My friends are children. And, like, 90% of my life? I'm a child, too. I'm the biggest child. I define my entire existance with comic book metaphors. And that's who I am. Most of the time I spend as an adult, I am pretending. And I have hollowed out this life where that's all i need to do. Be a man child most of the time and when it's time to put on a tie and talk in the grown-up voice, I put on that mask and then when the bell rings I run home and throw the mask and tie on the floor. The thing is, as much as it scares the shit out of me, sometimes it's nice to be an adult. A whole person. Because I will always have the heart of a knight errant and the brain made of crayons, but being an adult who is made of those things instead of a little boy inside a man-suit? It's kind of nice.
I have a new boss. Well, a new interim boss, since my last boss quit. And he's a little more organized and by-the-book business. And, strangely, I kind of like it. I mean I'm running around trying to clean up my shiz, and to get on his level and file all my paperwork in binders and such and sort out all the piles and whatnot. But in the transition, I have some more responsibilities. Nothing I haven't done in some capacity, before, but it's a bunch of stuff I have done from time to time that is now mine. It belongs to me. And maybe this is just because I haven't fallen behind, yet, but I find myself sort of glad of the challenge/rising to the occasion. Which is weird, for me. Because most of my time I spend in shorts, shooting lasers at the old crik to scare up some frogs I kin race. Pew Pew! Or hiding under a rock ignoring the state of the world and being annoyed by politics and/or sports. Or just with my nose buried in a comic/book. All I'm saying is, sometimes, when I come home I find myself putting the man-suit away on it's hanger gently, and with a touch of reverence. It's getting so it doesn't always feel like pretending. Until I am in the presence of some real suity-suit business dudes and then I feel like a fraud. But not a phony, is what I'm getting at. I can survive as a grown-up for multiple hours and do so without being a FAKE. I try to remind myself that most people don't know what they're doing, either. That they're winging it just as much as I am and making it up as they go along.
Then I remember they went to college.
So, anyway. My friends are children. Well, my Delaware friends. And as much as I enjoy their company, they're sort of an embarrassment, by and large. I had my little brother down for the holidays, and I was somewhat ashamed to bring him around with them, because they're so dreadfully immature. God forbid I ever date another girl and have to introduce her to these rapscallions, because it didn't work out so well with the last girl I dated. To whom my friends were simply a separate thing which she wanted no part of.
And I like them, my friend-babies. I really do, or we would not be friends, but I do wish that they would show some signs of progress. Some evolutionary indicator. Any confirmation that they have the capacity for growth. As scary as the growing pains are for me, I feel better when I find others that are wrestling with the same troubles I am, about figuring out how to be a full fledged human. It's nice to know I'm not the only one without a manual. And I'd like to see them get there, too. I would like us to still be friends when we all grow up. But I would also like some grown up friends I can go to museums and plays and such with, and not have to worry about them getting ice-cream drips on the paintings. I'm still going to want to stop at the comic store on the way home, but come on. It's on the WAY. We're passing RIGHT BY IT anyway...
my dinner tonight was pieces of cheddar cheese with slices of turkey that I ate while standing up in the kitchen. So classy. No wonder all my friends are so adult and refined.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
pan-dimensional wormhole
I used to imagine that when i went to sleep, a version of myself from another universe could gain control of my body and run about committing acts of derring-do, and that was why i was always tired when i woke up. Really it was probably because i was working 2 jobs with an hour of driving between them and averaging 5 hours of sleep a night. But still. That idea, the idea of someone being able to fold in to our reality via dream-scape, is one i still cherish. How i would like to use it, myself. Pulled away -through the quagmire of unconsciousness- to be the savior of some parallel earth with rem sleep save points. A different world every night/nap. According to science, the parallel earths we create with each string-theory decision aren't one onion layer away, they're on the other side of the cosmos. but in a universe of infinite possibility, there must somewhere be another earth, another you, who simply gets tails in coin flips. or has red hair. one less sibling. one more. scarred by tragedy. raised in privilege. each alteration another fibre in the fabric of time. Those decisions that fail to effect the universe at large simply flare out into time loops of chronology and are then stitched back in to the fabric of the unstoppable narrative. each alternate, light years apart and awash in the ebb of dark matter, ever expanding. Not that we'll ever see them. Even if we were able to develop the means to travel at light speed (more on this later) or beyond, the infinity of the universe will push them away from us faster than we could imagine. because somewhere on one of those parallel earths, another scientist has developed another means of instant transport (atomic teleportation/re-integration, ion bean conversion, psychic telescope, gravity distortion), they speed towards us as we speed towards them and each galaxy expands to accommodate it's inhabitants. the size and the scope of their unconscious ambition driving it forward in an infinite stampede.
ok, "light-speed" travel. this is the concept of traveling at a speed identical to the speed of a beam of light. this does not in any manner intone that light itself would be traveled upon or traveled through. should we develop, as suggested above, a transport utilizing the manipulation of gravity to the end of relative time manipulation, a starship traveling over the course of eons could, with the proper adjustments, appear to it's occupants to be traveling at the speed of light. the objective "time" of the ship moving through space would not change, but the time for the crew would be accelerated. or decelerated. depending on your perspective. It is in such a way that interstellar travel could be pursued within one generation of life, but not one generation of humanity. for the earth from which that humanity hails exists in the same time as the space through which the ship must travel. Still. There's your sci-fi suspended animation. localized gravity manipulation slowing time to a hairs breadth of stopping. I'm not saying that this is the only method by which to travel at light speed. But we had Einstein. one of our parallel earths may have had a breakthrough in the successful reintegration of separated atoms instead of the theory of relativity. Our earth has this. This is what we have to work with. maybe i just read too many comic books, but i can see the idea. i'm just not smart enough for the mechanics.
Speaking of genius i don't understand how we are not using, let's talk about wireless energy. tesla, ok? tesla could transmit energy without wires or cables. and how long ago was that? why am i still plugging in my playstation controller? why can i drive through a speedpass gate but not a tesla recharge gate in my electric car? I'm not asking for warp points or energizing beams (though, seriously, where is that tech?) and it seems like remote access technology is going to supersede physical transportation for the development of our particular technarchy, and people will just be beaming their instructions instead of their selves. live-streaming life.
we are upon the internet. we proliferate. we multiply. we have made rubiks cube personalities that will be reconstructed by the future, for posterity. for their museums, there will be immersive ai that adapts to the hollow shell trail we leave upon the world wide webs. robot children will be able to ask us how our civilization died, and we will be able to tell them. tweet update your facebook via tumblr tube that the apocalypse has come. robot uprising. natural disaster. biblical reckoning. biological terror. evolutionary dead end. overreaching ambition. nuclear holocaust. improperly harmonized infinity gate implosion. reinflated by a sea of code when nothing but programming remains. this is the legacy we will leave when our other-earth counterparts discover the ruins of our civilization. when the black matter becomes an ingrown toenail and they flee, through our galaxy, searching for the microverse.
minds:blown? or are these just the rantings of a sleep-deprived child?
ok, "light-speed" travel. this is the concept of traveling at a speed identical to the speed of a beam of light. this does not in any manner intone that light itself would be traveled upon or traveled through. should we develop, as suggested above, a transport utilizing the manipulation of gravity to the end of relative time manipulation, a starship traveling over the course of eons could, with the proper adjustments, appear to it's occupants to be traveling at the speed of light. the objective "time" of the ship moving through space would not change, but the time for the crew would be accelerated. or decelerated. depending on your perspective. It is in such a way that interstellar travel could be pursued within one generation of life, but not one generation of humanity. for the earth from which that humanity hails exists in the same time as the space through which the ship must travel. Still. There's your sci-fi suspended animation. localized gravity manipulation slowing time to a hairs breadth of stopping. I'm not saying that this is the only method by which to travel at light speed. But we had Einstein. one of our parallel earths may have had a breakthrough in the successful reintegration of separated atoms instead of the theory of relativity. Our earth has this. This is what we have to work with. maybe i just read too many comic books, but i can see the idea. i'm just not smart enough for the mechanics.
Speaking of genius i don't understand how we are not using, let's talk about wireless energy. tesla, ok? tesla could transmit energy without wires or cables. and how long ago was that? why am i still plugging in my playstation controller? why can i drive through a speedpass gate but not a tesla recharge gate in my electric car? I'm not asking for warp points or energizing beams (though, seriously, where is that tech?) and it seems like remote access technology is going to supersede physical transportation for the development of our particular technarchy, and people will just be beaming their instructions instead of their selves. live-streaming life.
we are upon the internet. we proliferate. we multiply. we have made rubiks cube personalities that will be reconstructed by the future, for posterity. for their museums, there will be immersive ai that adapts to the hollow shell trail we leave upon the world wide webs. robot children will be able to ask us how our civilization died, and we will be able to tell them. tweet update your facebook via tumblr tube that the apocalypse has come. robot uprising. natural disaster. biblical reckoning. biological terror. evolutionary dead end. overreaching ambition. nuclear holocaust. improperly harmonized infinity gate implosion. reinflated by a sea of code when nothing but programming remains. this is the legacy we will leave when our other-earth counterparts discover the ruins of our civilization. when the black matter becomes an ingrown toenail and they flee, through our galaxy, searching for the microverse.
minds:blown? or are these just the rantings of a sleep-deprived child?
