Tuesday, January 24, 2012


The following list is far from comprehensive, or remotely complete, but I am (as I have mentioned before) a lazy, lazy man.

First, there was Becky. The first girl in my love rodeo. The girl I lost my virginity to oh so many years ago. It was a mutual deflowering, and as you would expect it was (at least the first time) pretty brutal. It was probably like watching a killer whale taunt, and kill a baby seal. It was short, nasty, and I am not sure if either of us enjoyed it too terribly much. However, after a few more attempts, we got things in the right spot, and I found 'the' spot, and we began a wonderful, happy relationship. This was back before the war, and in the small town where I was reared, when you deflower a girl, it was only supposed to end one way. And that way, isn't recollecting events over 20 years later without Bethany in the room. It was SUPPOSED to end happily ever after, and it did for Bethany and another fine fellow (a former friend) they are happily married with 3 children, or at least they were the last I heard. She promised she loved me, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with me, clearly she was talking to the wrong guy when she told me that, and I wonder if she told him the same thing. She seems to have meant it, and least when she told him, me not so much. She left.

Years later, there was Yvonne. An exotic name for an exotic woman, from another country she was (and still is I suppose) some place that most of the people I grew up with have never heard. Did I mention I am from a very small, very redneck town? Not that it mattered, by the time Yvonne and I crossed paths, I had been out of that place for a very long time.  Yvonne was a very, very bright girl, which makes why she took up with me an even greater mystery. However, at the time it was not a mystery that I wanted to explore to deeply. She too, said a lot of nice things about and to me, and even offered to take me back to the exotic place of her birth to live our lives out together. She is still in this country, and dating a wonderful fellow, i.e. not me. She had a pretty bad accident, and was not quite the same woman after, she became a woman who did not suffer fools gladly, and I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a fool.  She too left.

Then there was Eileen, and as the name imply she was a redhead with a LOT of Irish in her. Tall, thin, pale, and young. She was (at the time) a walking embodiment of the perfect woman for me. However, while she had quite a bit of musical talent, she wasn't the swiftest horse in the stable. I am far from being a genius, but sometimes Eileen and I were reduced to awfully lengthy discussions about the colour yellow. Now, I like yellow as much as the next fellow, I even painted a bathroom yellow once, but there isn't a whole lot new to say about the colour yellow. But she was tall, thin, young, pale, and covered in freckles, so I managed to overlook the 'yellow thing' for as long as I was able.  She was another girl that I deflowered, and that really seems to mean a lot to women. She eventually became a long distance relationship, and I flew many a mile to see her. I came close to asking her to make it permanent, but the distance and the 'yellow thing' were just too much for me to cope with. She also told me, in different words, that she would have said 'yes' if I had asked. The other big problem with Eileen was I met Anna (see below) when she moved away. They were together the perfect woman, it was a damn shame that there were two of them. She is now married with three children, and happy as a clam. Good on her. She too left.

Then there was Lisa, Lisa was another fiery redhead that actually had 2 'bites at the cherry'. Round 1 was also many years ago, and it was more of a fling than anything else. She was, at the time, a long distance relationship, and I drove a lot miles to see her on more than one occasion. She was an exciting girl, and pretty sharp herself. However, the distance, and time were against us, and she faded into the mists of time. Then one day out of the blue, I got an email from her, I've no idea how she found me, or why she wanted to find me, but she did. It was an instant reconnect, but there was still distance involved. We talked for hours on the phone, and if you know me at all, you know I don't really talk on the phone. We planned almost our entire lives out during those phone calls. We fell back into love during those chats, and then it all when pear shaped. We talked about everything during round 2 of our relationship, and the breaking point was, of all things, Charles Baudelaire. She pretty much told me "It's Baudelaire or me." Well, on my bedside table is a book of Baudelaire's poetry. The whereabouts of Lisa, I do not know.  I like to think I made the right choice, but she promised she loved everything about me (including my love of literature), and she left.

Then there was Alice, Alice was a fellow student of history, and a lovely girl. However, Alice was a bit too frail for me. She had (and presumably still has) a fairly significant illness, that made our relationship a lot harder to conduct. It wasn't any sort of illness that prevented the good stuff, it just made her tired a lot. She once told me "if you asked me to marry you right now, I would say yes.' Guess what? I quickly changed the subject, and moved on to less dangerous relationship waters.  It was probably a wise decision, since after me Alice decided to revenge fuck my best friend. This is one of the reasons that I no longer have a best friend. She has recently became engaged, and I am happy for her, and hope that the lucky groom's best man isn't too handsome. She too left.

