last weekend. We'll just ignore them and focus on the cunt. (Backstory -- the cunt lives up the street from me. I haven't seen her since before my 9 year old son called and invited her to his 7th birthday dinner, and she never responded, in any way.) I happened to be there when the cunt got there. My brother and his wife held back their dogs as dear, sweet grandma said hello to my brother and sniffed and scowled toward his wife. Five minutes later she realized his wife was not, in fact, me, and stated, while sitting next to me, "Oh Holly, I'm sorry. Hi! How are you? I thought you were Megan before." Uh huh. I managed to avoid pummeling her and lasted a whole fifteen minutes before leaving. *pats self on back* It should be noted that I have two heroin addict cousins who are both in and out of jail. She was speaking highly of both of them, while studiously ignoring me.
Cunt.
The other side of my son's family is about the same as my family, so the poor kid has no one but his dad and me. I can barely tolerate his dad, but I try (most of the time). Except I'm kinda getting tired of trying. I have this notion that it would be nice to not have to try, or at least not have to try so hard, to be able to stand the person with whom I live. Or maybe just live alone and see how that goes. Novel concept, huh?
This is all fine and dandy until I think too hard about the fact that I haven't worked in well over ten years, since two weeks after my close friend passed away, in fact. I made one, possibly two shifts after his death, and that was it. Over this time, I've lost any ability to take shit that doesn't keep a roof over my head. Hmm, I guess maybe I could look at a job that way, huh? I have just never had one that pays enough to do just that, keep a roof over my head. *sigh* So then I come back around to "Is it really that horrible to deal with stupidity and selfishness and not have to leave the house to do so?" But then there's that whole lack of a family, ever issue. Grrrrr.
I guess this is just a long winded way of saying I need to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. It's been two and q half years since the only goal I had was taken from the earth. I suppose it's time to make a goal that doesn't include someone who may not make it to see the goal line. Yuck.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Rioting
Yesterday I went to some all day music festival featuring a bunch of punk bands that were last famous in approximately 1996. There was a flood warning, a 70% chance of thunderstorms, we were supposed to sell merchandise for 12 full hours, and my two friends and I were not excited. In fact, we were all thinking of bailing. Then we went through 15 lots trying to find the one we "couldn't miss".
Luckily for us, as soon as we got there, our luck changed, thanks to corporate greed. Turns out the promoters won't allow the bands to sell their own items. All we had to do was check them in, their employees do the rest, and, naturally, take a cut. Suddenly, our long dreary day brightened considerably, both literally and figuratively.
We went to a bar down the street and drank for a few hours. $100 (for me) and a new friend (also for me) later we went back to the venue. I changed in the parking lot and waited while my friends used the porta potties. I butted into a conversation going on next to me to pass the time. (Three minutes feels like three hours when I'm drunk and bored.) Some guys were talking to a slightly older dude about who they were excited to see. Older dude mentioned something about coming from Oregon. My eyebrows shot up, I made a confused/disgusted face and I asked what band there was so fucking exciting that it was worth traveling from Oregon. The two other guys dropped their jaws and did a little confused giggling. Then they realized my question was serious. Turns out his band was what was so fucking exciting. Ooops. I apologized, threw in a comment about how my friend wanted me to buy his band's shirt for him, and started confusing Portland for a state. He was from Bend. I bet they were glad when my friends were finished peeing and we left. It was 2:30PM.
I got bitten and my ass slapped repeatedly, by my friends. I have no idea why they did it, but after a dozen bruises showing on my arm, I bit back. Apparently I bit hard, they stopped. Over the next several hours, I collected new friends and generally just enjoyed being a wasted, but not belligerent fool. I had like four text messages from people I don't know when I looked at my phone this morning. Awesome.
By the time the bigger named bands started playing, I was getting tired. I sat down on a bench and started nodding off. Some guy was sitting on the back of the bench, and I oh so politely inquired as to wether I might just rest my head against him to sleep for a bit. It was 7:00 PM. We missed the headliner, forgot to collect the stuff, and left some other stuff in the car, and headed home. I was in my house by 11:00PM. Awesome. Too bad I'm so old, back in the day I would've lasted at least another few hours. Well, I probably also would've ended up puking or making out with a stranger, so I guess I'll take the trade off. Maybe.
Luckily for us, as soon as we got there, our luck changed, thanks to corporate greed. Turns out the promoters won't allow the bands to sell their own items. All we had to do was check them in, their employees do the rest, and, naturally, take a cut. Suddenly, our long dreary day brightened considerably, both literally and figuratively.
We went to a bar down the street and drank for a few hours. $100 (for me) and a new friend (also for me) later we went back to the venue. I changed in the parking lot and waited while my friends used the porta potties. I butted into a conversation going on next to me to pass the time. (Three minutes feels like three hours when I'm drunk and bored.) Some guys were talking to a slightly older dude about who they were excited to see. Older dude mentioned something about coming from Oregon. My eyebrows shot up, I made a confused/disgusted face and I asked what band there was so fucking exciting that it was worth traveling from Oregon. The two other guys dropped their jaws and did a little confused giggling. Then they realized my question was serious. Turns out his band was what was so fucking exciting. Ooops. I apologized, threw in a comment about how my friend wanted me to buy his band's shirt for him, and started confusing Portland for a state. He was from Bend. I bet they were glad when my friends were finished peeing and we left. It was 2:30PM.
I got bitten and my ass slapped repeatedly, by my friends. I have no idea why they did it, but after a dozen bruises showing on my arm, I bit back. Apparently I bit hard, they stopped. Over the next several hours, I collected new friends and generally just enjoyed being a wasted, but not belligerent fool. I had like four text messages from people I don't know when I looked at my phone this morning. Awesome.
By the time the bigger named bands started playing, I was getting tired. I sat down on a bench and started nodding off. Some guy was sitting on the back of the bench, and I oh so politely inquired as to wether I might just rest my head against him to sleep for a bit. It was 7:00 PM. We missed the headliner, forgot to collect the stuff, and left some other stuff in the car, and headed home. I was in my house by 11:00PM. Awesome. Too bad I'm so old, back in the day I would've lasted at least another few hours. Well, I probably also would've ended up puking or making out with a stranger, so I guess I'll take the trade off. Maybe.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Why
Every now and then I find myself curled in a ball, asking why it seems like I have nothing I want. I wonder what I did to deserve this life, and generally feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I remember things like the way I treated Harvey. Then I don't really question why any more.
I knew he was in trouble as soon as his jaw dropped as I entered his freshman dorm room one hot August night. One of my co-workers started attending the college where I had been partying, so I stopped by to visit him during his freshmen orientation week. I hadn't really felt like changing after my shift at the movie theatre, so I left my grandfather's white button down shirt where it was, and exchanged my baggy pants for a holey old pair of jean shorts I had borrowed from a male friend and never returned. Since the shorts were so full of holes, I wore paisley boxers underneath them. To top off my oh-so-stylish look, I was sporting steel toed black combat boots. Uh huh. Poor Harvey had never seen anything quite like me up close.
Within five minutes, I realized that their next door neighbor, and RA, was the only ex I had on campus. Awesome. Harvey's jaw dropped a little further when the guy who was supposed to be helping them adjust walked in, and I ripped him apart, in their room. I stuck around for an hour or two, then clomped off to the fraternity basement where I spent a lot of time. Harvey came to a few parties with my friend, but it wasn't really his scene.
He mostly came to see me. His frank confusion in my presence amused the hell out of me, so I suppose I encouraged him in his very mild mannered pursuit of me. Eventually, he grabbed me and kissed me. We made out for a liitle while. His clumsy kisses did nothing to endear him to me. Finding out that he had never made out with anyone before did though. Actually, it endeared him to me, and put an instant block in my head at the same time, for I had a three year old daughter. It was she who named him Harvey, after repeatedly pretending she couldn't remember his real name.
Throughout the next year to year and a half, Harvey was around the periphery of my life. Quite frankly, I treated him like shit. I made out with him sporadically, while wishing he'd go away, or be more fun, or stand up to me, or something, anything but putting up with my rude bullshit. He'd buy us concert tickets, I'd make plans to meet other guys there and ignore him. I'd stand with him at parties, pondering out loud the best way to approach a hot guy. He was never rude, or mean, or even snotty.
Every now and then he'd find a way to quietly and respectfully call me out. That was enough to make me give in and be nicer for a short time. While all this was happening, the rest of my life was spiraling out of control. I attended, and failed out of his college. I descended into the bottom of a drink cup, puking or blacking out every night. Through it all, Harvey was my calm in the middle of the storm. Whenever I needed to just be, no drinking or entertaining, or trying, I'd go to him.
One night I had puked three or four times by 6PM. Everyone around passed out. I had plans for some friends to pick me up to go to the bar in a few hours, and knew that if I fell asleep, I was done for the night. I went to Harvey's. He lost his virginity. Afterward, I got up and puked all over his bathroom. The thing was, Harvey was good. We clicked there, even though I had spent a long time avoiding it.
Unfortunately, his lean, muscular body above my own pudgy, abused body created an even bigger rift in my head. Seeing him like that reminded me that he was too good for me. Instead of approaching that properly, I continued things as they had been, with the addition of sex followed by puking. I can only hope he never had to resolve a sex = her puking issue later. For a few months, I knocked on his door when I wanted to be sober and watch cartoons, or when I was drunk and lonely.