Thursday, November 25, 2010
a fine tradition
There is an archetype in the American zeitgeist of the repentant man. About dudes who only realize their potential or appreciate what they have after they have lost it, or done some ignorant-ass shit to throw it away. Cheating on your wife does not make you a better husband. I don't care if it makes you realize what you stand to lose, or even if you realize that trollop you were being unfaithful with is dumber than a sack of hammers. You shouldn't have had to fuck up in the first place. And this epiphaniac change of heart new leaf turnaround should not make your fuckups forgivable. Not to mention how insulting and demeaning it is to women. Would you forgive your spouses indiscretion, Mr. American Ideal? No. you would assume she was an untrustworthy floozie. so why is forgiveness expected for you, sir? why do you get all the second chances? because only after hitting bottom did you find jesus? what of we who make no atonements? What of we men who don't need to hit rock bottom because we never chose to go down the crack rocks fun slide? What of we who don't need to be unfaithful to commit to our relationships? where is our standard held? our American myth? no. we are milquetoasts, afraid of living. boring and predictable. not enough lip-curling rock-and-roll cowboy to garner a legend with some goddamn scruples. Our American archetype? nice guys finish last.
maybe it's not an American construct. Maybe it's just a male directive to act like a piece of shit and then pretend you're a better person for it. know what makes you a better person? being one. not some lesson learned, and not the apology after the fact.
maybe it's not an American construct. Maybe it's just a male directive to act like a piece of shit and then pretend you're a better person for it. know what makes you a better person? being one. not some lesson learned, and not the apology after the fact.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
small press expo 2010
so spx was amazing this year. a lot more talent than in previous years, at least the years i attended. a significant decrease in kids who's mommies told them they could do it, or were too punk rock to learn how to draw. and an older crowd, too, it seemed. of creators, anyway. and cute girls aplenty. soooo many cute girls.
3 things have happened that make me, like, on the motherfucking prowl. for ladies.
1) there were an infinity of cute girls at the con. exhibitors, artists and attendees. and, like, some were super fit and basically TOO hot, but many were attractively desirable in an attainable way. I was not, in this scenario, assisted by my habit of becoming a fancy talker when i get nervous. that's pretty off-putting, apparently. i should just walk around with word bubbles when i want to say things. somehow it seems so much more erudite and less pretentious to be a fancy talker in text form.
2) richard is ALL ABOUT his girlfriend. not in a creepy way or anything, so don't misread me, but he is in love with her to the razor's edge of obsession. i could see his soul being pulled back to connecticut like a ghost's compass. and as admirable as i find this beautious relationship, as the single friend i felt like the third wheel when the second wheel wasn't even around. if they were a motorcycle, i would be the sidecar. and this trip the motorcycle was doing a wheelie the whole time. which is to say awkward and precarious for the sidecar. in a way it was lonelier than being a real third wheel because at least then i would have couple-y fun with the boths of them.
3) my interaction with kate beaton (who i now officially have a celebrity crush on) was not, as my pure intellect continues to remind me, flirtatious (although she was probably the one person with whom my nervous fancy talking was not a detriment) but it could be vaguely construed as, if not flirting, certainly flattering. so i feel like a fancy gentleman, now. moderately.
so. dating. i'm trying to get into that. what are girls? ffffft. seeking: comic books girls who like toys/videogames and music made by robots or humans in robot suits. or dinosaurs in robot suits. or robots in dinosaur suits. or robot dinosaurs. or skeletons. or cowboys. any combination of those elements, really. fat otakus and poets need not apply. french speaking a plus, but only because i want to practice for my life on the run in quebec and/or talk shit on people in the next booth without being understood. french scholars/french literature enthusiasts also stay home. i am not prepared to deal with that strange blend of malaise and endless, penetrating intellectualism. see also: michael chabon's mysteries of pittsburgh and c.d. payne's youth in revolt.
there was a time, before delaware, when i dated. oh, i dated plenty. and i know to some degree it's that i'm an antisocial hermit. and it probably doesn't help that i got oldfat (a smidge) or that all my friends, here, are a minimum of 5 years younger than me. but i don't remember where, exactly, in connecticut i had access to so many more social scenarios. it is a puzzlement. anyway. back on the horse; me.
i still want nothing to do with adulthood. comic books, musics, toys, games and movies are all i want. this is probably not helping in the long-term relationship department. but i'm not going to lie to you. these are the things i care about. i don't care about landscaping or wardrobe ensembles or returns on investments. i care about honor and humanity and free chai and driving with the windows down. i care about what sort of sweet nerf arsenal i will be providing my theoretical (and increasing unlikely) kids with, but have no desire to begin squirreling away money for their theoretical college fund. being a grown up does not agree with me. in one way that makes me want kids so that i have an excuse to do fun childish things (the zoo!), but in another way i don't want them because i fear my inability to override my peter pan complex and provide properly for them.
peter pan LOVES nerf!
3 things have happened that make me, like, on the motherfucking prowl. for ladies.
1) there were an infinity of cute girls at the con. exhibitors, artists and attendees. and, like, some were super fit and basically TOO hot, but many were attractively desirable in an attainable way. I was not, in this scenario, assisted by my habit of becoming a fancy talker when i get nervous. that's pretty off-putting, apparently. i should just walk around with word bubbles when i want to say things. somehow it seems so much more erudite and less pretentious to be a fancy talker in text form.
2) richard is ALL ABOUT his girlfriend. not in a creepy way or anything, so don't misread me, but he is in love with her to the razor's edge of obsession. i could see his soul being pulled back to connecticut like a ghost's compass. and as admirable as i find this beautious relationship, as the single friend i felt like the third wheel when the second wheel wasn't even around. if they were a motorcycle, i would be the sidecar. and this trip the motorcycle was doing a wheelie the whole time. which is to say awkward and precarious for the sidecar. in a way it was lonelier than being a real third wheel because at least then i would have couple-y fun with the boths of them.
3) my interaction with kate beaton (who i now officially have a celebrity crush on) was not, as my pure intellect continues to remind me, flirtatious (although she was probably the one person with whom my nervous fancy talking was not a detriment) but it could be vaguely construed as, if not flirting, certainly flattering. so i feel like a fancy gentleman, now. moderately.
so. dating. i'm trying to get into that. what are girls? ffffft. seeking: comic books girls who like toys/videogames and music made by robots or humans in robot suits. or dinosaurs in robot suits. or robots in dinosaur suits. or robot dinosaurs. or skeletons. or cowboys. any combination of those elements, really. fat otakus and poets need not apply. french speaking a plus, but only because i want to practice for my life on the run in quebec and/or talk shit on people in the next booth without being understood. french scholars/french literature enthusiasts also stay home. i am not prepared to deal with that strange blend of malaise and endless, penetrating intellectualism. see also: michael chabon's mysteries of pittsburgh and c.d. payne's youth in revolt.
there was a time, before delaware, when i dated. oh, i dated plenty. and i know to some degree it's that i'm an antisocial hermit. and it probably doesn't help that i got oldfat (a smidge) or that all my friends, here, are a minimum of 5 years younger than me. but i don't remember where, exactly, in connecticut i had access to so many more social scenarios. it is a puzzlement. anyway. back on the horse; me.
i still want nothing to do with adulthood. comic books, musics, toys, games and movies are all i want. this is probably not helping in the long-term relationship department. but i'm not going to lie to you. these are the things i care about. i don't care about landscaping or wardrobe ensembles or returns on investments. i care about honor and humanity and free chai and driving with the windows down. i care about what sort of sweet nerf arsenal i will be providing my theoretical (and increasing unlikely) kids with, but have no desire to begin squirreling away money for their theoretical college fund. being a grown up does not agree with me. in one way that makes me want kids so that i have an excuse to do fun childish things (the zoo!), but in another way i don't want them because i fear my inability to override my peter pan complex and provide properly for them.
peter pan LOVES nerf!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
a new but doubly awkward leaf
I have the worst cashier crush on this one girl that works at the bank where I make the hotel's deposits. And in case you don't know what a cashier crush is, it's liking someone you have seen/been helped by multiple times at their place of business, preferably but not definitively with some accompanying flirtatiousness, with whom you are mysteriously enamored. And there is no logic to this other than that person is cute, moderately pleasant to you and has no engagement/promise/relationship rings. You need know nothing about them. In fact, I would say knowing ABSOLUTELY nothing about them is almost a symptom of the affliction. So there's this cute teller girl at the bank who is really nice and pretty and always wears sundresses and I have the worst cashier crush on her. Yesterday, I am making a week's worth of deposits and she, again, is very nice and says,
"Oh, a whole week? well i'm going to grab a seat, if you don't mind. If you'd like to take a seat as well our lounge is right over there and there's free coffee, etc." and I say,
"Oh, no, thank you, I'm fine. And take your time (I'm on the clock)."
"Haha, okay."
And she's halfway through the deposits when she finds one that does not add up properly and I ask if it's over or under and she says under and I feel, of course, like a ponce. Not only because I am embarrassed to have not double checked my deposits (professionally embarrassed) but also personally embarrassed because I have been caught out by a cute girl. (I am constantly living in fear that people will realize how unprofessionally-winging-it I am. Especially when I am operating in official, managerial capacities.) So she voids the transaction so I can take that mess back to the hotel and figure out where I crossed the wires and I thank her profusely and say I "owe her one," etc. incidentally, when she gives me the deposit back, she forgets to give back $.62 of change...
I get back to the hotel and set to the task of unraveling the mystery of the unmatched deposit only to find that I'm simply an idiot who can't do math and that the deposit slip was itemized correctly and I had just added the total wrong. Total rookie mistake and one I could have caught and repaired at the bank If I wasn't so busy being flustered. So I prepare the new deposit with the new deposit slip and discover that she has robbed me of my 62 cents. Whereupon I decide not that i should let it go and take another $.62 from petty cash to even out my drop, oh no.