Then came Nancy. Fancy Nancy as I liked to call her. She was not amused by that nickname, and I quickly found out that Nance wasn't amused by much of anything.  Those who I allow to know me these days, will (hopefully) tell you that I am a pretty funny guy. Funny as in HA HA, not funny as someone who like to wear a lot of chartreuse scarves. I never really understood Nancy, and I don't think Nancy ever really tried to understand me. It was, in spite of all this misunderstanding, a torrid affair, and my roommate at the time was so impressed he once, clapped when she left the house after a night at the opera (as he liked to call it, I'm certain you can guess why).  She wasn't amused about that either, but she certainly did care enough to want to sign up as a permanent ticket holder, if you catch my meaning. However, operas have limited runs, and she too left.

Then came Anna, Anna was, when put together with Eileen (see above) the perfect woman. Anna was (and I am still sure is) one of the few women I have dated that was miles smarter than I am, and I don't date dumb women. Except for the fact that they have dated me, which causes their sanity, not their intelligence, to be called into question, I love intelligent woman. Anna was a fucking overachieving genius, and why she fell for me was completely unfathomable to me. She was smart, funny, well read, well spoken, and a a for sure keeper for almost any man in the world. Any man but, yours truly it seems. We had a really, really rocky relationship that was defined by, me still having feelings for Eileen, and one other fact that I have only ever told 4 people about. This is not the time to reveal what that fact/issue was. There may never be a time to reveal that fact again, and I hope that Anna has forgiven me, even though she said she never would, and I peg her as a woman of her word. She is also married now with at least one child. I heard from her about three years ago when her team, the Saints, beat my Vikings in the NFC championship game. It was not a consolation email, it was a gloating email. It led me to believe that Anna has not forgiven me, and truth be told, she probably shouldn't. I thought many a night how she was a keeper, and she really was. She too left.

Then came Esther, I married Esther, and that should tell you all you need to know. If you want to know more, I suggest you read "Portraits of a Marriage" by Sandor Marai. A good book that will tell you a lot of things about Esther and I, even if she's never read it, or is ever going to read it. She too left.

As I said this isn't a complete list of all of my follies, and I am sure there will be more follies to come, but to each of these wonderful women I told one important story. I won't go too far into the details of the story (more of a theory) that I shared with women, because I don't share it that often. It has to do with numbers, and each of them will understand exactly what I mean by that. It is not a happy theory, but it is a theory that I believe in strongly. A theory is just that a theory, something that isn't a law but something that can be shown to happen again and again under the same set of circumstances. Thus we get a theory. Each of these women, to whom I owe both a massive debt, and a heartfelt apology, to, have helped me show that my theory, as depressing as it is, is sound.  It is another tragedy that I will have to deal with, and it makes me very sad. Sometimes being right about things hurts a lot more than being wrong.

P.S. There is no hidden agenda or meaning in the post, but there is, if you try hard enough to find it, a hidden message. 

Sunday, January 22, 2012


In the past month, I have had my ass handed to me emotionally twice. Once was at work, and once was in my personal life. I try very hard to keep them separated, but sometimes, given the subject matter of my job, they bleed over into each other. When I first started my job over nine years ago, I swore not to let it define me as a person, I fear, after those nine long years, that I have failed in that task. I really want to be more than the sum of my parts, but I fear I am failing at that goal (as I do at most things I try). 

These two 'ass handings' have led me to become what I hate the most (other than my father), an emotional 'wreck.' Normally, I am not the most emotive of fellows, and I try very hard to compartmentalize my emotions. It is not the easiest of tasks, but I have been accused of doing it quite successfully in the past. I say accused, because the person making the claim about my ability to compartmentalize things, was not saying it in a positive light. The emotion ass whipping I received at work, I can do sod all about, it was delivered from on high, and a mere worker ant such as myself can not nothing about it. Not that I didn't at least try, but as I mentioned earlier, I am a professional when it comes to trying and failing. Seymour Skinner doesn't have anything on me in the failing department.

The work beating wasn't even given to me to my face, it had to be delivered to me by someone other than the architect, I guess that is what minions are for, to do all the unpleasant tasks that the throne would find off-putting. Either way it was done, and I'm still struggling to determine how much of my pride, and other important bits of me survived. It is going to be a bit of a slog, but it looks as if I'll survive, at least for a while. Though I fear the matter has merely been delayed, and will not be denied.

At least the personal beating took place to my face, though in retrospect I wonder if that makes it better or worse. I wasn't overly surprised that it happened, but I was, and still am surprised at it swiftness and its brutality.  These things are not for the weak of will nor the faint of heart. I didn't think I was either, but as flail about trying to understand what is happening, I fear that I might just be both. That is not something that I find particularly pleasant, or easy to admit. Things have recently begun to fall apart, and there is a growing concern that the centre cannot hold, and that is a oddly frightening notion to attempt to wrap my head around.

The bulwarks that I painstakingly built over so very many years have begun to collapse like a house of cards on a very windy day, and the 'ship of me' the only ship I have, is listing dramatically to the left. Taking on water at an alarming rate, and is caught on a lee shore that will be very difficult to navigate off of.  I have put all hands to the pumps, but the only hands I have are mine own, and as referenced above, me doing something equals me failing at something. It is a gift, one of the many I would like to return but can't, seems I've lost that receipt as well. 