One night the guilt hit me after my wave of nausea. I looked up at him and slurred, "I hope you're not in love with me or anything cuz I've been fucking a few other guys." The look on his face cut through my drunken stupor. I left. A few days later, he asked if I remembered saying that. I told him that I did, and that it was true, but I didn't apologize. Within a few weeks, he had dropped out, and left for good.
I knew he was in trouble as soon as his jaw dropped as I entered his freshman dorm room one hot August night. One of my co-workers started attending the college where I had been partying, so I stopped by to visit him during his freshmen orientation week. I hadn't really felt like changing after my shift at the movie theatre, so I left my grandfather's white button down shirt where it was, and exchanged my baggy pants for a holey old pair of jean shorts I had borrowed from a male friend and never returned. Since the shorts were so full of holes, I wore paisley boxers underneath them. To top off my oh-so-stylish look, I was sporting steel toed black combat boots. Uh huh. Poor Harvey had never seen anything quite like me up close.
Within five minutes, I realized that their next door neighbor, and RA, was the only ex I had on campus. Awesome. Harvey's jaw dropped a little further when the guy who was supposed to be helping them adjust walked in, and I ripped him apart, in their room. I stuck around for an hour or two, then clomped off to the fraternity basement where I spent a lot of time. Harvey came to a few parties with my friend, but it wasn't really his scene.
He mostly came to see me. His frank confusion in my presence amused the hell out of me, so I suppose I encouraged him in his very mild mannered pursuit of me. Eventually, he grabbed me and kissed me. We made out for a liitle while. His clumsy kisses did nothing to endear him to me. Finding out that he had never made out with anyone before did though. Actually, it endeared him to me, and put an instant block in my head at the same time, for I had a three year old daughter. It was she who named him Harvey, after repeatedly pretending she couldn't remember his real name.
Throughout the next year to year and a half, Harvey was around the periphery of my life. Quite frankly, I treated him like shit. I made out with him sporadically, while wishing he'd go away, or be more fun, or stand up to me, or something, anything but putting up with my rude bullshit. He'd buy us concert tickets, I'd make plans to meet other guys there and ignore him. I'd stand with him at parties, pondering out loud the best way to approach a hot guy. He was never rude, or mean, or even snotty.
Every now and then he'd find a way to quietly and respectfully call me out. That was enough to make me give in and be nicer for a short time. While all this was happening, the rest of my life was spiraling out of control. I attended, and failed out of his college. I descended into the bottom of a drink cup, puking or blacking out every night. Through it all, Harvey was my calm in the middle of the storm. Whenever I needed to just be, no drinking or entertaining, or trying, I'd go to him.
One night I had puked three or four times by 6PM. Everyone around passed out. I had plans for some friends to pick me up to go to the bar in a few hours, and knew that if I fell asleep, I was done for the night. I went to Harvey's. He lost his virginity. Afterward, I got up and puked all over his bathroom. The thing was, Harvey was good. We clicked there, even though I had spent a long time avoiding it.
Unfortunately, his lean, muscular body above my own pudgy, abused body created an even bigger rift in my head. Seeing him like that reminded me that he was too good for me. Instead of approaching that properly, I continued things as they had been, with the addition of sex followed by puking. I can only hope he never had to resolve a sex = her puking issue later. For a few months, I knocked on his door when I wanted to be sober and watch cartoons, or when I was drunk and lonely.
One night the guilt hit me after my wave of nausea. I looked up at him and slurred, "I hope you're not in love with me or anything cuz I've been fucking a few other guys." The look on his face cut through my drunken stupor. I left. A few days later, he asked if I remembered saying that. I told him that I did, and that it was true, but I didn't apologize. Within a few weeks, he had dropped out, and left for good.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Happy Birthday
Dear PMOB,
I didn't forget you, nor the fact that it's your birthday. I didn't forget Kelly's two days ago either. I'm just wound too tight to even think right now. I wish you were here. Maybe more than anything.
Love,
Me
I didn't forget you, nor the fact that it's your birthday. I didn't forget Kelly's two days ago either. I'm just wound too tight to even think right now. I wish you were here. Maybe more than anything.
Love,
Me
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Alive
I sent him a text message saying something about the last text of the year, the last time I'd be bugging him, whatever. Then my phone died, but it was crappy and old and the charger was falling apart so I peed and did some other stuff before I was able to check my messages. I was really just checking with a bit of hope in my heart, I had no real expectation that I'd hear back from him. It had been months since the last time he pushed me away. I was happily surprised to find a message. My heart sunk when I saw that it began, "This is Tom for Patrick . . ." My phone screen died, and after a few minutes of frantically trying to repair the screen, I picked up the house phone and called him. He answered, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We chatted for awhile, then he dropped him bombshell. He had been screwing around with his guitar at an open mic somewhere and members of a band had approached him and asked him to play a riff from one of their songs. He played it and fell in love, he said it just felt right. The feeling was mutual, and the band asked him to join them. In CA. He had agreed. Trying to feign happiness and hide the fear and pain in my voice, I asked if I could come see him before he left. He released an anxious sigh hiding behind his voice, and said yes.
Of course I went over. The second he saw me, he grabbed both my hands and looked at me in his way, a way I know well, a way that causes as much joy as pain. When I was once again unable to be angry with him, he relaxed visibly, and started telling me all about the new life waiting for him on the other side of the country. Some of his new bandmates were there, answering questions, and helping him get ready to move across the country. Of course they were female. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and vomit because he was still holding both my hands.
I politely asked some questions regarding how many gigs the band played and whether or not he'd be able to afford to live. They played a promo video for me. I bit back my concern about the claim that they played "100% of NASCAR races in our area." Uh, aren"t those races usually only held in a location once, maybe twice a year? His new bandmate saw my concern and assured me Patrick would be paid well and have plenty of time to enjoy his new life.
As I was hovering between despair over losing him, worry that he would be OK, and happiness for his new chance at life, he looked me in the eyes and kissed me. I sighed, and landed on "happy for him". He could tell. Right in the middle of the room, he started taking off his shirt to show me what, in his words, "might be the most shocking thing of all", three large tattoos. The largest was a cartoon version of an anatomically correct heart, enlarged and covering his chest. Another covered his forearm, something with a lot of black and gray, the third was blades of grass below his waist line. As he was explaining them to me, he was raising my shirt and lowering me to the floor. I briefly considered the others in the room, and decided I didn't care as long as I got to feel him next to me. He offered to turn around so I could see his blades of grass. I traced them with my fingers and assured him I could very well imagine how they looked.
And then . . . Skin, glorious skin on skin contact as, once again, the others in the room crossed my mind. I closed my eyes and savored the feel of him, welcoming the illusion that all was right in the world as long as he was there, touching me. My soul swam in him. For a few glorious moments, nothing else mattered. As I began to consider how far he'd go with others in the room, he got up rather abruptly.
He'd remembered he was supposed to be packing, and was frantically trying to find something he needed. Since he was moving so far, space was rather limited, but there was a drawer full of door knobs and keys he wanted to bring, so he started moving his luggage around, trying to find a place to put them. I walked over, rearranged some of his things, and reached into his drawer of keys and door knobs at the same time he did. Our hands met, and as we looked at each other, I knew I was handing him his keys to freedom, to a better life. As much as it broke my heart, I was able to see that, and I was happy for him.
Just as the pain and joy for him were bubbling together in my heart, an antacid was dropped into the mix. I could feel the happiness being sucked away as I remembered that he was gone. A sinking feeling told me he would not achieve his dreams, because I was having a dream. I tried to grab his hand, to look at him again, but he was gone. I gasped and sobbed, and finally opened my eyes to reveal the room I share with a man who doesn't love me and a world that has mercilessly been reminding me of Patrick these last few weeks.
As I choked on my tears, I remembered angrily telling him in my head recently that if he wanted to tell me something, he'd have to do it in a dream, as I couldn't take all the weird reminders any more. Guess I got my wish.
We chatted for awhile, then he dropped him bombshell. He had been screwing around with his guitar at an open mic somewhere and members of a band had approached him and asked him to play a riff from one of their songs. He played it and fell in love, he said it just felt right. The feeling was mutual, and the band asked him to join them. In CA. He had agreed. Trying to feign happiness and hide the fear and pain in my voice, I asked if I could come see him before he left. He released an anxious sigh hiding behind his voice, and said yes.
Of course I went over. The second he saw me, he grabbed both my hands and looked at me in his way, a way I know well, a way that causes as much joy as pain. When I was once again unable to be angry with him, he relaxed visibly, and started telling me all about the new life waiting for him on the other side of the country. Some of his new bandmates were there, answering questions, and helping him get ready to move across the country. Of course they were female. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and vomit because he was still holding both my hands.
I politely asked some questions regarding how many gigs the band played and whether or not he'd be able to afford to live. They played a promo video for me. I bit back my concern about the claim that they played "100% of NASCAR races in our area." Uh, aren"t those races usually only held in a location once, maybe twice a year? His new bandmate saw my concern and assured me Patrick would be paid well and have plenty of time to enjoy his new life.