I decide that this is my in.
I call the bank, explain I was just there and there was a young lady named Sara helping me and is she available and she is and it goes a little something like this:
"Good afternoon, this is Sara, how can I help you?"
"Hi, I was just in there. Alec, from the Comfort Inn? And you were helping me and we had that sticky deposit that didn't add up? Well I've got it all ironed out and I was just making up the new deposit, but did you, perchance, keep my 62 cents?"
"Oh! Did I? I'm sure I did, I'm so sorry. I'll take it out and have it set aside for you in an envelope"
"Oh, great, thank you. Yeah. I'm sorry. I just. I know, it's stupid, for 62 whole cents. I just, it was already wrong once, you know? And, okay. So thank you, that's great..."
"No, no, it's not stupid at all!"
Going pretty good so far, right? Well just you wait, Henry Higgins. It's about to get WEIRD.
"Well, tell you what. I owe you a starbuck. What's your favourite starbuck?"
"Oh, I don't drink coffee."
This is where a normal dude would just be like, oh, well thanks again, see you next time. But not me, oh no.
"I mean, they've got, like, fruitly drinks and whatnot? No?"
"No, thanks. No, no thank you."
"Oh, ohkay. Well... I'll see you... next time.... imakeadeposit. Thanks! *click*"
SUPER. TRAINWRECK. AWKWARDSAUCE.
Now I hope to holy hell that that last line or two was not really that awkward, and it's just the dark construction of my memory hole that makes it appear so, for the sake of embellishment relish on my story sandwich. But as awkward as it reads? Try acting it out. Make it a one act play. Only then can you truly enjoy the pure agony of my embarrassment.
As hilariously sitcommy and enjoyable my desperate grasping flailings toward dating are (pratfallingly clutching at happiness with the grace of a beached sea lion), I'd really rather just be in a relationship. Though my cartoon life is a lot more amusing/eventful when I'm not.
And as awkward and terrible (and hilarious) as this episode had been, I think overall my attempt was healthy and important.
Congratulations! You have just completed the first whinge-free entry! Hopefully it segues into a more amusing rantspace/episodic awkwardness serial. I have a thing about how highschoolers and senior citizens are the only true intellectuals because they're the only ones who can truly dismiss the real world and get down and dirty with the metaphysics of reality's slimy underparts. And also how it's stupid and ought to be outgrown. Seniors less so, because they have the wisdom to know it doesn't matter one whit, but they're one of the only two subspecies that has the privilege of disassociating from real life to the end of philosophical debate. Well, I'm getting too into it, now, but you get the picture.
If you are visiting my phantasmagorium of a brain for the first time, don't bother reading the older posts, they're all rescue efforts to the end of salvaging my sanity from a breakup typhoon. The new ones will be more fun.
"Oh, a whole week? well i'm going to grab a seat, if you don't mind. If you'd like to take a seat as well our lounge is right over there and there's free coffee, etc." and I say,
"Oh, no, thank you, I'm fine. And take your time (I'm on the clock)."
"Haha, okay."
And she's halfway through the deposits when she finds one that does not add up properly and I ask if it's over or under and she says under and I feel, of course, like a ponce. Not only because I am embarrassed to have not double checked my deposits (professionally embarrassed) but also personally embarrassed because I have been caught out by a cute girl. (I am constantly living in fear that people will realize how unprofessionally-winging-it I am. Especially when I am operating in official, managerial capacities.) So she voids the transaction so I can take that mess back to the hotel and figure out where I crossed the wires and I thank her profusely and say I "owe her one," etc. incidentally, when she gives me the deposit back, she forgets to give back $.62 of change...
I get back to the hotel and set to the task of unraveling the mystery of the unmatched deposit only to find that I'm simply an idiot who can't do math and that the deposit slip was itemized correctly and I had just added the total wrong. Total rookie mistake and one I could have caught and repaired at the bank If I wasn't so busy being flustered. So I prepare the new deposit with the new deposit slip and discover that she has robbed me of my 62 cents. Whereupon I decide not that i should let it go and take another $.62 from petty cash to even out my drop, oh no.
I decide that this is my in.
I call the bank, explain I was just there and there was a young lady named Sara helping me and is she available and she is and it goes a little something like this:
"Good afternoon, this is Sara, how can I help you?"
"Hi, I was just in there. Alec, from the Comfort Inn? And you were helping me and we had that sticky deposit that didn't add up? Well I've got it all ironed out and I was just making up the new deposit, but did you, perchance, keep my 62 cents?"
"Oh! Did I? I'm sure I did, I'm so sorry. I'll take it out and have it set aside for you in an envelope"
"Oh, great, thank you. Yeah. I'm sorry. I just. I know, it's stupid, for 62 whole cents. I just, it was already wrong once, you know? And, okay. So thank you, that's great..."
"No, no, it's not stupid at all!"
Going pretty good so far, right? Well just you wait, Henry Higgins. It's about to get WEIRD.
"Well, tell you what. I owe you a starbuck. What's your favourite starbuck?"
"Oh, I don't drink coffee."
This is where a normal dude would just be like, oh, well thanks again, see you next time. But not me, oh no.
"I mean, they've got, like, fruitly drinks and whatnot? No?"
"No, thanks. No, no thank you."
"Oh, ohkay. Well... I'll see you... next time.... imakeadeposit. Thanks! *click*"
SUPER. TRAINWRECK. AWKWARDSAUCE.
Now I hope to holy hell that that last line or two was not really that awkward, and it's just the dark construction of my memory hole that makes it appear so, for the sake of embellishment relish on my story sandwich. But as awkward as it reads? Try acting it out. Make it a one act play. Only then can you truly enjoy the pure agony of my embarrassment.
As hilariously sitcommy and enjoyable my desperate grasping flailings toward dating are (pratfallingly clutching at happiness with the grace of a beached sea lion), I'd really rather just be in a relationship. Though my cartoon life is a lot more amusing/eventful when I'm not.
And as awkward and terrible (and hilarious) as this episode had been, I think overall my attempt was healthy and important.
Congratulations! You have just completed the first whinge-free entry! Hopefully it segues into a more amusing rantspace/episodic awkwardness serial. I have a thing about how highschoolers and senior citizens are the only true intellectuals because they're the only ones who can truly dismiss the real world and get down and dirty with the metaphysics of reality's slimy underparts. And also how it's stupid and ought to be outgrown. Seniors less so, because they have the wisdom to know it doesn't matter one whit, but they're one of the only two subspecies that has the privilege of disassociating from real life to the end of philosophical debate. Well, I'm getting too into it, now, but you get the picture.
If you are visiting my phantasmagorium of a brain for the first time, don't bother reading the older posts, they're all rescue efforts to the end of salvaging my sanity from a breakup typhoon. The new ones will be more fun.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
schrodinger's guilt/love/resentment
So I'm afraid to see Liz, yet. The opportunity presented itself in the form of her offering to stop by to pick up her things and while I initially agreed to it, I ended up sending her a message explaining how I was not prepared to see her in real life and still be working toward a semblance of normalcy concerning all matters ex. It was a positively cordial and peaceable exchange, and she was kind enough to tell me I'm not a rapist. Which is, you know, nice to hear. Even if I already knew it. So I mailed her things, in the box were they have been since the day after the breakup when I boxed them up. I didn't reexamine them or add anything or put in any notes or mix cd's. I was sort of planning on it, but then I ended up going to the shipping store with Joey and it was easier to just do it all at once. Probably better that way than to draw it out.
Richard had some troubles with his relationship recently. And I know he would absolutely 100% flip on me if I was to air his personal shit here, and I have no intent to. Suffice it to say he and his lady were having problems and it looked like their relationship was kaput. And if not for the timely intervention of a concerned, meddling party (me) saying, "Listen, you fucks love each other. Now fix it, assholes," their love may well have also gone the way of the dodo. And between that and shipping her stuff bringing a sort of awful, morbid finality to the whole Liz thing, I've been wondering if I made a mistake letting my relationship fall, smoldering, into the sea. Now, I admit that initially, I was relieved. I was relieved to be free of the nagging and the recriminations and the frustration of her sometimes stony heart. Probably because that was the only thing i could feel about it right away and not lose my mind. The only way to process the devastation was to rationalize it and distill it down to an inevitability. But it never was inevitable. I'm sure she, too, found a sense of relief at shrugging of the burden of my frustratingly permanent childishness and my choking attachment.
Every relationship, even the worst ones, has a degree of magic to it. If you're uncomfortable with the harry potter-ism (or insane clown posse-ism) of that phrasing, call it whatever you want. True love, romantic love, contentment, pure happiness. It's the sort of transcendental, unspoiled moment that makes you happy to be with someone, and specifically YOUR someone at that exact moment. sometimes it's a look. or a scenario. or a turn of phrase. or even a fond caress (ooh). The magic parts of the relationship. and for the first 3 months or so, it's mostly the imaginary cartoon perfection of a new love. Probably 40% magic and 50% sex, with 10% of practicality splashed in. But as that passion begins to take the shape of a long term relationship, things get steadier and heads, generally, take leave of the clouds in which they have been residing. The butterflies in your stomach migrate on to warmer climes. But there's still something of that magic. Maybe 15- 20% in a solid, healthy relationship. And it is tempered by the real world. Meeting family, recognizing and enduring personality flaws, dealing with crises like the car breaking down or the worry of a snowed-in flight. And the ability of the relationship to withstand these assaults upon the fairy tale, happy ending, miracle core is determined by it's hosts. How much is that sliver of magic worth? Is it worth dealing with their bitchy ex? Is it worth overcoming a questionable past or forgiving a transgression? Is it worth trying again?