All of this is to say that if the melancholy expressed on these pages, has been, or gets too bad, at least now some of the sources have been identified, and perhaps that is the first step to building better, stronger bulkheads. I guess failure does have its purpose. My watching the compartments I build be breached with such ease, I now understand that unless I want to stay under these waves tonight, I will have to build with more care, and more cruelty. Whether I am up to the task remains to be seen, and I wouldn't bet on me if I were you. But, then again if I were you, I wouldn't be having these problems in the first place would I?

Sunday, January 15, 2012


'I just want you to be happy' three, not one, not two, but THREE different people have told me that in the last week. As if happiness is something that I can order off of the Wendy's 99 cent menu.  Which is why I gave the reply 'happiness is not on the menu.' The tricky part of the statement is that, in their own way (I think) each of them actually meant it. They actually want me to be happy. Why, I don't know, nor do I particularly care. The fact that when one of them told me 'they wanted me to be happy' they were in the middle of making me decidedly unhappy is an irony that was probably only evident to me.

The other two 'happy wishers' have also, at different times been in a position to make me happy, and or sad depending. I am just now beginning to realize that is my fault not theirs. The fact that I allow another person or persons to control my mood or emotions is just plain stupidity on my part, and it is something that will have to be changed, and soon. To continue to allow any other human being, and I am using that term very broadly, to have the ability to influence or determine my feelings is deplorable. I can not for the life of me sort out how the blue fuck, I allowed myself to be placed into such a position, but here I am. However, just because I am here, doesn't mean I am going to STAY here, and I think that a certain self-adjustment shall be made. Self-adjustments are the hardest to make, but when they are pulled off properly they are well worth it.

Each of these 'happy' souls also told me that they thought I would make a good father, again I had to disabuse them of that notion as well. As a card carrying misanthrope, and a cynic of the brutal type, I am fairly certain I would make an awful, awful father. My normal response is to say that i do not like children, and in many ways that is still true, but being a former child myself, I have now determined that it is the parents that I don't like. I certainly didn't like one of my at all, and the other one is currently not speaking to me, so maybe that colours my thinking a little bit, but I am beginning to warm to the idea of disliking parents.

I am sure that most parents do the best they can rearing their offspring, but it's just that most of them also do a really shit job of it. Children, from what I have been told, do not come with an instruction manual, and even worse, seem to have a mind of their own. Though I am not sure I am ever going to be ready to have children, mainly because of the potential 'motherships' out there seem to have disqualified, or disabled themselves in one way or another. There is a reason for this, but I lack the words (or the courage you pick) to explain that reason. It is just sufficient for now to say that their actions could never be reconciled with their words.

This happiness that these well meaning people wished me, is something that I am going to have to find myself. A lot of people will tell you that happiness is the presence of something, cold beer, warm women, a large piece of unguarded chocolate, can and may provide you happiness, but it is fleeting happiness. After the beer has been drunk, the chocolate eaten, and the woman has left (and each of these things will happen), then you are right back where you started, unhappy. That is if, of course, you allow the presence of things to make you happy. Another theory is it is the absence of things that can make you happy, the absence of pain, the absence of hunger, or maybe even the absence of people can make you happy. Once again a flawed theory, you are going to experience pain again, unless you die, you are going to get hungry again, and people just have a tendency of getting in the way. Leaving you back were you started, unhappy.

Happiness might be a bit too much to hope for, and besides is it really necessary?  After all there exist in this world people who go out of their way to attempt to ruin other people's happiness. Almost seems pointless to find happiness if there is just someone who is going to try to take it away.  Perhaps happiness is a house in the burbs, 2.5 children, and the white picket fence that we all liked to gently mock as rebellious free thinkers in our student days.   Or maybe it is some radiant city, that lets us drink for free, never age, and not have to go to work in the morning. Either way it is something that while elusive, need not be exclusive. 

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Bunny Hop

As I was taking a nice relaxing bath the other night burning one to make the day's stress disappear, a very loud, very insistent knock came upon my door. 'Damn and blast' I muttered, can't the world leave me alone long enough to get high in the bathtub? I am not an important person, and my presence is not really ever needed that often, but here it was at 5 in the afternoon, and some damn fool just wouldn't leave me in peace. I threw on a robe, and slightly dizzy, made my way to the front door. Now, I know that most of you, dear readers, will probably think I've gone mad when I tell what I saw but, I swear it was the truth.

On my doorstep, and it took a few rapid blinks of my eyes to confirm it, stood the fucking Easter Bunny! No shit! There he was in all of his glory, the fucking Easter Bunny, basket in hand waving at me as I opened the door to let him in. I really didn't know what else to do except let him in, after all there really doesn't seem to be a protocol for this sort of thing, and besides I had be led to believe that this guy/thing didn't exist. I was certainly going to let him in, and try to sort out this mystery myself. I could be famous, going down in history as the man who 're-discovered'/proved the existence of the Easter Bunny.