As I was hovering between despair over losing him, worry that he would be OK, and happiness for his new chance at life, he looked me in the eyes and kissed me. I sighed, and landed on "happy for him". He could tell. Right in the middle of the room, he started taking off his shirt to show me what, in his words, "might be the most shocking thing of all", three large tattoos. The largest was a cartoon version of an anatomically correct heart, enlarged and covering his chest. Another covered his forearm, something with a lot of black and gray, the third was blades of grass below his waist line. As he was explaining them to me, he was raising my shirt and lowering me to the floor. I briefly considered the others in the room, and decided I didn't care as long as I got to feel him next to me. He offered to turn around so I could see his blades of grass. I traced them with my fingers and assured him I could very well imagine how they looked.
And then . . . Skin, glorious skin on skin contact as, once again, the others in the room crossed my mind. I closed my eyes and savored the feel of him, welcoming the illusion that all was right in the world as long as he was there, touching me. My soul swam in him. For a few glorious moments, nothing else mattered. As I began to consider how far he'd go with others in the room, he got up rather abruptly.
He'd remembered he was supposed to be packing, and was frantically trying to find something he needed. Since he was moving so far, space was rather limited, but there was a drawer full of door knobs and keys he wanted to bring, so he started moving his luggage around, trying to find a place to put them. I walked over, rearranged some of his things, and reached into his drawer of keys and door knobs at the same time he did. Our hands met, and as we looked at each other, I knew I was handing him his keys to freedom, to a better life. As much as it broke my heart, I was able to see that, and I was happy for him.
Just as the pain and joy for him were bubbling together in my heart, an antacid was dropped into the mix. I could feel the happiness being sucked away as I remembered that he was gone. A sinking feeling told me he would not achieve his dreams, because I was having a dream. I tried to grab his hand, to look at him again, but he was gone. I gasped and sobbed, and finally opened my eyes to reveal the room I share with a man who doesn't love me and a world that has mercilessly been reminding me of Patrick these last few weeks.
As I choked on my tears, I remembered angrily telling him in my head recently that if he wanted to tell me something, he'd have to do it in a dream, as I couldn't take all the weird reminders any more. Guess I got my wish.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Stream of Something
Since it's the time of year when I met Chris, I was trying to remember some times with him that aren't tainted. One of those days included attending a Blueberry Festival where the yearly event was being held this Saturday. Events with him have gotten all too blurred together, and I'm not quite sure why, but it also doesn't matter enough to think about it too much. I'm pretty sure that was the first time we went out alone, I'm fairly positive the first time we went out alone we had sex. I just don't really remember the details.
In any case, I saw him last week, my purple hair with dark roots blazing and a newly "adopted" 5 lb ball of fluff in my arms. I saw someone who could've been one of his friends and didn't think much of it. I saw a guy who kinda looked like Chris himself, but didn't think much of it. He's one of those average, not really distinctive looking guys. I see people who kinda look like him fairly often. This time, however, the possible Chris dropped his jaw upon seeing me and starting grinding his teeth. Next came the furious texting. Bingo!! We have a winner! (?). Definitely Chris.
Normally this would have sent me into a gut clenching panic. Just the look of disgust on his face is enough to make my intestines roil in turmoil. Thankfully I haven't seen him that often over the years since we broke up. This time, however, seeing the disapproving grimace of the man who impregnated me twice, but fathered neither of my children, didn't bother me. His scowl almost made me laugh in his face. "Guess what, bitch? Your disapproval no longer means a thing to me. I don't need to be good enough for you anymore." Instead of getting upset, or saying anything at all, I pretended I didn't notice him, and walked on, carrying my ball of fluff.
That ball of fluff, by the way, is the most fucking annoying 5lbs of cute on the face of planet. Seriously. As I type, I am listening to her hideous cries as she rails against crate training. At first I felt bad for her, but, shit, I've done everything "right" for crate training this bitch and she still howls and yaps like she is either possessed or being murdered. I think she's supposed to be over it already. She's not even close to over it. I, however, am over it. I've found myself thinking, "Well, she's so small, her shit is tiny and easy to clean, maybe I don't care if she's ever trained." I suspect this same reasoning is why many poorly trained 5lb balls of yapping fluff exist. Instead, I'm hoping she eventually takes the hint from our dingo, and shuts the fuck up unless it's necessary. I'm not holding my breath though. Sometimes I hope she'll hold hers . . . But man is it cute to watch her little puppy butt following my son all over the house.
Yes, I am an idiot, thank you very much.
In any case, I saw him last week, my purple hair with dark roots blazing and a newly "adopted" 5 lb ball of fluff in my arms. I saw someone who could've been one of his friends and didn't think much of it. I saw a guy who kinda looked like Chris himself, but didn't think much of it. He's one of those average, not really distinctive looking guys. I see people who kinda look like him fairly often. This time, however, the possible Chris dropped his jaw upon seeing me and starting grinding his teeth. Next came the furious texting. Bingo!! We have a winner! (?). Definitely Chris.
Normally this would have sent me into a gut clenching panic. Just the look of disgust on his face is enough to make my intestines roil in turmoil. Thankfully I haven't seen him that often over the years since we broke up. This time, however, seeing the disapproving grimace of the man who impregnated me twice, but fathered neither of my children, didn't bother me. His scowl almost made me laugh in his face. "Guess what, bitch? Your disapproval no longer means a thing to me. I don't need to be good enough for you anymore." Instead of getting upset, or saying anything at all, I pretended I didn't notice him, and walked on, carrying my ball of fluff.
That ball of fluff, by the way, is the most fucking annoying 5lbs of cute on the face of planet. Seriously. As I type, I am listening to her hideous cries as she rails against crate training. At first I felt bad for her, but, shit, I've done everything "right" for crate training this bitch and she still howls and yaps like she is either possessed or being murdered. I think she's supposed to be over it already. She's not even close to over it. I, however, am over it. I've found myself thinking, "Well, she's so small, her shit is tiny and easy to clean, maybe I don't care if she's ever trained." I suspect this same reasoning is why many poorly trained 5lb balls of yapping fluff exist. Instead, I'm hoping she eventually takes the hint from our dingo, and shuts the fuck up unless it's necessary. I'm not holding my breath though. Sometimes I hope she'll hold hers . . . But man is it cute to watch her little puppy butt following my son all over the house.
Yes, I am an idiot, thank you very much.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Vulture
Starting in September, once a week I will be teaching recycled sewing and crafts to ten homeschooled freaks children. I volunteered for the position, mostly because I'm a sucker, and no one else wanted to do it. I'm pretty sure most people do it to receive free classes for their own children. I'm not sure which reason is better. Pete thinks I volunteered simply so I have a handy reason to explain the water bottles and soda cans I leave scattered piled throughout the house. He's wrong. I need no excuses for my messy laziness, I own that shit.
In theory, I love the idea of recycling objects for new projects. It costs a lot less than buying new materials, it keeps all sorts of crap out of landfills, and it's kinda neat breathing new life into what was once a discard pile. In practice, I suck and my house is becoming a landfill. That doesn't stop my sporadic scouring forold vintage fabrics, toys and ephemera to be (theoretically) torn, ripped, or cut apart and reassembled or assimilated into something that will make people say "What??". (I go for the art explanation, that way when people think I'm fucking nuts for turning ugly old sweaters into a mostly useless giraffe "stole", I can just blame them for not being whatever enough to appreciate me.)
Thrift stores, antique malls and flea markets have become possible treasure troves rather than a wrinkled nosed "quick, get me out of here" place of disdain. I found an Armani skirt in my local thrift store, damn it. I tend to stick to paying ten dollars or less for mycrap exciting finds. The piles of bags keep mounting.
In this quest for cheap crap, we have discovered an antique mall that holds a monthly auction. Some of the bids for items there are ridiculous. Of course I want that baggie full of rusty old keys for $2! I can feel myself getting stupid though. With the first round of bids we ever placed, some of mine were simply to be an asshole because I realized a particularly bitchy vendor there buys stuff super cheap on garage sale days or through the auction room, repackages it, and adds a 1000% mark up. Yes, I realize they all do it, but they don't all purchase in the same damn building! Do I really want an orange crate full of matches for $5? Uh, no, but that bitch puts ten in a bag and charges $3 per bag, so, theoretically, it's like buying 2 of her bags, only better, cuz I get more stuff. Yeah, I might have to stay away from the auction room.
Anyway, the auction room there has made me consider other, live auctions. My great aunt and uncle live a few blocks from my parents' house in the one square mile town that was also home to my grandparents and great-grandparents while I was a child (the physical age kind, not the mental kind, thanks). Most of their neighbors have lived there my whole life too. The neighbors (not my aunt and uncle, damn it!) are all getting old, and passing away. One of their closest neighbors, both in proximity and friendliness, passed away last month. She left behind her husband of like 53 years and no one else. I haven't seen him in awhile, so I think he must be in ill health as well. Since there are no relatives to squabble over possessions, the house and its contents will be auctioned this weekend. I know they took pride in their home and their possessions, so I thought theirs might be a good auction to start my foray into live bidding.
I looked up the auction house online and checked out the pictures of items for sale.
I don't want to go anymore.