Over the last week, not a day has gone by without me giving thought to the idea of trying to reignite my relationship with Liz. Before I am barraged by concerned friends and family over what a bad idea this is; stop. I know. I know it's not the right thing to do and I don't plan on taking action. But I still can't shake concocting involved, 80s romance movie plots to try to win her back with. Or fantasies about what she might someday say to me to win me back herself when she realizes what's missing (ha HA. boy. who was I dating? not Liz Stacey if that's a plausible scenario. Even in fantasy.) Sometimes I just pilot my brain train over to what-if elseworlds where we're still together. or we did try again. or we never spoke because I never thought myself capable of handling it. Last night i had a dream where we were together. Nothing particularly amorous or world breaking. It being a dream, of course I can't remember the details. But in the shower this morning I found myself whistling "Mr. Sandman." Thanks a bunch, subconscious. Now maybe I'm reading too much into things, but that's a pretty clear indicator that my heart and my sub-id are conspiring in there against logic and reason.
So I'm Schrodinger's feelings. I don't know if and when I see Liz again what my reaction will be. Will I be resentful and scornful and not be able to be in the same room with her? Will I be finally at ease by way of no longer needing to impress her? Or will I lose everything between then and now and fall flat on my face in love with her again? That's the one I couldn't stand. Because I'm in love with her now, yes, still. And the more distance and healing I get, the more capable I will be of not being a blubbering twit about the whole business. But I could lose all that in an instant just seeing her face. And I like to pretend that it works both ways. That maybe she feels this sort of pull of guilt and possibility the same as I do. That she would be susceptible to my John Hughes charms, should I choose to employ them. But I know this is not the case. She would see me as an unstable and pitiable stalker who could not detach himself. She would only see the worst of what was in the light of that. It would taint whatever magic might remain. I would honestly keep going. I see 2% magic as sufficient fuel to cling steadfastly to the love that created it. But even that 2% needs two committed and believing hosts. And so I am resigned to treasure the magic in memories until such time as a new spark is struck, elsewhere.
Jesus, shakespeare for dummies, could you be any gloopier? What a queer.
Richard had some troubles with his relationship recently. And I know he would absolutely 100% flip on me if I was to air his personal shit here, and I have no intent to. Suffice it to say he and his lady were having problems and it looked like their relationship was kaput. And if not for the timely intervention of a concerned, meddling party (me) saying, "Listen, you fucks love each other. Now fix it, assholes," their love may well have also gone the way of the dodo. And between that and shipping her stuff bringing a sort of awful, morbid finality to the whole Liz thing, I've been wondering if I made a mistake letting my relationship fall, smoldering, into the sea. Now, I admit that initially, I was relieved. I was relieved to be free of the nagging and the recriminations and the frustration of her sometimes stony heart. Probably because that was the only thing i could feel about it right away and not lose my mind. The only way to process the devastation was to rationalize it and distill it down to an inevitability. But it never was inevitable. I'm sure she, too, found a sense of relief at shrugging of the burden of my frustratingly permanent childishness and my choking attachment.
Every relationship, even the worst ones, has a degree of magic to it. If you're uncomfortable with the harry potter-ism (or insane clown posse-ism) of that phrasing, call it whatever you want. True love, romantic love, contentment, pure happiness. It's the sort of transcendental, unspoiled moment that makes you happy to be with someone, and specifically YOUR someone at that exact moment. sometimes it's a look. or a scenario. or a turn of phrase. or even a fond caress (ooh). The magic parts of the relationship. and for the first 3 months or so, it's mostly the imaginary cartoon perfection of a new love. Probably 40% magic and 50% sex, with 10% of practicality splashed in. But as that passion begins to take the shape of a long term relationship, things get steadier and heads, generally, take leave of the clouds in which they have been residing. The butterflies in your stomach migrate on to warmer climes. But there's still something of that magic. Maybe 15- 20% in a solid, healthy relationship. And it is tempered by the real world. Meeting family, recognizing and enduring personality flaws, dealing with crises like the car breaking down or the worry of a snowed-in flight. And the ability of the relationship to withstand these assaults upon the fairy tale, happy ending, miracle core is determined by it's hosts. How much is that sliver of magic worth? Is it worth dealing with their bitchy ex? Is it worth overcoming a questionable past or forgiving a transgression? Is it worth trying again?
Over the last week, not a day has gone by without me giving thought to the idea of trying to reignite my relationship with Liz. Before I am barraged by concerned friends and family over what a bad idea this is; stop. I know. I know it's not the right thing to do and I don't plan on taking action. But I still can't shake concocting involved, 80s romance movie plots to try to win her back with. Or fantasies about what she might someday say to me to win me back herself when she realizes what's missing (ha HA. boy. who was I dating? not Liz Stacey if that's a plausible scenario. Even in fantasy.) Sometimes I just pilot my brain train over to what-if elseworlds where we're still together. or we did try again. or we never spoke because I never thought myself capable of handling it. Last night i had a dream where we were together. Nothing particularly amorous or world breaking. It being a dream, of course I can't remember the details. But in the shower this morning I found myself whistling "Mr. Sandman." Thanks a bunch, subconscious. Now maybe I'm reading too much into things, but that's a pretty clear indicator that my heart and my sub-id are conspiring in there against logic and reason.
So I'm Schrodinger's feelings. I don't know if and when I see Liz again what my reaction will be. Will I be resentful and scornful and not be able to be in the same room with her? Will I be finally at ease by way of no longer needing to impress her? Or will I lose everything between then and now and fall flat on my face in love with her again? That's the one I couldn't stand. Because I'm in love with her now, yes, still. And the more distance and healing I get, the more capable I will be of not being a blubbering twit about the whole business. But I could lose all that in an instant just seeing her face. And I like to pretend that it works both ways. That maybe she feels this sort of pull of guilt and possibility the same as I do. That she would be susceptible to my John Hughes charms, should I choose to employ them. But I know this is not the case. She would see me as an unstable and pitiable stalker who could not detach himself. She would only see the worst of what was in the light of that. It would taint whatever magic might remain. I would honestly keep going. I see 2% magic as sufficient fuel to cling steadfastly to the love that created it. But even that 2% needs two committed and believing hosts. And so I am resigned to treasure the magic in memories until such time as a new spark is struck, elsewhere.
Jesus, shakespeare for dummies, could you be any gloopier? What a queer.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
things that go bump in the night.
So first of all, I should not be awake. It's 5.20 in the morning and there is no reason for me not to be asleep. I know I'm going to be burnt toast tomorrow (today) and I don't even really feel like I need to get something down, here.
Basically, I'm really afraid of backsliding. Because relationship or no relationship, I've had a lot of personal development in the last 2 years, and it would be asinine to toss all of that growth out the window just because of the ways it was spurred on by or woven into my relationship. And it's not like I am going to instantly regress to high-school spaz-brain Alec, but there are a lot of things that I know are adult and responsible and I have just been ignoring them completely and playing pokemon. My responsibilities at work, especially, have sort of fallen by the wayside and I'm just generally off my game. Now, it's all right to take a laziness day or two and just do the bare minimum, but I've had a solid week of just putting things off or half-assing. So while the day to day line level shit is getting done, I have been blowing off all my manager stuff. And as usual, Karl and Sabrina are keeping the ship afloat so well that they probably haven't even noticed exactly how little I am doing.
I also haven't bothered getting new glasses or going to the dentist. Now the dentist I have the valid excuse of still figuring out my insurance payments on my knee stuff, but i could at least schedule an appointment or get a cleaning. It's just such a hassle. And Liz was constantly on my ass to get that done so it's like a quiet rebellion? except I'm the one who's going to be left with the rot-mouth. I'm not saying I need someone to be my professional haranguer and peck at me to be on top of this stuff, but I definitely need to find a method by which to manage my own shit with greater discipline.
The same way that returning to Connecticut would be an evolutionary backslide for me, geographically, singlehood threatens to do the same, developmentally. Not like I'm going to shit all at once, but unlike most dudes who will get themselves back in shape as soon as they're "back on the market" I find it so much easier to keep my health-focus (both diet and exercise) when it is for something (or someone.) Not just staying fit for my lady, but also to be generally healthier because it amplifies everything else. Being healthy feels really good, even if is an expensive pain in the ass.
The spectre of Cheryl looms before me. She turned 30 this year, lives in a hovel full of garbage and has no friends. Also she sleeps on a couch because she keeps her room a sty and doesn't have a job to speak of. And there but for the grace of god go I. Because (no offense guys, if you're reading this) I do not have a life-changing friend-for-eternity in delaware. I like everyone I'm friends with here, but I don't feel like I have any epic connection with anyone. I could move away and keep in touch via xbox and facebook and that would be sort of enough. I would miss Karl from work and Joey. Other than that, nothing. And there are some days I wish i had stayed home like an antisocial hermit (oh man, Cheryl is totally a turtle hermit) instead of going to hang out with a bunch of twentysomethings who still think they're tweens. Back to Cheryl, I live in the same hovel (I do manage my garbage slightly better) have few real friends and sometimes, yes, I do fall asleep on the couch (though I do still prefer my bed when Cheryl is home. It still weirds me out that if I end up falling asleep in the living room she comes home in the morning and burrows into her little nest right across from my dreamself. Weird. Clean your room. Fuck.) And while I do still have a pretty decent job, I need to get my goddamn ducks in a row there or I might not have that much longer.