He wasn't as tall as Harvey the other 'fictional' bunny I had heard about, and he didn't say anything, he just bunny hopped into my living room, basket in hand, and gave me a stare that only a rabbit could get away with, it was a bit unnerving, and really fucking funny all at the same time. He seemed to know what he was doing as he hopped around on my fancy rug, and he placed his basket down on my coffee table, pulled out what I can only describe as the largest fucking egg I have ever seen, and placed it in my (suddenly) out stretched hands. 

He then shook his head very slowly, as if to say 'I know you didn't believe in me, and I know you probably don't deserve any of my gifts, but here I am to show you that sometimes non-belief doesn't matter. You can believe in what you want, it doesn't make me any less real. Yes, he was somehow able to convey all of that with a simple shake of his head. It was amazing, and a little humbling. He then wagged his finger at me as some sort of vague warning and hopped out of my door, slamming it ever so gently behind him.

As I stood there gawking like a country bumpkin who has traveled to Brooklyn to see 'this here bridge they keep trying to sell me', and clutching his egg like a rube, I couldn't help but notice, and be very upset as I looked down and noticed that the fucking Easter Bunny had tracked mud all over my rug, and that rug really tied together the room!

For the birthday girl, who gave me this idea, I hope it is a happy one, both your birthday, and the tone of which you've noticed is a bit bleak at times.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Stranger on a 5

It is funny how two people can remember the same event so very differently. What I said to him wasn't 'I am leaving you' but four more important words which were 'You have to leave'.' Those two statements are radically different, and make a huge difference in what followed. I was his mistress for five and a half years, that much is true. During that time, I got to know him very well, probably better than he knew himself. Not that he would either admit that, or for that matter knew that. However, that was his problem not mine. In those five and a half years he told me, without really meaning to, everyone one of his passwords. Which is why I am here now, I know, or have known everyone of the passwords he so jealously guarded from the rest of the world. You see he isn't the only classically educated person in the world who knows a shit ton of French history. He will be both appalled, and impressed once he figures out he has been hacked, and he will change his password immediately. It will be to something that he thinks, wrongly, that I don't know, but I will let him keep that dream alive. 

For five and a half years, I put up with his lies, his self-delusions, and his cheating.  He thought he was clever, and that I didn't know. I knew, and I know, it was just for five and a half years I didn't care. I knew that no matter how far afield he might have strayed, that he would always come back to me. I was (and still am) quite that good. He knows that even to this day, even if he is too stupid to admit it.  Therein lies part of the problem, he isn't stupid, in fact (and he refuses to admit it) he is, in so very many ways, the smartest man that I have ever met, and I have met a lot of smart men. 

He is probably, as I type this, out with one of his 'whores', at least that is what I called them. The multitude of women that he somehow convinced he was single that fell for his charms. They aren't really to blame for what they did, it is almost entirely his fault, but they are still what I call his 'whores.'  They didn't understand him like I did, they didn't know him 5 plus years ago as a shy, socially awkward man, who really didn't understand which fork to use for which course. I had to teach him that, I had to teach him a lot of things.  Some of which he really didn't want to learn, but I taught him anyway. He should, but he won't, thank me for those life's lessons.

He complains that 5 and a half years is a long time for a man his age, and he is correct, but for a woman my age (about 10 years younger than his old ass) it is even longer, and women and aging are not friends at all. Men grow distinguished as they age, women just grow old, so I feel no pity for him as he approaches another birthday. In the grand scheme of things 5 and a half years to him is like 9 years to me. I was a very young, and very naive girl when he met me all those years ago, but I have both aged and matured, he has just aged. I doubt that he will ever mature, which is part of the reason I told him he had to leave. He didn't like being told that, and I suspect that is why he chose the coward's way of posting a blog post about it. It is typical of him, to argue with me, or anyone else he has an issue with via some vague, hard to decipher blog post. A post that he likes to think only he knows the true meaning of.  What a fool! I know him inside and out, and if he thinks that he can write a post that I can't figure out the true meaning of, then he is an even bigger fool than I thought he was.

However, when I met him, he was just as naive as I ever was. A wet-behind the ears idealist who thought by just trying hard enough, he could change the world. I had to be cruel to him several times, and I was cruel, cruel beyond compare. I broke his heart, and shattered his concept of justice and fairness, for his own good. He won't ever thank me for it, and he probably shouldn't, but regardless whether he will admit it or not, I made him, (forged him if you will) a stronger, better person.  I even made him cry, twice, it took a hell of a lot of effort, but he cried like a Jew at the wailing wall. He will deny it, and he did a remarkably good job of hiding it, but he cried, twice. It was about the only time I ever saw his human side. Which is sad in so very many ways.