It honestly appears this woman has kept every piece of her childhood. No, not in general hoarder fashion. Notebooks containing cards are ordered, neat and clean. Toys are still in boxes. Also, 80 years ago, people simply weren't swimming in crap the way we are now. Possessions weren't disposable. They also didn't have kids messing with their shit. I think maybe it's the childless thing that makes me sad, but I'm not sure, it could just be because she was a lifelong fixture, not necessarily a prominent one, but there nonetheless. I do know that looking at her carefully preserved, 80 year old childhood objects about to be sold to the highest bidder makes me very unhappy. What right do I have to gloat over finding a mint condition whatever for $5? It meant more than that to the owner, or it wouldn't still be around. I just feel like a vulture swooping in, and picking over the pieces of a life that will be forgotten in however many years it takes for those who knew her to die. Those family photos are just neat old pictures to anyone else. I don't know what it really is, but I don't like the feeling of profiting from death. Of course, the other old stuff I buy could be selling for the same reason, but I don't know that for sure. I think it's the knowing that messes with me.
In theory, I love the idea of recycling objects for new projects. It costs a lot less than buying new materials, it keeps all sorts of crap out of landfills, and it's kinda neat breathing new life into what was once a discard pile. In practice, I suck and my house is becoming a landfill. That doesn't stop my sporadic scouring for
Thrift stores, antique malls and flea markets have become possible treasure troves rather than a wrinkled nosed "quick, get me out of here" place of disdain. I found an Armani skirt in my local thrift store, damn it. I tend to stick to paying ten dollars or less for my
In this quest for cheap crap, we have discovered an antique mall that holds a monthly auction. Some of the bids for items there are ridiculous. Of course I want that baggie full of rusty old keys for $2! I can feel myself getting stupid though. With the first round of bids we ever placed, some of mine were simply to be an asshole because I realized a particularly bitchy vendor there buys stuff super cheap on garage sale days or through the auction room, repackages it, and adds a 1000% mark up. Yes, I realize they all do it, but they don't all purchase in the same damn building! Do I really want an orange crate full of matches for $5? Uh, no, but that bitch puts ten in a bag and charges $3 per bag, so, theoretically, it's like buying 2 of her bags, only better, cuz I get more stuff. Yeah, I might have to stay away from the auction room.
Anyway, the auction room there has made me consider other, live auctions. My great aunt and uncle live a few blocks from my parents' house in the one square mile town that was also home to my grandparents and great-grandparents while I was a child (the physical age kind, not the mental kind, thanks). Most of their neighbors have lived there my whole life too. The neighbors (not my aunt and uncle, damn it!) are all getting old, and passing away. One of their closest neighbors, both in proximity and friendliness, passed away last month. She left behind her husband of like 53 years and no one else. I haven't seen him in awhile, so I think he must be in ill health as well. Since there are no relatives to squabble over possessions, the house and its contents will be auctioned this weekend. I know they took pride in their home and their possessions, so I thought theirs might be a good auction to start my foray into live bidding.
I looked up the auction house online and checked out the pictures of items for sale.
I don't want to go anymore.
It honestly appears this woman has kept every piece of her childhood. No, not in general hoarder fashion. Notebooks containing cards are ordered, neat and clean. Toys are still in boxes. Also, 80 years ago, people simply weren't swimming in crap the way we are now. Possessions weren't disposable. They also didn't have kids messing with their shit. I think maybe it's the childless thing that makes me sad, but I'm not sure, it could just be because she was a lifelong fixture, not necessarily a prominent one, but there nonetheless. I do know that looking at her carefully preserved, 80 year old childhood objects about to be sold to the highest bidder makes me very unhappy. What right do I have to gloat over finding a mint condition whatever for $5? It meant more than that to the owner, or it wouldn't still be around. I just feel like a vulture swooping in, and picking over the pieces of a life that will be forgotten in however many years it takes for those who knew her to die. Those family photos are just neat old pictures to anyone else. I don't know what it really is, but I don't like the feeling of profiting from death. Of course, the other old stuff I buy could be selling for the same reason, but I don't know that for sure. I think it's the knowing that messes with me.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Determination
I generally don't have specific goals or requirements. Often my thinking leans toward "anything BUT . . ." rather than "I am going to accomplish . . ." My college major was decided the semester I failed every class except one. That B+ amidst the sea of F's meant English was for me. *shrug* I take going with the flow to wastewater treatment release proportions. When I want something, I'm stubborn as hell, but often, I simply just don't know what I want. More often than not, I leave decisions up to others. It's not that I'm afraid to say no, or anything like that, I just don't really care about a whole lot of stuff. That is not to say I'm not picky, because I am, ultra-picky even, just not about a large number of things. I have food issues galore, dealing with texture and taste, but mostly texture and will whine and piss and moan if my food is not to my liking. When it comes to cars, I have two requirements: manual transmission and it cannot be white or silver. Anything else isn't all that important.
Which brings me to my realization. I can do things that I decide upon doing. Sounds simple, right? Really, who the hell can't? This process is not always so simple for me, but I'm trying to figure out how to make it become simple. This past week makes the idea of knowing what I want, so I can get it, particularly appealing.
We had a gorgeous year old convertible. This car was not only impractical, it was pretty much above our means, but it was paid off, thanks to a large chunk of money blown last year. I loved it. It was the first car I've ever had that I picked just because I wanted it, rather than based on price, etc. Hmm, actually, typing that made me realize how when I finally decided what I wanted in a car, things came together quickly, and in a rather odd manner. Interesting.
Anyway, we suck with money and were having trouble paying our bills. Not fun. Bills kept stacking, as did my frustration level, which is never a good thing. When I get in that mood, I say "Fuck it" and do what I feel like doing that second. Then everything I've neglected falls apart and I end up doing things like borrowing money I can't pay back, or sleeping on my parents' sofa. Things were getting to that point, when I made a decision.
The car in the driveway that I loved was worth what had been a year's salary in some particularly bad years. Of course, it was paid off, we'd lose money since we only had it for a year, blah, blah, blah. Any manner of no's and shouldn't have to's popped up to protest. So I put it out of my mind and things didn't get any better financially. Wednesday night I decided enough was enough, I needed to do something. By 4AM Thursday morning, I figured out two car brands/styles that could replace the convertible and leave us with a decent amount of cash back. I figured out a magic number that seemed like a slight stretch, but reasonable, and started sending out quote requests.
Those were annoying and full of potential bait and switch advertising violations. One place hadn't bothered to call or email, but the others had irritated me so much, I decided to just go there and see. They had one of the acceptable replacements on the lot in manual, just like their website promised. I took it for a test drive, told the guy it was OK, I wasn't thrilled, that I'd probably go look at another brand first and go with the better deal. He asked if I'd be willing to take an aggressive deal right away. I told him it'd have to be pretty aggressive. He offered $550 less than my magic number to take home with me, I counter offered my magic number. At 5:30PM Thursday, I had a check with my magic number on it in my hands. Sweet!!
Which brings me to my realization. I can do things that I decide upon doing. Sounds simple, right? Really, who the hell can't? This process is not always so simple for me, but I'm trying to figure out how to make it become simple. This past week makes the idea of knowing what I want, so I can get it, particularly appealing.
We had a gorgeous year old convertible. This car was not only impractical, it was pretty much above our means, but it was paid off, thanks to a large chunk of money blown last year. I loved it. It was the first car I've ever had that I picked just because I wanted it, rather than based on price, etc. Hmm, actually, typing that made me realize how when I finally decided what I wanted in a car, things came together quickly, and in a rather odd manner. Interesting.
Anyway, we suck with money and were having trouble paying our bills. Not fun. Bills kept stacking, as did my frustration level, which is never a good thing. When I get in that mood, I say "Fuck it" and do what I feel like doing that second. Then everything I've neglected falls apart and I end up doing things like borrowing money I can't pay back, or sleeping on my parents' sofa. Things were getting to that point, when I made a decision.
The car in the driveway that I loved was worth what had been a year's salary in some particularly bad years. Of course, it was paid off, we'd lose money since we only had it for a year, blah, blah, blah. Any manner of no's and shouldn't have to's popped up to protest. So I put it out of my mind and things didn't get any better financially. Wednesday night I decided enough was enough, I needed to do something. By 4AM Thursday morning, I figured out two car brands/styles that could replace the convertible and leave us with a decent amount of cash back. I figured out a magic number that seemed like a slight stretch, but reasonable, and started sending out quote requests.
Those were annoying and full of potential bait and switch advertising violations. One place hadn't bothered to call or email, but the others had irritated me so much, I decided to just go there and see. They had one of the acceptable replacements on the lot in manual, just like their website promised. I took it for a test drive, told the guy it was OK, I wasn't thrilled, that I'd probably go look at another brand first and go with the better deal. He asked if I'd be willing to take an aggressive deal right away. I told him it'd have to be pretty aggressive. He offered $550 less than my magic number to take home with me, I counter offered my magic number. At 5:30PM Thursday, I had a check with my magic number on it in my hands. Sweet!!
Monday, July 04, 2011
Puzzled
I feel like I have all the pieces of information needed to lose weight, earn money, get laid, solve the world's problems, etc. (not necessarily in order of importance) somewhere within my grasp. The pieces of the puzzle are all there, and I have it all put together, except for the last piece. That last piece is pinched between my chubby fingers and try as I might, I can't make the fucker fit. I know it's the right piece, I know it has to fit in there somehow, but instead of plugging away at every possible scenario to ease it into place, I swipe the whole mess off the table, swear at it a bit, then spend hours picking it up and redoing it, only to repeat the process again at the last piece. Sometimes I get pissed and try another puzzle, but it always seems to end the same way, with me holding the last piece in a fit of angry confusion.