The gamma-irradiated granny smith apples are back in season at WAWA and I'm excited at the prospect of reintegrating a regular fruit into my diet and thereby recovering some health. I've been on starvation diet this week. I know that's unhealthy, but if I shrink my stomach enough I will be satisfied with smaller portions. It's just a matter of having the self control to quit eating when I'm satisfied rather than when I'm about to burst.
Okay, now that I've weeded out the casual peruser with my inane gibberish, let me get to what I really wanted to get down. Here are a few things I would like to say to Liz but have the good sense not to write to her. Because she already thinks I'm crazy:
I know that when we started dating you had no interest in having kids. In fact I might have categorized your feelings not as disgusted, but definitely in the neutral neighboring territory of vehemently disinterested. And yet it came to pass that we talked some, quietly, on the subject of possibly having kids. My argument being that we should only have 2 because I'm basically the third, anyway. Plus waiting until we were both really financially and emotionally capable of raising children right sort of narrows the window for popping them out. Well anyway. Look. I've been having a lot of trouble putting that imagination future in its grave. I don't want to bury our pretend midget, pear shaped, pale, toe-headed (but very well read) babies. I don't want to bury the nice things you said about me being a good dad. And I hope I do get to be one, someday. Even though it will be with some other (hopefully equally well read) toe-headed kids. And I hope you are, too. A mom, I mean. (Though you would probably have been a better dad than me. Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Burris, for my gender reversal.) I know you're always looking out for number one. I know and respect that. And I know now that you're on your own again, you've probably re-set to your primary plan of being the lady with the boss library and the clan of saved greyhounds, rocking out like Dorothy Parker for the remainder of your days. And if that's the way things turn out and you're happy, I will be glad for you. But I implore you. Especially with all I have seen in delaware (and mtv) of irresponsible idiot children dropping babies all over walmart. The world needs human beings raised in real, loving responsible (if neurotic) homes where they are read to and cared for and camped with. And I still have every faith that you can be the mother I imagined you to be with my ghost-children, if not better. I don't know if you knew how I saw her in you, through my snark and sarcasm, because it is one of the easier subjects to needle you on. I think you would be strong and feminine and smart and lovable and I think you could rear some really good people. You'll have to keep them safe from Uncle Mike and Aunt Kasey dragging them to church, daily, but that's a worthwhile risk.
I miss the family. I miss Wayne. In the immediate aftermath of the breakup, people wouldn't stop asking me how I was doing. I took to saying "just another day on this side'a the groun'." And I realized about the fifth or sixth time I said it that although I had never heard Wayne turn this particular phrase, he totally would. And I was also, I noticed, performing it in my completely awful and never perfected Wayne impression.
I miss a lot of the things you helped me to be, but I'm working on reclaiming or securing them. I want to thank you for everything that I got to be. With you, with your family, with our imagination-future. I don't think I can ever put it totally to rest, but I might eventually just be able to put it in my memory box. I hope you find someone who fits you and makes you happy. I would like my kids to play with your kids someday. Or to enroll them in your seminar, or take a daytrip to the museum you curate. I'm sorry that it ended, but don't you dare disrespect either of us by treating it as if it was inevitable. I still believe in whatever multiverse where we're still together. I believe in their toe-headed kids. I believe in their ghosts and I cherish ours even as I am haunted by them.
I've never loved anyone the way I loved you, and I hope I never do again. I hope when I love agin, I love that person in her way the way I loved you in yours. I am glad of the happiness. I am sorry for the hurt, and I am a tornado of pride, grief, loss, love and hope in its aftermath.
goodbye, forever
(let's stay friends)
Basically, I'm really afraid of backsliding. Because relationship or no relationship, I've had a lot of personal development in the last 2 years, and it would be asinine to toss all of that growth out the window just because of the ways it was spurred on by or woven into my relationship. And it's not like I am going to instantly regress to high-school spaz-brain Alec, but there are a lot of things that I know are adult and responsible and I have just been ignoring them completely and playing pokemon. My responsibilities at work, especially, have sort of fallen by the wayside and I'm just generally off my game. Now, it's all right to take a laziness day or two and just do the bare minimum, but I've had a solid week of just putting things off or half-assing. So while the day to day line level shit is getting done, I have been blowing off all my manager stuff. And as usual, Karl and Sabrina are keeping the ship afloat so well that they probably haven't even noticed exactly how little I am doing.
I also haven't bothered getting new glasses or going to the dentist. Now the dentist I have the valid excuse of still figuring out my insurance payments on my knee stuff, but i could at least schedule an appointment or get a cleaning. It's just such a hassle. And Liz was constantly on my ass to get that done so it's like a quiet rebellion? except I'm the one who's going to be left with the rot-mouth. I'm not saying I need someone to be my professional haranguer and peck at me to be on top of this stuff, but I definitely need to find a method by which to manage my own shit with greater discipline.
The same way that returning to Connecticut would be an evolutionary backslide for me, geographically, singlehood threatens to do the same, developmentally. Not like I'm going to shit all at once, but unlike most dudes who will get themselves back in shape as soon as they're "back on the market" I find it so much easier to keep my health-focus (both diet and exercise) when it is for something (or someone.) Not just staying fit for my lady, but also to be generally healthier because it amplifies everything else. Being healthy feels really good, even if is an expensive pain in the ass.
The spectre of Cheryl looms before me. She turned 30 this year, lives in a hovel full of garbage and has no friends. Also she sleeps on a couch because she keeps her room a sty and doesn't have a job to speak of. And there but for the grace of god go I. Because (no offense guys, if you're reading this) I do not have a life-changing friend-for-eternity in delaware. I like everyone I'm friends with here, but I don't feel like I have any epic connection with anyone. I could move away and keep in touch via xbox and facebook and that would be sort of enough. I would miss Karl from work and Joey. Other than that, nothing. And there are some days I wish i had stayed home like an antisocial hermit (oh man, Cheryl is totally a turtle hermit) instead of going to hang out with a bunch of twentysomethings who still think they're tweens. Back to Cheryl, I live in the same hovel (I do manage my garbage slightly better) have few real friends and sometimes, yes, I do fall asleep on the couch (though I do still prefer my bed when Cheryl is home. It still weirds me out that if I end up falling asleep in the living room she comes home in the morning and burrows into her little nest right across from my dreamself. Weird. Clean your room. Fuck.) And while I do still have a pretty decent job, I need to get my goddamn ducks in a row there or I might not have that much longer.
The gamma-irradiated granny smith apples are back in season at WAWA and I'm excited at the prospect of reintegrating a regular fruit into my diet and thereby recovering some health. I've been on starvation diet this week. I know that's unhealthy, but if I shrink my stomach enough I will be satisfied with smaller portions. It's just a matter of having the self control to quit eating when I'm satisfied rather than when I'm about to burst.
Okay, now that I've weeded out the casual peruser with my inane gibberish, let me get to what I really wanted to get down. Here are a few things I would like to say to Liz but have the good sense not to write to her. Because she already thinks I'm crazy:
I know that when we started dating you had no interest in having kids. In fact I might have categorized your feelings not as disgusted, but definitely in the neutral neighboring territory of vehemently disinterested. And yet it came to pass that we talked some, quietly, on the subject of possibly having kids. My argument being that we should only have 2 because I'm basically the third, anyway. Plus waiting until we were both really financially and emotionally capable of raising children right sort of narrows the window for popping them out. Well anyway. Look. I've been having a lot of trouble putting that imagination future in its grave. I don't want to bury our pretend midget, pear shaped, pale, toe-headed (but very well read) babies. I don't want to bury the nice things you said about me being a good dad. And I hope I do get to be one, someday. Even though it will be with some other (hopefully equally well read) toe-headed kids. And I hope you are, too. A mom, I mean. (Though you would probably have been a better dad than me. Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Burris, for my gender reversal.) I know you're always looking out for number one. I know and respect that. And I know now that you're on your own again, you've probably re-set to your primary plan of being the lady with the boss library and the clan of saved greyhounds, rocking out like Dorothy Parker for the remainder of your days. And if that's the way things turn out and you're happy, I will be glad for you. But I implore you. Especially with all I have seen in delaware (and mtv) of irresponsible idiot children dropping babies all over walmart. The world needs human beings raised in real, loving responsible (if neurotic) homes where they are read to and cared for and camped with. And I still have every faith that you can be the mother I imagined you to be with my ghost-children, if not better. I don't know if you knew how I saw her in you, through my snark and sarcasm, because it is one of the easier subjects to needle you on. I think you would be strong and feminine and smart and lovable and I think you could rear some really good people. You'll have to keep them safe from Uncle Mike and Aunt Kasey dragging them to church, daily, but that's a worthwhile risk.
I miss the family. I miss Wayne. In the immediate aftermath of the breakup, people wouldn't stop asking me how I was doing. I took to saying "just another day on this side'a the groun'." And I realized about the fifth or sixth time I said it that although I had never heard Wayne turn this particular phrase, he totally would. And I was also, I noticed, performing it in my completely awful and never perfected Wayne impression.