I know he hates himself, I know that if he could just get the courage up, he would either run away to Paris, and starve to death by trying to live by his pen, or that he will take the revolver that he inherited from his father, and blow his brains out.  I tried, so very hard to convince him that the first idea wasn't so bad, and that the second idea was just a coward's way out.  He is still alive, but not living in Paris, so I guess I failed at both.  I know all the childhood issues that he has, the one's that he refuses to admit to himself, but that are so very clear if you pay close attention to his actions. 

He is correct when he says that when he first met me that we loathed each other. I was loud, I was crass, and I was (like six perfections) hard to tame. He was shy, confused, and timid. The fact that he gathered the courage to attempt to 'tame' me is one of the few things that I give him credit for.  Considering his awkwardness he did a remarkable job at taming me. After all, I am a force of nature, and taming me is like bailing out the ocean with a very small, slotted spoon. It is to his ever lasting credit that he tried, and tried for 5 and a half years, about 2 years longer than any other fool I have ever known.  Maybe that is why I still admire him so much, the fact that he had the audacity to try to conquer me for so long speaks volumes about his staying power. You see, I am a breaker of spirits, I take people (men, women, children)  chew them up and spit them out. It is always just a matter of time before I break the spirit of anyone silly enough to try to tame me. It is to his everlasting credit that he tried for so much longer than anyone else, and I am pretty sure that, given the choice, he would try again in spite of the bruises I have left upon his soul.

And I did batter his soul, not that he was some sort of sensitive soul when he came to me, but I made sure to find out his weaknesses and exploit them to my benefit. He will tell you I was a cruel mistress, but the truth of the matter is that I am quite simply, a raging bitch.  And he was, in so very many ways, the bitches bastard. He was just as cruel as I ever tried to be. He could break a heart as easily as other men put on pants. I should know I saw him do it on more than one occasion.  It wasn't really his fault but the one's who's heart he broke. He had a rehearsed speech that he gave to these poor women explaining what a bastard he was, and that he wasn't going to be good for their soul. They hardly ever believed him, at least until it was too late, and by then, well it was too late. He gave me that speech when we first met, but much to his dismay, I believed him. He was pretty convincing, and I took his measure pretty quickly. Perhaps that is why we lasted for 5 and a half years.

The real reason that I had to tell him to leave was twofold. The first was that I knew that he loved me, but that he didn't trust me. It was a constant source of friction in the relationship, and one that we just couldn't resolve. It was just a bridge too far for us, I never really understood why he didn't trust me, but after a while I made sure that he had good reason not to trust me. I guess that makes me a bad person, but I was dealing with him, and he was, and remains one of the worse people I have ever met.  The second reason that I had to tell him to leave was that he was scared. He was scared to allow himself to love me as he knew he should. He was afraid to love me like a 'normal'  man, the type of man I deserve, the type of man that could screw his courage up to the sticking point, and make the serious, life changing decisions that needed to be made.

And so, I forced him to leave, telling him how happy I was when he wasn't around. Destroying his confidence, and breaking both his and my own heart. It had to be done, and I really do wish that it would have been him, rather than me, that would have eventually pushed the little red button that led to our relationship entering nuclear winter.  We were two points collapsing, and it was just a matter of time before one of us buried the other. I can only hope that he realizes that this figurative burial is much better than a literal one. Je t'aime.

Monday, January 09, 2012


I love The Police, the rock group, not the guys in the blue uniforms (though I guess they aren't all bad its just that for the most part they can't sing). It is a clear sign that musical tastes have passed me by, the fact that I still cling to a rock band who's music is over 30 years old. Back in the day, when I was a young impressionable, lad, I listened to the Police A LOT.  The lyrics written by Sting, and the wall of sound produced by the band have had a long lasting effect upon me. I would have as many hours of tantric sex as I could manage with Sting, and would be proud to brag about it (providing I survived the experience).

Most of us know at least a few Police songs, and one of the most famous is Roxanne (partially thanks to Eddie Murphy and 48 Hrs). It is a song about falling in love with a prostitute (never a good idea) pure and simple. Sting was 'inspired' to write it by seeing the prostitutes 'working' outside his hotel in Paris in 1977. The name is stolen from the lead female character in Cyarno de Bergerac, and even though the band wasn't overly excited about the song at first, it has since gone on to become one of their all time greatest hits.

All of the above is background to my own little tale of romance gone horribly awry. Until the events that I am about to relate took place, I am fairly certain that I had never even seen a prostitute, and for certain never paid one, or fell in love with one (a certain lack of money, and good sense kept me from falling into that trap).  Even when I met my first prostitute I wasn't aware of it. It wasn't like I called some escort service after striking out at my local pub, or was I cruising the 'red light' district in hopes of a new, sordid, experience. Nope, the prostitute that found her way (briefly) into my life was an normal looking girl seated a few chairs down from me at a bar having a few drinks with a (female) friend of hers.