Why can't I do this? Why can so many other people flip that laminated piece of cardboard into its' correct spot and finish the puzzle? If I've done the work for the first 999 pieces, why, oh why does the end vex me so?
For the better part of the last two years, I have succeeded in stuffing all my wants and needs into a teeny, tiny ball and burying it so far up my ass even the (racial slur) couldn't find it. It appears my bout of dysentery has dislodged the shit, and now that my stuff has had space, i can no longer make it fit in a teeny tiny ball. Where I was able to overlook petty annoyances for the sake of the greater good, I now think, "Fuck that! There is no "greater good" when I'm the only motherfucker worrying about what anyone else wants." Why sacrifice myself for harmony when apparently harmony isn't too damn important to the cacophonous bastards fucking up my shit?
I think I broke my compliance bone. It was pretty tiny and brittle anyway.
Somehow in all my nostalgia for the days when friends were available in abundance, I lost sight of the fact that the few remaining people were self-centered turds. Maybe I am too, but, whatever. I need to stop feeling obligated to help people who held my hair when I was drunk, or watched my 18 year old daughter when she was a baby. I'd like to hope I've more than made up for my indiscretions, and if I somehow haven't, well, then I probably never will. While I am still the same rotten, puking drunk, I haven't done shit like that in awhile. There's no need to be rude or mean, but my days of extending thoughtful invitations or aid to those who don't respond in kind are finished. I like when I can help, I like being able to provide solutions, etc., but, damn, a few people I know simply don't deserve it anymore.
Since when was I obligated to drive 300 miles a night and sell tee shirts for free for people who have only ever put me on their guest list anyway? Sure, we have fun hanging out those weekends, but it never goes beyond that. Oh, I know, since I felt bad for being on the list repeatedly because someone else felt she was entitled to ask to add me. I don't feel bad anymore, sorry.
Anyway, I'm hoping if I cut out some of the background noise and chatter, I will finally be able to figure out how to fit that last puzzle piece in its place.
Why can't I do this? Why can so many other people flip that laminated piece of cardboard into its' correct spot and finish the puzzle? If I've done the work for the first 999 pieces, why, oh why does the end vex me so?
For the better part of the last two years, I have succeeded in stuffing all my wants and needs into a teeny, tiny ball and burying it so far up my ass even the (racial slur) couldn't find it. It appears my bout of dysentery has dislodged the shit, and now that my stuff has had space, i can no longer make it fit in a teeny tiny ball. Where I was able to overlook petty annoyances for the sake of the greater good, I now think, "Fuck that! There is no "greater good" when I'm the only motherfucker worrying about what anyone else wants." Why sacrifice myself for harmony when apparently harmony isn't too damn important to the cacophonous bastards fucking up my shit?
I think I broke my compliance bone. It was pretty tiny and brittle anyway.
Somehow in all my nostalgia for the days when friends were available in abundance, I lost sight of the fact that the few remaining people were self-centered turds. Maybe I am too, but, whatever. I need to stop feeling obligated to help people who held my hair when I was drunk, or watched my 18 year old daughter when she was a baby. I'd like to hope I've more than made up for my indiscretions, and if I somehow haven't, well, then I probably never will. While I am still the same rotten, puking drunk, I haven't done shit like that in awhile. There's no need to be rude or mean, but my days of extending thoughtful invitations or aid to those who don't respond in kind are finished. I like when I can help, I like being able to provide solutions, etc., but, damn, a few people I know simply don't deserve it anymore.
Since when was I obligated to drive 300 miles a night and sell tee shirts for free for people who have only ever put me on their guest list anyway? Sure, we have fun hanging out those weekends, but it never goes beyond that. Oh, I know, since I felt bad for being on the list repeatedly because someone else felt she was entitled to ask to add me. I don't feel bad anymore, sorry.
Anyway, I'm hoping if I cut out some of the background noise and chatter, I will finally be able to figure out how to fit that last puzzle piece in its place.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
No Escape
I have been avoiding any unnecessary thoughts about Patrick's murder for the past almost month since the two year anniversary. I'm just not in a place where I can put any thought into it and come out OK. I've gotten to the point where I can drive by the murder site without gasping for air and feeling stabbing pains in my chest. I don't drive the last route he walked very often anymore, and I barely grimace when I drive past his old place of employment. I have to make a conscious effort to keep these things in check, I know how easily I will find myself swept away if I so much as shift my footing.
Tonight Pete and Ian went for a walk by our house and noticed a new marker on the banks of the creek, oh, 100 or so yards away. It's a commemorative plaque for two children who were murdered in 1953. I remembered my daughter saying something about the murders when we moved into the house. Her boyfriend's dad told her about it, and I looked it up online. I don't know if I never found any good information or what the deal was, but I thought the kids were abducted and never seen again. Pete pointed out the plaque said "homicide victims", and I argued that maybe they found enough evidence for the theory, or something. He wasn't convinced.
Since I can't be wrong, or at least, hate wondering if I am, I looked online.
Well over half the hits on the first page dealt with Patrick's murder, as it was the first in the town in 31 years (Apparently we'll all be safe for another 25- 30 years, seems to be the time frame for murders here. Thanks, Patrick, for stepping up to ensure the rest of our safety.) I typed 1953 on purpose, I didn't want to see his articles again, but there they were, saying, "Bitch, don't you know you can't escape?" Load of bricks straight to the heart.
I also found out I was wrong, the children were found at the site of the plaque, within sight of our house. Yippee.
Stupid fucking murderers.
Tonight Pete and Ian went for a walk by our house and noticed a new marker on the banks of the creek, oh, 100 or so yards away. It's a commemorative plaque for two children who were murdered in 1953. I remembered my daughter saying something about the murders when we moved into the house. Her boyfriend's dad told her about it, and I looked it up online. I don't know if I never found any good information or what the deal was, but I thought the kids were abducted and never seen again. Pete pointed out the plaque said "homicide victims", and I argued that maybe they found enough evidence for the theory, or something. He wasn't convinced.
Since I can't be wrong, or at least, hate wondering if I am, I looked online.
Well over half the hits on the first page dealt with Patrick's murder, as it was the first in the town in 31 years (Apparently we'll all be safe for another 25- 30 years, seems to be the time frame for murders here. Thanks, Patrick, for stepping up to ensure the rest of our safety.) I typed 1953 on purpose, I didn't want to see his articles again, but there they were, saying, "Bitch, don't you know you can't escape?" Load of bricks straight to the heart.
I also found out I was wrong, the children were found at the site of the plaque, within sight of our house. Yippee.
Stupid fucking murderers.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Drive In
When I finally made it to the drive in, everyone else was already there. No big shock. My friend had waited at the gates for me, and we made our way to find the rest of the group. My friend had known Todd for at least six years, the four guys had all been friends for a long time, and the two girlfriends there were long term. And then there was me, sober and in a close knit group of whom I knew one person. My socialization skills are sub-par at best, but that particular combo is my worst nightmare. I was visibly uncomfortable and jonesing for a whole lot of alcohol to make it better.
But in the midst of it all was Chris. Naturally, I sat near him. My friend later said that the two of us oozed sex to the point of filling a room with it whenever we were together. I suppose that first night wasn't much different. The movies were horrible, but the other females in the group were enjoying the hideous romantic comedy. I rolled my eyes and groaned right around the same time Chris did. I think my sheer and utter undisguised contempt for the movie was what really drew him to me.
He asked about my humongous elbow rug burn with a smirk. I said it was from falling over while playing a board game. His eyes twinkled as he challenged that story. I snorted, replied that I wished it had been for a good reason and that if I was going to make up a story, it wouldn't be as ridiculous as the truth that I had told. He asked if it hurt. I replied, "Like a bitch", he changed his sitting position and invited me to lean on him. I was a little slow figuring out what he meant, first leaning against his arm, but he placed me in the most comfortable position for me. I ended up sitting in between his legs, being supported by the front of his body. His friends all raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. After a few minutes I relaxed. Not all of Chris did. *smirk*
After the movies, we went to my regular bar. I don't even remember if anyone else came with us. I do remember his shock at the sheer amount of people in the bar who knew me by name, as in every single employee and at least half the patrons. I just remember desperately downing a few drinks, trying to relax. He took me to move my father's truck from the lot where I had parked earlier in the evening during the parade. For some reason my dad had specified the truck needed to be in his driveway overnight, even though he was on vacation.
Chris asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him. I started to whine about all the movie watching, as I hate it, but decided it might be OK. Since Chris' parents were on vacation too, we went to their house instead of his apartment. He put on Jerry Maguire and we reclined together on the sofa in a slightly modified variation of our drive in position. He held me and played with my hair. Then we kissed, and it was time to go upstairs.
I silently freaked because I had had sex with Jay that morning and was under the mistaken impression that should I happen to get pregnant, a 24 hour difference would mean I wouldn't have to wonder who the daddy was. Uh huh. I'm smart. Whatever the case, I told him we would not be having sex that night, and he said that was OK, we'd have plenty of time, and asked about other limitations. Since I had never turned down anyone I wanted before, my other restrictions were nil. And then, it was on.