I miss a lot of the things you helped me to be, but I'm working on reclaiming or securing them. I want to thank you for everything that I got to be. With you, with your family, with our imagination-future. I don't think I can ever put it totally to rest, but I might eventually just be able to put it in my memory box. I hope you find someone who fits you and makes you happy. I would like my kids to play with your kids someday. Or to enroll them in your seminar, or take a daytrip to the museum you curate. I'm sorry that it ended, but don't you dare disrespect either of us by treating it as if it was inevitable. I still believe in whatever multiverse where we're still together. I believe in their toe-headed kids. I believe in their ghosts and I cherish ours even as I am haunted by them.
I've never loved anyone the way I loved you, and I hope I never do again. I hope when I love agin, I love that person in her way the way I loved you in yours. I am glad of the happiness. I am sorry for the hurt, and I am a tornado of pride, grief, loss, love and hope in its aftermath.
goodbye, forever
(let's stay friends)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
i'm starting to feel kind of guilty
for getting on with my life.
I'm not over it. Not by any means. I don't think I will be. For a couple years, at least. Probably never, completely. A year and a half relationship is a thing that sort of becomes ingrained into the totality of yourself. If they were to cleave me in two and examine the rings in my spine, tree-trunk style, they'd find a nice big Liz-Stacey-and-the-Stacey-Family-Experience ring. And it'll be a good nine months to a year before I can even see girls again. Even being able to look at them again is pretty weird (disappointing, by and large.) I should clarify -it's not like I'm going to pretend that other girls were somehow invisible to me while I was in my long-term relationship- I can definitely see them (except Sue Storm.) An attractive young lady is, undeniably, an attractive young lady. It's sort of like an addiction: the way you feel about the person you're in love with so supersedes regular old animal instinct attraction that it just sort of ceases to matter as much. And let me clarify again, the difference between seeing girls and looking at them is basically the difference between viewing and being engaged. I'm not saying I create a fictional backstory for every pretty girl I see when I'm single, (I totally do) but right now it's just Oh! Girls are a thing again! Hm, wait. Now I remember why I was so happy to be in a relationship. Not that I want to throw myself instantly into a rebound relationship or anything. I just forgot how terrible the quest of seeking a mate was/is/will be.
Also I have rekindled my affair with video games (and technology in general) by getting a new Xbox 360 in addition to my new computer. Nothing heals the heart like tons and tons of stuff. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy comfort. Opulent, opulent comfort. And distraction. I find that my emotionally wrecked teetering wastrel self is far less prevalent as I am able to interrupt and derail my day-to-day autofunction. The further I get from routine, the easier it is to function normally, as contradictive as that may sound.
I am shocked. Downright shocked and how not insane I am about this. It was pretty bad, admittedly, right off the bat. And when I fixate and dissect and pore over the conversations (the in-my-head transcriptions which become increasingly inaccurate as I continue to replay them) and the messages and the texts, it makes me sick and sad and awful and agonized. But I have to really activate that. I have to allow myself to go down into that basement. Lord knows why I keep doing it to myself. But the rest of the time? I'm ok. Sometimes a little sad about it. Often a little bitter. Equal parts distressed and relieved with people telling me how much better off I am and how they never really liked her for me or the way we were together, et cetera. Like, a) I know you're just trying to cheer me up, but I'm still in love with her to a degree that I'm not ready to smack talk at her expense yet. And b) why were these concerns not voiced when I was on track to marrying this girl?
Okay, my best friends are exempt from this statement, because they never shied from giving me the facts of the matter, but they were also understanding enough to know I was going to ignore them anyway. That's what friends are for, after all.
I am suddenly and maniacally hungry. I could eat a horse. Or a human being.
I'm not over it. Not by any means. I don't think I will be. For a couple years, at least. Probably never, completely. A year and a half relationship is a thing that sort of becomes ingrained into the totality of yourself. If they were to cleave me in two and examine the rings in my spine, tree-trunk style, they'd find a nice big Liz-Stacey-and-the-Stacey-Family-Experience ring. And it'll be a good nine months to a year before I can even see girls again. Even being able to look at them again is pretty weird (disappointing, by and large.) I should clarify -it's not like I'm going to pretend that other girls were somehow invisible to me while I was in my long-term relationship- I can definitely see them (except Sue Storm.) An attractive young lady is, undeniably, an attractive young lady. It's sort of like an addiction: the way you feel about the person you're in love with so supersedes regular old animal instinct attraction that it just sort of ceases to matter as much. And let me clarify again, the difference between seeing girls and looking at them is basically the difference between viewing and being engaged. I'm not saying I create a fictional backstory for every pretty girl I see when I'm single, (I totally do) but right now it's just Oh! Girls are a thing again! Hm, wait. Now I remember why I was so happy to be in a relationship. Not that I want to throw myself instantly into a rebound relationship or anything. I just forgot how terrible the quest of seeking a mate was/is/will be.
Also I have rekindled my affair with video games (and technology in general) by getting a new Xbox 360 in addition to my new computer. Nothing heals the heart like tons and tons of stuff. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy comfort. Opulent, opulent comfort. And distraction. I find that my emotionally wrecked teetering wastrel self is far less prevalent as I am able to interrupt and derail my day-to-day autofunction. The further I get from routine, the easier it is to function normally, as contradictive as that may sound.
I am shocked. Downright shocked and how not insane I am about this. It was pretty bad, admittedly, right off the bat. And when I fixate and dissect and pore over the conversations (the in-my-head transcriptions which become increasingly inaccurate as I continue to replay them) and the messages and the texts, it makes me sick and sad and awful and agonized. But I have to really activate that. I have to allow myself to go down into that basement. Lord knows why I keep doing it to myself. But the rest of the time? I'm ok. Sometimes a little sad about it. Often a little bitter. Equal parts distressed and relieved with people telling me how much better off I am and how they never really liked her for me or the way we were together, et cetera. Like, a) I know you're just trying to cheer me up, but I'm still in love with her to a degree that I'm not ready to smack talk at her expense yet. And b) why were these concerns not voiced when I was on track to marrying this girl?
Okay, my best friends are exempt from this statement, because they never shied from giving me the facts of the matter, but they were also understanding enough to know I was going to ignore them anyway. That's what friends are for, after all.
I am suddenly and maniacally hungry. I could eat a horse. Or a human being.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
every time i see your picture, it makes me want to vomit.
But only because I'm still in love with you.
So what I'm starting to worry about is if that innocence and purity I keep seeing as a romantic and chivalrous perk to bring to the relationship table, what if that's just stupid? What if my rabid adherence to idealism cripples me and forces all of my relationships into the same redundant, juvenile end? Because my methods for handling heartbreak haven't matured, as evidenced by the uber vag-flappy titling of this post.
Now, given: the depth of loss is legitimately and palpably deeper than in previous encounters with the dreary beast. But it raises questions about what my goddamn problem is.
See, now, what's supposed to happen here is an epiphany. I'm supposed to have some big, insightful, steaming pile about either how I need to change to play the game and pretend to be a grownup, or a lengthy vindication of my peter pan complex. I don't have either. And if I'm ever going to have the kind of successful, bedtime-story-telling relationship my effervescent inner child has always imagined, I need to figure this shit out.
So what I'm starting to worry about is if that innocence and purity I keep seeing as a romantic and chivalrous perk to bring to the relationship table, what if that's just stupid? What if my rabid adherence to idealism cripples me and forces all of my relationships into the same redundant, juvenile end? Because my methods for handling heartbreak haven't matured, as evidenced by the uber vag-flappy titling of this post.
Now, given: the depth of loss is legitimately and palpably deeper than in previous encounters with the dreary beast. But it raises questions about what my goddamn problem is.
See, now, what's supposed to happen here is an epiphany. I'm supposed to have some big, insightful, steaming pile about either how I need to change to play the game and pretend to be a grownup, or a lengthy vindication of my peter pan complex. I don't have either. And if I'm ever going to have the kind of successful, bedtime-story-telling relationship my effervescent inner child has always imagined, I need to figure this shit out.
it's a little bit like rabid butterflies.
You know that delicious butterfly lovey-dovey sensation you get in your stomach when you see or hear something cute about someone you care for? Now imagine those butterflies are rabid. Then zoom out and ask yourself why you would intentionally continue to do this. Good question. It's because you're an idiot.
So dating a literally-minded someone and working in a bookstore is great. Because you see interesting things and ideas for presents and you chat with people who like this kind of book or that kind of book and it sounds like something your significant other would like and you tuck it away in that mind-pocket to tell them about it later, or maybe a deeper pocket that's for the present ideas.
Therefore, the exact same thing happens when you go to work post-breakup, except instead of that rainbows and fuzzy feeling, you feel like you ate a burrito made of napalm and various acids. Here is a tip for those times: coffee is not helpful. It is, however, helpful in getting a complete ton of distracting busywork done. But the more mindless the task, the more you're going to see that Ireland-themed St. Patrick's Day display table and think about how you're never going to take a trip to Ireland when her grandmother finally accepts you.
Okay, disclaimer. On a re-read of this entire blog thus far, I seem like a crazy pants. Let me be clear: this is a coping mechanism for releasing the neuroses. I am, believe it or not, not like this all the time. Just, like, 2-3 times a day where it's bad enough I have to expel it in blog form. Word vomit. While on the subject of how I am strangely not a complete cripple from this, I'm pretty sick of the pity eyes. Like. It's kind that my close friends and siblings are all "hey buuuudy, just checking up on you. How ya doooooin? You want a soooooda?" and that's fine. But literally everyone else -at both jobs- is giving me the pity eyes. Which just makes me feel deflatedly pathetic.
I have to say, as much an obstacle as the long-distance thing was to the relationship, I am eternally grateful for it now, because I know seeing her for one solitary second would liquefy all my mettle and resolve and dealing-with-it-ability. As it stands, I might be able to cobble something of myself together before I am ever faced with the possibility of her real-live presence.