A certain lack of memory, and a desire not to give away too much information, will be the reason that I will gloss over exactly how I managed to strike up a conversation with her. Drunk me, according to some reports is much more of a talker, and rumor has it, is a bit of a charmer. It was clearly drunk me that worked up the courage to speak to her, 'charm' her, and eventually take her home. Drunk me is a fast mover it seems. Whatever charms drunk me possessed on that night worked like a charm, because I did take my Roxanne home, and enjoyed the charms she sold to other men for free.

She did not spring the 'oh by the way, I have sex for money' thing on me on that first fateful night, and perhaps that is why I never had to pay. I don't know if prostitutes are like drug dealers, and give you the first one for free to get you hooked or not, but I know I got the first, and every other time afterwards for free. Even when she did tell me about her prostitution thing, I didn't believe her. I mean who the hell thinks hey I am lying in bed next to a woman who has sex for money, and I am getting it for free?  I figured she was just yanking my chain (so to speak) about the prostitution thing, until she showed me solid, convincing proof (and no it wasn't some video).

Needless to say I was a bit shocked by this proof, but considering the sex was fantastic, and I was not having to pay for it, I kept seeing her. We had some interesting times, and some pretty odd conversations, and some really dirty sex in our time together, and I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was probably a little impressed with myself. After all, here was a very pretty, very young, very nubile woman that charged other men a fair chunk of change to bang her, banging me for free. Even going so far as to say that she 'liked me'. Take that for what's its worth, lucky me huh? I find a prostitute by accident in a bar, and get to have sex with her for free, and she starts to like me.

To her credit, she would never have sex with me on the same night she 'conducted other business' which was nice of her I guess. I never really got the protocol down for 'dating' a prostitute. I mean Hallmark does not make a card for this kind of situation, and trying to explain to your friends that the babe you've just introduced them to is a prostitute will get you some very odd looks. Looks of utter disbelief, and a lot of laughs, but when she herself would confirm my story, those looks changed really quickly. I guess some of my friends were disgusted by it all, but a couple began to show a new found respect for me. I guess getting a prostitute to have sex with you for free is some sort of an accomplishment, though I am pretty sure my mother would not be at all pleased.

The relationship, as it were, lasted only about 3 months, but those were 3 of the most interesting months I have lived in a while. Of course, I sort of figured, once I did in fact realize I was 'dating' a prostitute that it couldn't last, and I am only surprised that it lasted as long as it did.  I mean there isn't really a long term future in dating a prostitute is there? And eventually she is going to sort out the 'why am I fucking this guy for free' issue, and start to wonder what the hell is going on.

Recently, as a part of my job, I had to argue that a gentleman who is mentally ill, be committed to a mental institution for both his own safety and the safety of society. It wasn't a particularly difficult hearing as there were two doctors that both agreed that the gentleman in question needed serious mental help. However, one of his 'delusions' was that prostitutes were controlling his thoughts. It took all my sense of what is proper not to tell the court "Your honor, I used to know a prostitute, and I can tell you with all honesty that, at certain times, she most certainly controlled my thoughts, she even controlled  my actions on several occasion as well."  I doubt that my employers would have been amused, and I seriously doubt that the judge would have been too happy with me either. Besides, I figured that if that delusion was getting that poor bastard sent off to the funny farm, they might just decide to take me as well.

For my own Roxanne, where ever you may be, I can only hope that just like your name sake, you don't have to put on the red light tonight.


'I am leaving you' she said with a slightly impatient sigh, and left me sitting there with a slightly stunned look on my face. After all, she had been my mistress for 5 and a half years. In the grand scheme of time, that isn't that long of a time. For a man of 40 odd years it is a significant amount of time. Considering I didn't lose my virginity until I was strapping lad of 22, I have only been in the dating/gene pool for a little over 18 years. All things considered, 5 and a half years out of 18 is almost one-third. When you do the math that way, you start to understand my shock.  And shock it was, an almost (to her I am sure) comical look was surely on my face as she uttered those four simple words, "I am leaving you."

It doesn't take a genius to sort out that once one party utters those deadly words, that there isn't a whole lot the other party can do to stop the actual statement from becoming true. Of course, that doesn't stop us, it just that it is going to be harder than Chinese math, a sum that you can not solve, like me trying to explain why I thought leaving me was an awful idea (and not just for me). After 5 and a half years, we had no secrets, we had no uncharted territory, no real surprises for each other. However, that really wasn't the reason she was leaving. I said we had no uncharted territory, we did have however, have unexplored territory. We both had walls that the other was not allowed behind. Thick bastard of walls that just did not encourage climbing over, mining, or tunneling under.