In a few days it will have been fourteen years since that night. This is the first time I remember that I have been able to choke back the bile that usually rises in my throat at the thought of him. It's hard to remember the decent beginning when the middle and the end burned the whole thing to ash.
But in the midst of it all was Chris. Naturally, I sat near him. My friend later said that the two of us oozed sex to the point of filling a room with it whenever we were together. I suppose that first night wasn't much different. The movies were horrible, but the other females in the group were enjoying the hideous romantic comedy. I rolled my eyes and groaned right around the same time Chris did. I think my sheer and utter undisguised contempt for the movie was what really drew him to me.
He asked about my humongous elbow rug burn with a smirk. I said it was from falling over while playing a board game. His eyes twinkled as he challenged that story. I snorted, replied that I wished it had been for a good reason and that if I was going to make up a story, it wouldn't be as ridiculous as the truth that I had told. He asked if it hurt. I replied, "Like a bitch", he changed his sitting position and invited me to lean on him. I was a little slow figuring out what he meant, first leaning against his arm, but he placed me in the most comfortable position for me. I ended up sitting in between his legs, being supported by the front of his body. His friends all raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. After a few minutes I relaxed. Not all of Chris did. *smirk*
After the movies, we went to my regular bar. I don't even remember if anyone else came with us. I do remember his shock at the sheer amount of people in the bar who knew me by name, as in every single employee and at least half the patrons. I just remember desperately downing a few drinks, trying to relax. He took me to move my father's truck from the lot where I had parked earlier in the evening during the parade. For some reason my dad had specified the truck needed to be in his driveway overnight, even though he was on vacation.
Chris asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him. I started to whine about all the movie watching, as I hate it, but decided it might be OK. Since Chris' parents were on vacation too, we went to their house instead of his apartment. He put on Jerry Maguire and we reclined together on the sofa in a slightly modified variation of our drive in position. He held me and played with my hair. Then we kissed, and it was time to go upstairs.
I silently freaked because I had had sex with Jay that morning and was under the mistaken impression that should I happen to get pregnant, a 24 hour difference would mean I wouldn't have to wonder who the daddy was. Uh huh. I'm smart. Whatever the case, I told him we would not be having sex that night, and he said that was OK, we'd have plenty of time, and asked about other limitations. Since I had never turned down anyone I wanted before, my other restrictions were nil. And then, it was on.
In a few days it will have been fourteen years since that night. This is the first time I remember that I have been able to choke back the bile that usually rises in my throat at the thought of him. It's hard to remember the decent beginning when the middle and the end burned the whole thing to ash.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Finally, I Think
I met him in a small bar half a block from his apartment. My friend was involved with his friend, and she had some sort of question she wanted answered, so she went to ask Chris. I went along. One of my high school friends was there, and wasted, blathering on and on and on about his steroid use while the friend who brought me there asked Chris her questions. She was at a table facing him, back toward me. I was one table behind them, also facing him.
I caught his eye, and it was like you could see the crackle in the air. While I was pretending to listen to drunken foolishness, my eyes kept finding his and we eventually started making goofy faces at each other. After we left, I asked my friend about him. She kind of wrinkled her nose, but said she'd ask her guy about him. Her guy responded that he normally wouldn't set anyone up with Chris, but if I was of rather questionable moral fiber, he'd make an exception. I'm trying to ignore how Todd should've stuck to his guns.
A few weeks before I first saw Chris, I had landed in one of those wacko situations I was so adept at finding. I woke up naked, not knowing where I was or who was lying next to me. Instead of kicking my ass out for a walk of shame, the guy wanted more. Huh. Turned out he was pretty good. Also turned out he needed to leave to sign away parental rights to his infant son, as his 17 year old ex-girlfriend was getting ready to move and her grandparents had convinced him he needed to do so in order for the baby to be enrolled in day care, and then later, school. Poor guy believed that shit and signed because he actually cared for the baby's well-being. Anyway, I stayed there while he signed away his firstborn son, and fucked him again when he got back.
I was starting to sober up, and realized it was like 6PM, so I walked the mile or so to find my car, fully expecting to never see the guy again. That's not how it turned out. I somehow allowed myself to get sucked into his messy life. He wasn't a dick, but he was, um, not generally suited for daily living. Most people would call him a loser, but I feel guilty about even saying that much. He was kind and caring, and all those years of watching porn constantly had taught him some nice tricks. He had some pretty serious anxiety problems that, combined with his lack of a job, meant he rarely went out. Somehow I found myself agreeing to visit him before or after the bar. One time I even skipped the bar and brought my daughter over to play with his daughter, who was the same age. We ended up spending the night, and after the girls went to sleep, we drank while playing board games. I fell and gave myself an elbow full of rug burn from hell and didn't even have sex that night. I vaguely remember ranting about that.
The rug burn night happened several nights before I ended up going on a group date with Chris. I had spent the night at the girl who knew Chris' house, and had brought the accidental almost boyfriend along. She got a call inviting us to a drive in movie with a group of people, of whom Chris was the only single one. I took Jay home, and ended up getting back during the three hours a year my parents' house is inaccessible, thanks to a firetruck parade. I had to call another friend to come get me and take me to the mall for clothes to wear. (He bought them too.) Then my friend gave me a ride to the drive in, where everyone else was already waiting.
Eh, I'm done now.
I caught his eye, and it was like you could see the crackle in the air. While I was pretending to listen to drunken foolishness, my eyes kept finding his and we eventually started making goofy faces at each other. After we left, I asked my friend about him. She kind of wrinkled her nose, but said she'd ask her guy about him. Her guy responded that he normally wouldn't set anyone up with Chris, but if I was of rather questionable moral fiber, he'd make an exception. I'm trying to ignore how Todd should've stuck to his guns.
A few weeks before I first saw Chris, I had landed in one of those wacko situations I was so adept at finding. I woke up naked, not knowing where I was or who was lying next to me. Instead of kicking my ass out for a walk of shame, the guy wanted more. Huh. Turned out he was pretty good. Also turned out he needed to leave to sign away parental rights to his infant son, as his 17 year old ex-girlfriend was getting ready to move and her grandparents had convinced him he needed to do so in order for the baby to be enrolled in day care, and then later, school. Poor guy believed that shit and signed because he actually cared for the baby's well-being. Anyway, I stayed there while he signed away his firstborn son, and fucked him again when he got back.
I was starting to sober up, and realized it was like 6PM, so I walked the mile or so to find my car, fully expecting to never see the guy again. That's not how it turned out. I somehow allowed myself to get sucked into his messy life. He wasn't a dick, but he was, um, not generally suited for daily living. Most people would call him a loser, but I feel guilty about even saying that much. He was kind and caring, and all those years of watching porn constantly had taught him some nice tricks. He had some pretty serious anxiety problems that, combined with his lack of a job, meant he rarely went out. Somehow I found myself agreeing to visit him before or after the bar. One time I even skipped the bar and brought my daughter over to play with his daughter, who was the same age. We ended up spending the night, and after the girls went to sleep, we drank while playing board games. I fell and gave myself an elbow full of rug burn from hell and didn't even have sex that night. I vaguely remember ranting about that.
The rug burn night happened several nights before I ended up going on a group date with Chris. I had spent the night at the girl who knew Chris' house, and had brought the accidental almost boyfriend along. She got a call inviting us to a drive in movie with a group of people, of whom Chris was the only single one. I took Jay home, and ended up getting back during the three hours a year my parents' house is inaccessible, thanks to a firetruck parade. I had to call another friend to come get me and take me to the mall for clothes to wear. (He bought them too.) Then my friend gave me a ride to the drive in, where everyone else was already waiting.
Eh, I'm done now.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Has It Really Been 15 Years?
I'm in shock, really. A large part of me simply can't fathom that this is my fifteen year bar anniversary. I never expected to see five years of bar time, let alone fifteen. Not that I've seen too much bar time in the past, oh, too many years, but . . . I also never expected my friend whose birthday preceded mine by a day to have only been alive for the first five bar anniversaries.
I had two goals for my first bar night -- I wanted to drink so much I puked, and I wanted to have a one night stand. I puked all over my one night stand's bathroom, and wondered aloud the next morning if I had even bothered to ask his name. (I had, and apparently repeated it numerous times in a horrible Spanish accent for no discernible reason. He was white and his name was Christian.). I found that my clothes were caked in mud and I had no idea how to get home.
"Don't you remember falling into a mud pile? Several times."
"Your friends live about two blocks in that direction."
Oh. OK.
That's just the tip of the iceberg concerning a night that began with me swaying on the corner near the bar, waiting for the magical Cinderella time that allowed me to enter the doors to heaven. I got distracted by some cracks in the sidewalk and walked in around 12:15. My friends and I were putting together pieces of that night nearly six years after the fact, and bars in PA close at 2AM. Even that is only a small indication of how ridiculous the evening was.
When I look back to those days, I long for the freedom I enjoyed. But I wasn't really free, and I never even felt like I was. I think maybe I miss having such close friends in close proximity and readily available. I miss not realizing getting wasted and doing stupid shit gets old, and watching others do so gets old even quicker. I miss the two block radius that held my world. I miss always having something to do.