In related news, I'm coming up on my 27th birthday and have no lifeplan whatsoever. The Liz-Entangled co-life plan is still viable without Liz, I just don't know where I should aim my trajectory. Northampton with sis is an option. Vernon/Manchester area will welcome me back with open arms, I'm sure, but I see that as a defeatist backslide. Also Joey and Philly might be possible. But that's only according to Chrystina. Would be nice to be close to Steph and lil bro, but they're both leaving there within the next year, anyways. The big thing is I have to get out of Delaware. I need to be somewhere there are comic books and indie theatres. And possibly people my own age. Maybe even a few who aren't married, divorced or childed, yet.
Secret internal interests for total fresh start: Chicago, Savannah, Cleveland. Pittsburgh was on there but now that just seems weird and stalky.
I wonder if she realizes how much easier she's getting off. I mean. Not that she isn't feeling this, too. I don't think she's out partying it up. She's got to be hurting, too. In fact, I feel pretty goddamn terrible for dragging her through this a week before finals. But she'll have the break to kind of recover and have fun with her friends and not be constrained into her regular routines. But most of the echoes of our relationship -good and bad- are here in Delaware. So in Nebraska, she has the emotional resonance to deal with, but for me, here, it literally ghosts out of every goddamn thing. My house, my car, both my jobs. She's -we're- everywhere I go. I know, I know. Melodrama-o-rama. But that doesn't stop it being true.
I dont have a witty, Springeresque "final thought" this time.
Sayid ought to be Mowgli in the Fables tv show.
So dating a literally-minded someone and working in a bookstore is great. Because you see interesting things and ideas for presents and you chat with people who like this kind of book or that kind of book and it sounds like something your significant other would like and you tuck it away in that mind-pocket to tell them about it later, or maybe a deeper pocket that's for the present ideas.
Therefore, the exact same thing happens when you go to work post-breakup, except instead of that rainbows and fuzzy feeling, you feel like you ate a burrito made of napalm and various acids. Here is a tip for those times: coffee is not helpful. It is, however, helpful in getting a complete ton of distracting busywork done. But the more mindless the task, the more you're going to see that Ireland-themed St. Patrick's Day display table and think about how you're never going to take a trip to Ireland when her grandmother finally accepts you.
Okay, disclaimer. On a re-read of this entire blog thus far, I seem like a crazy pants. Let me be clear: this is a coping mechanism for releasing the neuroses. I am, believe it or not, not like this all the time. Just, like, 2-3 times a day where it's bad enough I have to expel it in blog form. Word vomit. While on the subject of how I am strangely not a complete cripple from this, I'm pretty sick of the pity eyes. Like. It's kind that my close friends and siblings are all "hey buuuudy, just checking up on you. How ya doooooin? You want a soooooda?" and that's fine. But literally everyone else -at both jobs- is giving me the pity eyes. Which just makes me feel deflatedly pathetic.
I have to say, as much an obstacle as the long-distance thing was to the relationship, I am eternally grateful for it now, because I know seeing her for one solitary second would liquefy all my mettle and resolve and dealing-with-it-ability. As it stands, I might be able to cobble something of myself together before I am ever faced with the possibility of her real-live presence.
In related news, I'm coming up on my 27th birthday and have no lifeplan whatsoever. The Liz-Entangled co-life plan is still viable without Liz, I just don't know where I should aim my trajectory. Northampton with sis is an option. Vernon/Manchester area will welcome me back with open arms, I'm sure, but I see that as a defeatist backslide. Also Joey and Philly might be possible. But that's only according to Chrystina. Would be nice to be close to Steph and lil bro, but they're both leaving there within the next year, anyways. The big thing is I have to get out of Delaware. I need to be somewhere there are comic books and indie theatres. And possibly people my own age. Maybe even a few who aren't married, divorced or childed, yet.
Secret internal interests for total fresh start: Chicago, Savannah, Cleveland. Pittsburgh was on there but now that just seems weird and stalky.
I wonder if she realizes how much easier she's getting off. I mean. Not that she isn't feeling this, too. I don't think she's out partying it up. She's got to be hurting, too. In fact, I feel pretty goddamn terrible for dragging her through this a week before finals. But she'll have the break to kind of recover and have fun with her friends and not be constrained into her regular routines. But most of the echoes of our relationship -good and bad- are here in Delaware. So in Nebraska, she has the emotional resonance to deal with, but for me, here, it literally ghosts out of every goddamn thing. My house, my car, both my jobs. She's -we're- everywhere I go. I know, I know. Melodrama-o-rama. But that doesn't stop it being true.
I dont have a witty, Springeresque "final thought" this time.
Sayid ought to be Mowgli in the Fables tv show.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
I'm sorry......
...that everything I write is about this girl. I hope it's still sort of entertaining to read. Someday I might be over it enough to write something else. Comic books are cool. The end.
God Damn you, the internet.
So the internet, it makes stalking pretty natural.
God, that sounds terrible.
Not just for the person you like. For everyone. The endless proliferation of status updates, tweets, the face-space and the my-book (plus that ol' blogsphere.) So it's sort of involuntary. Sort of because if I just didn't sign in to facebook, I wouldn't see her status updates. Or her comments. I wouldn't have to worry about the automatic heartbeat-skipping that happens when her name pops up on the "online friends" list, now more indicative of the ulcer-inducing panic of "Holy god my first instinct is still to talk to her but I know I shouldn't because it's just going to make things worse again" fear-panic-paranoia-spasm than the traditional romantical heart skipping of yore.
Better yet I could delete her. And her family. And all her friends. (Deletion here meaning to remove from a list upon a social network, not assasination.) Then I could go on and not have to sweat it about seeing her, or the ravenous need to still check her comments thread, because I can't turn off a year and a half of caring and inside jokes and tracking outings and friends and basically just trying to participate in her life. But after the fact the compulsion, no matter how ingrained, is just creepy and torturous.
One thing I will say about my relationship skillset is that I remember every goddamn thing and am constantly trying to revisit, homage, celebrate or reference it. Also I have what I see as a Holmesian knack for seeing relations in details that is somewhere between fascinatingly insightful and conspiracy theorist. "Did you put that song on that mixtape because of that one time it was playing when you visited me at work and you danced fancily to it?" "What? No. It's just a good song. What time? What are you talking about?"
Alright, yes. Deleting everyone is an option. Not one I really want to embrace, though. Because I'm on good terms with basically every ex ever, and all my exes have been, at one time or another, invaluable advice givers/moral support. My reasoning is that I'm a very enjoyable character to have around, just a pain to endure as a boyfriend. So I don't want to burn any bridges. Especially not with someone who knows me as well or better than either of my best friends does. It's just wasteful, to get to know that much of someone and then toss it in the incinerator. It might be an easier break that way, but it's not my style.
Too much Captain America, not enough Wolverine.
God, that sounds terrible.
Not just for the person you like. For everyone. The endless proliferation of status updates, tweets, the face-space and the my-book (plus that ol' blogsphere.) So it's sort of involuntary. Sort of because if I just didn't sign in to facebook, I wouldn't see her status updates. Or her comments. I wouldn't have to worry about the automatic heartbeat-skipping that happens when her name pops up on the "online friends" list, now more indicative of the ulcer-inducing panic of "Holy god my first instinct is still to talk to her but I know I shouldn't because it's just going to make things worse again" fear-panic-paranoia-spasm than the traditional romantical heart skipping of yore.
Better yet I could delete her. And her family. And all her friends. (Deletion here meaning to remove from a list upon a social network, not assasination.) Then I could go on and not have to sweat it about seeing her, or the ravenous need to still check her comments thread, because I can't turn off a year and a half of caring and inside jokes and tracking outings and friends and basically just trying to participate in her life. But after the fact the compulsion, no matter how ingrained, is just creepy and torturous.
One thing I will say about my relationship skillset is that I remember every goddamn thing and am constantly trying to revisit, homage, celebrate or reference it. Also I have what I see as a Holmesian knack for seeing relations in details that is somewhere between fascinatingly insightful and conspiracy theorist. "Did you put that song on that mixtape because of that one time it was playing when you visited me at work and you danced fancily to it?" "What? No. It's just a good song. What time? What are you talking about?"
Alright, yes. Deleting everyone is an option. Not one I really want to embrace, though. Because I'm on good terms with basically every ex ever, and all my exes have been, at one time or another, invaluable advice givers/moral support. My reasoning is that I'm a very enjoyable character to have around, just a pain to endure as a boyfriend. So I don't want to burn any bridges. Especially not with someone who knows me as well or better than either of my best friends does. It's just wasteful, to get to know that much of someone and then toss it in the incinerator. It might be an easier break that way, but it's not my style.
Too much Captain America, not enough Wolverine.
Monday, March 1, 2010
if you throw a big enough fit...
... you will get what you want.
This is what we have been taught by the consumption machine. If we can reduce ourselves to howling five-year-olds, we can have that shiny new toy we wanted. Probably for free. Hell, if we throw a big enough stink, we'll get a voucher for another free toy. If they don't automatically reward your anger and frustration with something free to shut you up, just accuse them of calling you a liar. That's what people always do to me when I become an impediment to them getting free things. Somehow it never works when I try it, though. Maybe I'm not believable enough as a disruptive child. Oh, wait, all I am is a disruptive child. Strange, then, that I can't seem to grasp the magic of the mollycoddled, complaining masses. You know what? OK. There are people who are totally cool and they just want to come out on top when things go wrong. If something breaks when you're staying at my hotel, I will fix it or you will not pay for it. Fine. And those people are really nice and appreciative and basically not totally awful. But there are a good number of people that just hoot and holler until they get their way because they like confrontation, they assume they're going to always win, because in the life and times of the customer is always right, the fastest way to be proven right isn't to actually be wronged, it's just to throw the biggest fit. And, alright, given, my cynicism is ramped way up at present because of my own personal shit, but these are constant thorns in my side.