She had built her walls early on in our torrid affair, and it was a torrid affair, and I bumped into them quite frequently, and with some force, until eventually I learned to respect their existence.  Of course, like the mature adult I am, I built walls in response. It was like a relationship arms race, and the more walls I bumped up against, the more walls I erected. It became quite silly after a while, and I am pretty sure that if you were to ask her, she would tell you that I built the first wall, and she was just trying to protect herself from becoming walled in by me. Who knows maybe she is right, maybe I built the first wall, maybe she did. It might have mattered then, it certainly doesn't matter now. 

The ironic part is that when we first met, I couldn't stand her. She was demanding, loud, rude, and frustrating. So frustrating that I didn't for nearly two years consider the candle worth the game. We were sort of thrown together by forces beyond our control, and we just decided that if we were going to be planted together, we should go ahead and bloom. And bloom we did, I like to think that I came as close as man could or will come to taming her. I am not bragging, I am merely stating what I feel to be a fact. It took about 4 years to get her under some facsimile of what I call 'control' (and not in a bad, creepy way). 

She was a hard mistress, and she taught me a lot life's lessons, and she didn't teach them softly. She forced me to look out upon a sea of failed relationships, and didn't sugar coat the fact that we were, in many ways, adrift upon that sea in a very small, very leaky boat.  She was not gentle, and a small part of me will hate her for that for a very long time. Even though the larger part of me realizes that her cruelty was the only way she had to show me what I needed to know. Of course, I thought I knew all I needed to know, and that was probably the problem that led to her leaving to begin with. The impatience with which she declaimed her desire to leave was almost more than I could bear at the time, and remains a source of mystery to me. After all we had been together for 5 and a half years, and now suddenly I was being judged to be made of inferior material.

I did try to understand, to comprehend why after so long, and some really good times (some bad one too, but that the nature of relationships) she suddenly (or so it seemed to me) concluded that she was 'happier when she wasn't around me', and 'happy when she knew she wasn't going to see me.' Those statements left a very large, very dark bruise on my psyche that I am not sure will ever fully heal.  The fact that she repeated them about 10 times certainly didn't help. 

You have to trust your heart to know what is real, and my heart had spoken, it promised her the sun, the moon, and the stars if she would just stay. However, she was not the type of woman that needed those types of promises, she walked on moonbeams all on her own, and certainly was not going to believe the sun, the moon, and the plans we had made to be anything other than the last gasp of a desperate man. She taught me to feel as blue as blue can be, and I guess I should thank her for that, for showing me that despair is a feeling that you can eventually get used to, and then get over. She left, and took a lot of my time with her, wrapped up in her being like a butterfly in a cocoon. Time mostly well spent, and I can only hope that my next mistress allows me to do the leaving. Because say you what you will about how hard it must have been to leave, it is the being left here, leaning against the loneliest street lamp this clown has ever leaned against, that has taught me another of life's valuable lessons. However, I will keep the details of what that lesson is to myself. After all, if I told you what that lesson was then you would be almost as clever as me, and I can't have that now can I?

Sunday, January 08, 2012

My Day

My desire to participate in this day died about ten minutes ago. Not that any of you lot care, but my phone will be off, I will not check either email, or facebook, and if you try to come to my house and knock on my door, it will be to your cost.  I am quite sure that before any of you read this post, if any of you read it at all, none of you had even one little thought about me anyway. Therefore, my checking out of the events of the day, or the day itself will have little to no effect upon you.

There was no Kierkegaadian type earthquake that tripped my desire to suspend my participation in this day, and even if there was, it isn't anyone's business but my own. I try to accomplish two things on a daily basis, mind my own business, and not put my business too far out into the public view. I try to mind my own business because it is my business, and not anybody else's.  It is (at least I hope so) unique business to me, and if I want anyone to know about it, I will tell them myself. Which leads to the second thing I try to accomplish, keeping my business from becoming too public. A trifle more trickier than it seems, because people love to mind other people's business (myself, to my shame, included).

The truth of the matter is that I realize that the day, just like every other day, will sail along quite smoothly, maybe even more smoothly, without my participation. There are just over 7 billion people on this rock at the moment, and the loss of one person's interest in the day, will make not one fuck to the either day or the rest of those 7 billion (minus one) people.  In fact, though I hope it isn't true, my non-participation in this day might either make the day go by better, faster, and happier for a certain number of people. If that is the case, and as I said I hope it isn't but suspect it is, then well my participation in any number of days probably needs to be rethought.

It is that rethink that I might indulge in while I am sitting in the coffin I call my apartment disconnected from the world in general, and the people who I normally interact with daily in particular. This isn't some sort of 'cry for help' I don't want your help even if you wanted to try to give me help. It is merely me checking out of the loop for a day to see if one, I can do it, and two, if it has any positive affect on me (and by extension others). Or, if that rethink starts to distress me over much, I might just fall asleep, and see if perhaps the dream world can conjure up a better day for me. The risk there is a nightmare but it is a risk I am willing to take, after all nightmares aren't real. This day is and has been so far, all too real.