Perhaps since my 21st birthday has had so many anniversaries, I can now see that there are just as many things I don't miss. No one who drinks that much, that often is in a great mental state. She may pretend to be, but she just can't be. Escapism isn't necessary if you're happy with the world you inhabit.
So, I'll try not to dwell on the party week I used to celebrate for my birthday. I'll try not to cry while spending my night wondering how long it will take the for gurgling gas I hear coming from the boring ass body next to me to reach my nose. I've done both in the past, today I'll choose neither.
I had two goals for my first bar night -- I wanted to drink so much I puked, and I wanted to have a one night stand. I puked all over my one night stand's bathroom, and wondered aloud the next morning if I had even bothered to ask his name. (I had, and apparently repeated it numerous times in a horrible Spanish accent for no discernible reason. He was white and his name was Christian.). I found that my clothes were caked in mud and I had no idea how to get home.
"Don't you remember falling into a mud pile? Several times."
"Your friends live about two blocks in that direction."
Oh. OK.
That's just the tip of the iceberg concerning a night that began with me swaying on the corner near the bar, waiting for the magical Cinderella time that allowed me to enter the doors to heaven. I got distracted by some cracks in the sidewalk and walked in around 12:15. My friends and I were putting together pieces of that night nearly six years after the fact, and bars in PA close at 2AM. Even that is only a small indication of how ridiculous the evening was.
When I look back to those days, I long for the freedom I enjoyed. But I wasn't really free, and I never even felt like I was. I think maybe I miss having such close friends in close proximity and readily available. I miss not realizing getting wasted and doing stupid shit gets old, and watching others do so gets old even quicker. I miss the two block radius that held my world. I miss always having something to do.
Perhaps since my 21st birthday has had so many anniversaries, I can now see that there are just as many things I don't miss. No one who drinks that much, that often is in a great mental state. She may pretend to be, but she just can't be. Escapism isn't necessary if you're happy with the world you inhabit.
So, I'll try not to dwell on the party week I used to celebrate for my birthday. I'll try not to cry while spending my night wondering how long it will take the for gurgling gas I hear coming from the boring ass body next to me to reach my nose. I've done both in the past, today I'll choose neither.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Now I Remember
Now I remember why I stopped writing. I don't have much of interest, even to me, going on anymore. I have a lot of barely suppressed annoyance and a lot of compromising on my part. I can keep things on a pretty even keel if I expect nothing and focus on living now. Every now and then I slip up, but not nearly as often as I used to. Unfortunately, none of this lends itself very well to writing anything even slightly compelling.
I could write about how I repeat 3 phrases all day, every day, and how much I'd give to never have to say, "Get your hair out of your mouth.", "Leave your penis alone." and "Stop teasing the dog." ever again. I could discuss how annoying it is to have most of the qualities I liked about a certain individual I live with disappear, seemingly daily. I can now understand why my Dad may have gotten stuck with my Mom. I never really believed him that she didn't eat like an animal when he met her, but, hey, there's karma kicking me in the ass, again, apparently in an attempt to get me to open my fucking mouth while I chew too. I'm no saint, not by a long shot, and I'm probably not all that easy to live with, but damn it, I've always been a picky eater, slob and bitch. I haven't increased my slack jawed TV viewing thousandfold though. Yeah, sure, I still refuse to close the bathroom door, but guess what? It's that "still" part that makes a difference. If, say, I started leaving it open within the last year or so, fine, bitch away, but there's never been any decent length of time where it was different.
Oooh, I know! I could talk about my sex life!
I don't have one.
Hmm, that didn't fill much space, did it? I could detail the failed attempts I've made to change that, including doing the fucking dishes every day, since dirty dishes apparently have a horrible adverse effect on libido. Oh, wait, nope, clean dishes don't change a thing. Hmmm, how about I try to be nicer? Nah, that doesn't work either. Oh, I know, how about we agree to go out and do our own thing and shut up about it? Nope. Just a no on that one. You'd think when a person refuses a marriage proposal, with the lack of adequate sex given as the reason, you'd either leave or try really hard to fix it. Not the case around these parts. Probably karma evening out all those fun years I once thoroughly enjoyed, several of them with the person I finally stopped taking back when I met Mr. No-Interest. Just as a note, if someone really sucks in the beginning, it's perfectly fucking fine to call it off, cuz chances are, it's not going to change. Better to feel shallow and rotten for a little while than to end up feeling that way for a long ass time.
Yeah, see, I've done a decent job of burying these things the past two years. I thought maybe it was because of that whole murdered love thing, and acceptance that life is not perfect, no one owes me shit, and nothing is going to compare to what I lost, but maybe it was just because I made myself stop thinking about it.
Maybe I should think about a job. Too bad that won't work. He works a different schedule every week and I don't have a babysitter, ever and I haven't worked in ten years, so I know better than to expect to find a job with "normal" daytime hours. *sigh*
This lovely piece brought to you, in part, by bitterness over waking up choking and unable to breathe combined with a lack of health insurance because I refused to marry someone whose dick doesn't live up to my standards. Sure, he could fill out some paperwork and hand it in at work and I'd get it for FREE, by the beginning of the next month, just like he and the kid do, but, really, why would you do that when it's more fun to passive aggressively remind me that I don't want to marry him? I already knew that, thanks, no need to remind me. Oh wait, then I guess it means I'm being punished for wanting a sex life. So be it.
I could write about how I repeat 3 phrases all day, every day, and how much I'd give to never have to say, "Get your hair out of your mouth.", "Leave your penis alone." and "Stop teasing the dog." ever again. I could discuss how annoying it is to have most of the qualities I liked about a certain individual I live with disappear, seemingly daily. I can now understand why my Dad may have gotten stuck with my Mom. I never really believed him that she didn't eat like an animal when he met her, but, hey, there's karma kicking me in the ass, again, apparently in an attempt to get me to open my fucking mouth while I chew too. I'm no saint, not by a long shot, and I'm probably not all that easy to live with, but damn it, I've always been a picky eater, slob and bitch. I haven't increased my slack jawed TV viewing thousandfold though. Yeah, sure, I still refuse to close the bathroom door, but guess what? It's that "still" part that makes a difference. If, say, I started leaving it open within the last year or so, fine, bitch away, but there's never been any decent length of time where it was different.
Oooh, I know! I could talk about my sex life!
I don't have one.
Hmm, that didn't fill much space, did it? I could detail the failed attempts I've made to change that, including doing the fucking dishes every day, since dirty dishes apparently have a horrible adverse effect on libido. Oh, wait, nope, clean dishes don't change a thing. Hmmm, how about I try to be nicer? Nah, that doesn't work either. Oh, I know, how about we agree to go out and do our own thing and shut up about it? Nope. Just a no on that one. You'd think when a person refuses a marriage proposal, with the lack of adequate sex given as the reason, you'd either leave or try really hard to fix it. Not the case around these parts. Probably karma evening out all those fun years I once thoroughly enjoyed, several of them with the person I finally stopped taking back when I met Mr. No-Interest. Just as a note, if someone really sucks in the beginning, it's perfectly fucking fine to call it off, cuz chances are, it's not going to change. Better to feel shallow and rotten for a little while than to end up feeling that way for a long ass time.
Yeah, see, I've done a decent job of burying these things the past two years. I thought maybe it was because of that whole murdered love thing, and acceptance that life is not perfect, no one owes me shit, and nothing is going to compare to what I lost, but maybe it was just because I made myself stop thinking about it.
Maybe I should think about a job. Too bad that won't work. He works a different schedule every week and I don't have a babysitter, ever and I haven't worked in ten years, so I know better than to expect to find a job with "normal" daytime hours. *sigh*
This lovely piece brought to you, in part, by bitterness over waking up choking and unable to breathe combined with a lack of health insurance because I refused to marry someone whose dick doesn't live up to my standards. Sure, he could fill out some paperwork and hand it in at work and I'd get it for FREE, by the beginning of the next month, just like he and the kid do, but, really, why would you do that when it's more fun to passive aggressively remind me that I don't want to marry him? I already knew that, thanks, no need to remind me. Oh wait, then I guess it means I'm being punished for wanting a sex life. So be it.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Some More
I've left out the part where John and I actually did have sex, twice, mostly because it was rather bizarre, and kinda had very little to do with our overall time spent together. Honestly, I only have a vague recollection of those nights, and can sort of place them in a general time frame. I don't even remember intimate details, which is truly strange to me, since I can very clearly picture him and hear his words in my head.
The first time was one of those nights he'd walked farther in the opposite direction of his house, just to call me to take him home. We were literally separated by a mountain at that time, he lived on one side, I lived on the other. Granted, it's not the largest mountain around, but still . . . I got in my car and drove him home. Since I was completely freaking sober, (which may be why it's harder to picture things precisely, I'm backward like that) I remember some confusion as to whether or not he wanted me to stay or just drop him off. He was completely wasted and decided to show me just how much he wanted me to stay. Again, I don't really remember how it went, probably because I do remember feeling horrible that we had spent so much time together without having sex and I was sober and should have at least tried to stop his drunk ass, but I really, really didn't want to stop him. It was a very strange feeling, and also karma biting my ass hard.
We never really talked about that night. He mentioned that he needed more than just a condom, so I bought a bunch of spermicidal shit, etc., brought it over and left it there without saying a fucking word about it. When it was already too late, our mutual friend told me John was probably talking about me going on the pill. *forehead slap* Duh. Chances are, he thought I understood what he meant and chose not to do a damn thing about it. In reality, had he said explicitly what he meant and wanted, I would've gone to the Dr. that day.