Also I'm trying not to make every single thing i write in here be about how I'm trying not to pay attention to Liz.
Because there is that part of me that is screaming to be outside her window with a boom box to make everything all right. In my true love imaginings? That totally works, in spite of being so very done and me being so very not John Cusack. In real life it would be sad and futile and maybe a little creepy. Because she's completely right about some of the things that are broken, that do not for a good relationship make. And being fiercely determined enough or fiercely naive enough to continue hanging on to something that isn't working is a functioning definition of insanity. Even if you're already in deep enough to be in love with each other. I can't help my very nature, which is believing I can super magic Captain America save the day and bring it all back together and bring back all the hope and trust. But that's not the way it works for real people. Every grand over-the-top gesture I make to try to fix something, it blows up in my face and makes me either an idiosyncratic romantic weirdo or -worse- just a creepy desperate guy who doesn't know when to let go. Honestly? In my experience the creep vs. adorable factor of over the top cheesy romantic gestures is generally exactly proportional to how much she likes you.
I've also imagineered a possible reality where she happens upon this blog. And again, in my fantasy disney happy ending world, my erudite and charming metaphors illustrate all my hopes and shine kindly on my imperfections. Yet I know the reality is that on the sad day she finds me here, she will find me to be caustic and obsessive and strange and wholly lacking in the understanding of what went wrong. Okay, maybe that's imagineered in the opposite direction, but it's best to steel myself for the worst. I can honestly say I wish we understood each other. Because as hard as I tried to be part of her world, even insofar as I was and am a part of her world, there is something I can not access. An insight I do not have into how she is who she is. The same way I feel like my weird dwarf star shining soul innocence was incomprehensible to her. How can a grown man be such a child? It's not (just) about the toys and the comic books, either. It's a core childishness which could be charming if given the proper environs. But mostly is just a handicap for trying to operate in the adult, modern world. It might be useful if I ever become a dad, but there's a lot more pretending to be a grownup between here and there.
I miss my imaginary future.
This is what we have been taught by the consumption machine. If we can reduce ourselves to howling five-year-olds, we can have that shiny new toy we wanted. Probably for free. Hell, if we throw a big enough stink, we'll get a voucher for another free toy. If they don't automatically reward your anger and frustration with something free to shut you up, just accuse them of calling you a liar. That's what people always do to me when I become an impediment to them getting free things. Somehow it never works when I try it, though. Maybe I'm not believable enough as a disruptive child. Oh, wait, all I am is a disruptive child. Strange, then, that I can't seem to grasp the magic of the mollycoddled, complaining masses. You know what? OK. There are people who are totally cool and they just want to come out on top when things go wrong. If something breaks when you're staying at my hotel, I will fix it or you will not pay for it. Fine. And those people are really nice and appreciative and basically not totally awful. But there are a good number of people that just hoot and holler until they get their way because they like confrontation, they assume they're going to always win, because in the life and times of the customer is always right, the fastest way to be proven right isn't to actually be wronged, it's just to throw the biggest fit. And, alright, given, my cynicism is ramped way up at present because of my own personal shit, but these are constant thorns in my side.
Also I'm trying not to make every single thing i write in here be about how I'm trying not to pay attention to Liz.
Because there is that part of me that is screaming to be outside her window with a boom box to make everything all right. In my true love imaginings? That totally works, in spite of being so very done and me being so very not John Cusack. In real life it would be sad and futile and maybe a little creepy. Because she's completely right about some of the things that are broken, that do not for a good relationship make. And being fiercely determined enough or fiercely naive enough to continue hanging on to something that isn't working is a functioning definition of insanity. Even if you're already in deep enough to be in love with each other. I can't help my very nature, which is believing I can super magic Captain America save the day and bring it all back together and bring back all the hope and trust. But that's not the way it works for real people. Every grand over-the-top gesture I make to try to fix something, it blows up in my face and makes me either an idiosyncratic romantic weirdo or -worse- just a creepy desperate guy who doesn't know when to let go. Honestly? In my experience the creep vs. adorable factor of over the top cheesy romantic gestures is generally exactly proportional to how much she likes you.
I've also imagineered a possible reality where she happens upon this blog. And again, in my fantasy disney happy ending world, my erudite and charming metaphors illustrate all my hopes and shine kindly on my imperfections. Yet I know the reality is that on the sad day she finds me here, she will find me to be caustic and obsessive and strange and wholly lacking in the understanding of what went wrong. Okay, maybe that's imagineered in the opposite direction, but it's best to steel myself for the worst. I can honestly say I wish we understood each other. Because as hard as I tried to be part of her world, even insofar as I was and am a part of her world, there is something I can not access. An insight I do not have into how she is who she is. The same way I feel like my weird dwarf star shining soul innocence was incomprehensible to her. How can a grown man be such a child? It's not (just) about the toys and the comic books, either. It's a core childishness which could be charming if given the proper environs. But mostly is just a handicap for trying to operate in the adult, modern world. It might be useful if I ever become a dad, but there's a lot more pretending to be a grownup between here and there.
I miss my imaginary future.
a few troubles
First Off, a few words concerning the title: kids are born not knowing that things continue to exist when they leave the field of the senses. Once they can no longer see, hear, smell, touch or taste you, you cease to exist. Eyeblink erasure. The idea that we are not born with this, that we learn it over time -that centuries of reproduction and evolution has not ingrained this in our universal unconscious- is a pretty strong argument for it being untrue. Maybe we really do disappear every time we exit someone's sphere of experience. Okay. Weird metaphysical shit complete. Time for Whinging.
If you're reading this, I assume we probably know each other. So I'm not going to catch you up and I'm not going to try to explain anything that already happened. My versions of events are all kinds of unreliable, anyway. On account of being the pictoscope recordings of my 12-year-old boy-brain processor.
So I'm having some trouble adjusting to a non-Liz world. (Oh, right into the moping, there). Like. I'm not technicolor distraught or wildly unfunctioning. Every here and there the loss part of it grips me and I reel about in it for a minute or two before recovering my composure and footing. But the hardest stuff is in the minutiae. I've not yet even begun to process how to rewrite my life plan now that it won't be intertwined with hers. I'm not even seeing the big-picture stuff yet. Just little things involving her in all my automatic processes. Or thoughts of her. Out shopping: "Oh, I wonder if Liz has this album?" Out to eat: "I bet Liz would like/hate this place." Seeing an interesting thing on the internet: "I have to tell Liz about that next time I talk to her." It's everywhere. In the way that your relationship colours everything that you do. Always on the lookout for cute things she would like. Presents to squirrel away for someday. Stuff like that. Thinking like a couple all the time. So I've been biting the tongue of my internal monologue for the last two days, trying not to make everything relatable to Liz. Which, of course, contradicts what I've been telling my brain for the last year and a half. It's rough. It's not shattering me the way I expected it to. I'm even feeling a little guilty about how functional I am, all-told. And of course an obscene splurge on comics and records in Philly yesterday didn't hurt either.
So I'm probably going to keep this blog and write in it until I feel well enough about all of this to become a sub-sane human being again, at which point this, like all my previous online writing forays, falls by the wayside and ebbs away into obscurity. But for now I need to be writing into the great beyond of the inter-nets again. God knows what compels me to do such a thing, especially airing all my personal business. What a nutter.
If you're reading this, I assume we probably know each other. So I'm not going to catch you up and I'm not going to try to explain anything that already happened. My versions of events are all kinds of unreliable, anyway. On account of being the pictoscope recordings of my 12-year-old boy-brain processor.
So I'm having some trouble adjusting to a non-Liz world. (Oh, right into the moping, there). Like. I'm not technicolor distraught or wildly unfunctioning. Every here and there the loss part of it grips me and I reel about in it for a minute or two before recovering my composure and footing. But the hardest stuff is in the minutiae. I've not yet even begun to process how to rewrite my life plan now that it won't be intertwined with hers. I'm not even seeing the big-picture stuff yet. Just little things involving her in all my automatic processes. Or thoughts of her. Out shopping: "Oh, I wonder if Liz has this album?" Out to eat: "I bet Liz would like/hate this place." Seeing an interesting thing on the internet: "I have to tell Liz about that next time I talk to her." It's everywhere. In the way that your relationship colours everything that you do. Always on the lookout for cute things she would like. Presents to squirrel away for someday. Stuff like that. Thinking like a couple all the time. So I've been biting the tongue of my internal monologue for the last two days, trying not to make everything relatable to Liz. Which, of course, contradicts what I've been telling my brain for the last year and a half. It's rough. It's not shattering me the way I expected it to. I'm even feeling a little guilty about how functional I am, all-told. And of course an obscene splurge on comics and records in Philly yesterday didn't hurt either.
So I'm probably going to keep this blog and write in it until I feel well enough about all of this to become a sub-sane human being again, at which point this, like all my previous online writing forays, falls by the wayside and ebbs away into obscurity. But for now I need to be writing into the great beyond of the inter-nets again. God knows what compels me to do such a thing, especially airing all my personal business. What a nutter.
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