Thursday, January 05, 2012

Plans or Sweet Revenge

Plans are something that we all make, from the lowliest prole struggling to put bread on his table, to the king in the high castle trying to sort out how to conquer the chambermaid or the country over the mountain range on the southern border.  Hopefully, for the prole, maybe for the chambermaid and not so much for the king these plans, so painstakingly made, and (also hopefully) based on sound judgment, and a fair amount of common sense, succeed. It is the success of those plans, if they succeed, that allows each of the people in the above example to continue to plan. If plans fail regularly then, sometimes people just throw over the whole idea of planning anything. A failure to plan generally leads just to failure.

In many respects to live is to plan. You plan your day from the (too fucking early in the morning) time that your alarm jolts you out of dreaming of Nicole Kidman (or some fairly close model thereof), until the time that the copious amount of alcohol you've had to consume to get to sleep, finally overcomes you final vestiges of consciousness, and you fall into that black hole know to the rest of the world as sleep. The awful, awake time that comes between those two events, that time that is know as 'your day' (the thing people are always asking how it was), is the part that it is necessary to plan. If, and it is a big IF, you are allowed to plan the majority of your day by yourself, then you are one lucky bastard.

Most of us (proles at least) have a large chunk of the majority of our day(s) planned for us. This is done by the thing that we generally call work, or if we feel fancy, we call it a career. Either way work or career is just another way of saying that (generally) someone or something else is planning our day for us. However, they, those bastards planning our days, do allow us some time to ourselves to plan however we choose, and it is that, ever so precious, time that is the really important part. How you plan your 'free' time is entirely (you hope) up to you. Certainly if you are burdened/blessed with either a significant other, or a group of friends you might have to, on occasion, alter your plans, or go along with their plans. But, that is just part of being the social animal known as humans right?

All of this non-sense is to say that I, personally, have made a lot of plans, most of them were shit. Lots of them were absolute shit plans, and their (eventual) failure should have come as a surprise to no-one, least of all me. However, in my 40 plus years on the planet, I have on the rare occasion had some absolutely brilliant plans, some real corker of plans that left even me shaking my head at my (ever so brief) genius. I am far from brilliant, and the only type of genius that I might (just might) be is the evil type, so when one of my plans comes out the idea oven as brilliant, it is a cause for general rejoicing.  However, that rejoicing usually did not last for too long, because as I said the vast majority of my plans have been shit. Long-term, short-term, or life-term, I am a man that is very good at making really, really bad plans. I guess it is a gift, but a negative type of gift that, unlike your usual awkward xmas gifts, take more than they give.

The good news is that I have, finally after many years of angst, realized that my plans are usually foiled, and not by some secret agent like James Bond, but by the simple passage of time. It seems that my plans are, in many respects, like me, easily foiled, and not overly well thought out. Either way the knowledge that, as a planner goes, I am shit, while costly, and painful, has lead to some good consequences. I am now able to, with remarkable ease, recognize a shit plan when I see one, especially if someone else is making it. Which is a lot more fun than one would think. 

This is the good part, being able to recognize eventual failure can entertain you for days on end. If you really don't like the person, and let's be honest, I don't like a lot of people, then when you see the failure of their plan before they do, it can lead to a chuckle or even a guffaw. The misery of others can be almost as much fun as your own misery, and the if some ship of fools crashes upon your shore, you would be remiss not to get a few laughs out of their plight.  Things fall apart, and sometimes the centre cannot hold, you can only hope that you have braced yourself for the eventual moment when it all goes pear shaped, and you are able to survive.  The real joy of watching another person's plan fall to shit is not being the person who caused it, but playing no part in it, but then reaping some, quite unexpected, reward from the disaster you just watched. There is no rule that says you have to be 'nice', and sometimes being cruel is actually the right thing to do. Sure you look like a bastard, but only if you aren't clever, if you are clever the person who's plan just collapsed like a house of cards around them, has no idea that you are the person benefiting. That is a rare as a virgin in a Venezuelan whorehouse, but it is as sweet of a revenge as you are ever going to find. The trick is to enjoy it because tomorrow, way too early for your own good, your alarm is going to shock you out of your sleep, and you are going to have to start planning your day, some of those plans, as plans are wont to do, will fail in spectacular fashion, and somewhere, someone will get their sweet revenge upon you. Thus the circle of life and failure is complete (at least until we break on through to the other side).

This post is dedicated to (at the very least) 3 people, maybe more, but 3 for certain, who's ever so brilliant (and they are ever so smart at planning) plans have fallen to shit about 24 hours after making them. They were plans that took a lot longer to make, and the fact that they collapsed so very quickly, has become a source of everlasting joy for me. Enjoy the taste of failure, you lot deserve no less than that.