The other time we had sex, the situation was reversed. I was piss ass wasted, literally, and he was sober. I don't even know how I ended up at his apartment. I can guess I drove there after the bar, but I'm really not sure. I know he felt bad because I was so drunk and he thought he should've stopped me because he was sober. I don't even know what time of year this happened. In fact, all I really know is I pissed his bed afterward, and left without saying a word or offering to help clean his sheets and mattress. How sweet of me. I know him well enough to know he thought he deserved my drunken incontinence.
We didn't mention that night. Shocking, isn't it?
We kept missing and fumbling our chances for a long, long time.
Four or five years after he graduated, he moved several states away. Instead of a one hour trip, it was a 3.5 hour trip to visit him. We met up in NYC one day with a mutual friend and the guy I was seeing. Not long after, I made the trip to his new town. We went out drinking with another of my closest friends from college. When we got back to his apartment, John mentioned that he would sleep on the sofa. I told him to get in bed. We talked for awhile, and he started to kiss me. I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life when I stopped him by saying, "If I thought you'd touch me when you were sober, I would never, ever even think of stopping you." He said, "Aw, come on, you don't really mean that, do you?" and I apologized. The next morning I kept waiting for him to prove me wrong, but he didn't, so I cut my trip short and went home. That was the last time I saw him, although we did stay in touch for a few more years. He moved to the south and bought his first house. We talked about me visiting, but I could never make it happen. One year when I called to wish him a happy birthday, his number had been disconnected, and no one I know has any idea where he is.
The first time was one of those nights he'd walked farther in the opposite direction of his house, just to call me to take him home. We were literally separated by a mountain at that time, he lived on one side, I lived on the other. Granted, it's not the largest mountain around, but still . . . I got in my car and drove him home. Since I was completely freaking sober, (which may be why it's harder to picture things precisely, I'm backward like that) I remember some confusion as to whether or not he wanted me to stay or just drop him off. He was completely wasted and decided to show me just how much he wanted me to stay. Again, I don't really remember how it went, probably because I do remember feeling horrible that we had spent so much time together without having sex and I was sober and should have at least tried to stop his drunk ass, but I really, really didn't want to stop him. It was a very strange feeling, and also karma biting my ass hard.
We never really talked about that night. He mentioned that he needed more than just a condom, so I bought a bunch of spermicidal shit, etc., brought it over and left it there without saying a fucking word about it. When it was already too late, our mutual friend told me John was probably talking about me going on the pill. *forehead slap* Duh. Chances are, he thought I understood what he meant and chose not to do a damn thing about it. In reality, had he said explicitly what he meant and wanted, I would've gone to the Dr. that day.
The other time we had sex, the situation was reversed. I was piss ass wasted, literally, and he was sober. I don't even know how I ended up at his apartment. I can guess I drove there after the bar, but I'm really not sure. I know he felt bad because I was so drunk and he thought he should've stopped me because he was sober. I don't even know what time of year this happened. In fact, all I really know is I pissed his bed afterward, and left without saying a word or offering to help clean his sheets and mattress. How sweet of me. I know him well enough to know he thought he deserved my drunken incontinence.
We didn't mention that night. Shocking, isn't it?
We kept missing and fumbling our chances for a long, long time.
Four or five years after he graduated, he moved several states away. Instead of a one hour trip, it was a 3.5 hour trip to visit him. We met up in NYC one day with a mutual friend and the guy I was seeing. Not long after, I made the trip to his new town. We went out drinking with another of my closest friends from college. When we got back to his apartment, John mentioned that he would sleep on the sofa. I told him to get in bed. We talked for awhile, and he started to kiss me. I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life when I stopped him by saying, "If I thought you'd touch me when you were sober, I would never, ever even think of stopping you." He said, "Aw, come on, you don't really mean that, do you?" and I apologized. The next morning I kept waiting for him to prove me wrong, but he didn't, so I cut my trip short and went home. That was the last time I saw him, although we did stay in touch for a few more years. He moved to the south and bought his first house. We talked about me visiting, but I could never make it happen. One year when I called to wish him a happy birthday, his number had been disconnected, and no one I know has any idea where he is.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Sometimes The Reason Is You
I honestly don't know why John and I never ended up really together. Well, maybe that's not true. I suspect that John was simply smart enough to realize how much I needed to grow up, and also smart enough to know that it would be better for him if I chose to do so on my own. It was kind of like waiting for Godot.
He put up with a lot of shit that I can see now must have hurt him. I'm not sure if I imagined my situations didn't affect him because he had never made any definite steps toward a relationship, or if I was simply too wrapped up in my own pain and needed him too much to keep some things to myself. I suppose it doesn't matter, both "reasons" boil down to the simple fact that I was selfish and immature. Trust that karma is, indeed, a bitch and I have been duly repaid for my actions.
I've done way more than my share of stupid things, in fact, I may have done several people's share of stupid things, but I'm OK with most of that. One thing I'm not OK with was my repeated, completely clueless denial that John needed things for himself too. In turn, this became my repeated denial of him, and I honestly and truly never saw it that way. Going back to that place and trying to figure out what the fuck was going on in that beer soaked brain of mine won't change the past. I get how ridiculous and contradictory and self-destructive I was, I'm pretty sure that's enough.
It never occurred to me then how lucky I was, and how much he really loved me. I knew he did, just because I knew, but I never considered it fully. John sat on a chair in the middle of a crowd of standing people, head resting in a large stained glass bowl in his lap, glasses askew, picking his head up only to slur, "Megan, you know I love you, right?" I laughed, ruffled his hair and said that I did. Then I left, taking some guy I didn't know along with me. The next day John had to listen to the guy telling the story of how I accidentally called his girlfriend while pressing myself against him. I never considered how shitty my actions must have made John feel, and I'm pretty sure he realized I possessed that ridiculous personality defect.
Time and time again, I dumped my personal drama in his lap because I felt safe with him. He knew me well, gave good advice, and didn't blow smoke up my ass. If I was being an idiot, he told me. Unfortunately, he never told me that I was being an idiot about him. Well, not that I heard and processed anyway. It's quite possible he tried. After he graduated and moved, I made semi-regular visits to him, mostly when I desperately needed him and I was in shit way over my head. For the first three to four years after John graduated, I dated the same guy. We'll ignore the details of that particular fireworks show, save one. When the dating fiasco spanning several years began, I was in the habit of sharing a bed with, well, just about anyone. This turned out in the expected manner maybe a quarter of the time, but many, many nights were spent simply sleeping next to someone. My then boyfriend politely requested that I change that particular habit. I agreed, with two exceptions noted, John being one of them, even though he no longer lived in the area and I rarely saw him. That's just how much he was a part of me, you know, in my own twisted way.
I'm losing this now, I'll try to find it again. :)
He put up with a lot of shit that I can see now must have hurt him. I'm not sure if I imagined my situations didn't affect him because he had never made any definite steps toward a relationship, or if I was simply too wrapped up in my own pain and needed him too much to keep some things to myself. I suppose it doesn't matter, both "reasons" boil down to the simple fact that I was selfish and immature. Trust that karma is, indeed, a bitch and I have been duly repaid for my actions.
I've done way more than my share of stupid things, in fact, I may have done several people's share of stupid things, but I'm OK with most of that. One thing I'm not OK with was my repeated, completely clueless denial that John needed things for himself too. In turn, this became my repeated denial of him, and I honestly and truly never saw it that way. Going back to that place and trying to figure out what the fuck was going on in that beer soaked brain of mine won't change the past. I get how ridiculous and contradictory and self-destructive I was, I'm pretty sure that's enough.
It never occurred to me then how lucky I was, and how much he really loved me. I knew he did, just because I knew, but I never considered it fully. John sat on a chair in the middle of a crowd of standing people, head resting in a large stained glass bowl in his lap, glasses askew, picking his head up only to slur, "Megan, you know I love you, right?" I laughed, ruffled his hair and said that I did. Then I left, taking some guy I didn't know along with me. The next day John had to listen to the guy telling the story of how I accidentally called his girlfriend while pressing myself against him. I never considered how shitty my actions must have made John feel, and I'm pretty sure he realized I possessed that ridiculous personality defect.
Time and time again, I dumped my personal drama in his lap because I felt safe with him. He knew me well, gave good advice, and didn't blow smoke up my ass. If I was being an idiot, he told me. Unfortunately, he never told me that I was being an idiot about him. Well, not that I heard and processed anyway. It's quite possible he tried. After he graduated and moved, I made semi-regular visits to him, mostly when I desperately needed him and I was in shit way over my head. For the first three to four years after John graduated, I dated the same guy. We'll ignore the details of that particular fireworks show, save one. When the dating fiasco spanning several years began, I was in the habit of sharing a bed with, well, just about anyone. This turned out in the expected manner maybe a quarter of the time, but many, many nights were spent simply sleeping next to someone. My then boyfriend politely requested that I change that particular habit. I agreed, with two exceptions noted, John being one of them, even though he no longer lived in the area and I rarely saw him. That's just how much he was a part of me, you know, in my own twisted way.
I'm losing this now, I'll try to find it again. :)
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