Monday, October 29, 2007

Kill Me Now

The following was written at a time when I got sucked into my wife's utter insanity. As it turns out, she was lying then as she usually does. A lying liar telling lies. For sport. And because she's insane - please see the more recent entry on Paranoid Personality Disorder.

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Oh, God, it never ends. Make it stop. Please.

My wife is suing me for $15,000,000: one million bucks for each of the fifteen years she wasted with me. She did this not because she can win, but because it will stay my divorce proceedings and I will have to spend money I don't have defending the civil part. Clever and unethical, it will be dismissed, ultimately, but this tactic is worth ten grand to my attorney just to get to the point of asking the court for a dismissal.

The best I can do is counter-sue under her suit and get her to post an undertaking (a bond that's a percentage of the value of the potential award) for which she can borrow against the house, attach my future earnings, inheritance and royalties. The undertaking shows the court that the plaintiff is serious as real money, their money, is involved.

But, understand this: there is no justice in the justice system. It's all about reaching a compromise that the involved parties can feel they can live with. And anyone can sue anyone else over anything at any time. It's fun, even.

In the meantime, I must rush to file a divorce in order to avoid a stay of those proceedings pending a decision in the first case. I've offered mediation, counseling and anything else I could think of - nope: gotta f*ck me. Now, my kid can always say, "Why did you make mommie go away ? . . ." God seems to like crazy.

So, last week I was busy trying to cut ties with my friends and this week, that's assured and I didn't have to do anything about it. Why? Because all of those people will be subpoenaed to talk about how bad a person I am and even if they don't ultimately get called, they will be intimidated, cajoled and forced to consider counsel, at cost to them, naturally. Sorry, guys! Doesn't matter that it's not my fault - they're going to split. I know I would.

It never ends. All I want is the value I put into this house. That's it. On the rest, I have asserted consistently that I'm willing and ready and able to be more than fair. The response? Kaboom. Four days ago, I was really feeling ready to kill myself and now, I actually regret not doing it. This all means no money, no future, no retirement, all guaranteed. So, what's the point? Seems the monastery is no longer accepting applications . . .

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Oh, For Crissake's

Listen here - technology was supposed to save time, make us rich beyond our wildest dreams and cure cancer, mend broken hearts and reduce fat asses by 1999, as I remember the promises made in Popular Mechanics in the mid-60's. Where's my flying car? Where's my meal in a pill? What the hell happened?

Not to put too fine a point on it, a buddy sent me a book that he got as a sample. I like the author, so I said to myself, "Self, you haven't read anything except technical manuals, white papers and tutorials for two years. Isn't it about time you sat down and immersed yourself in a world of fancy and folly whilst taking your daily ablutions?" I agreed with the voice in my head, covered it with one of my daughter's left-over book socks (what was wrong with brown paper bags, anyhow?) and readied myself to be massively entertained.

In three weeks, I've read twenty-two pages. Twenty-two! Here's why:

1. My cell phone has been acting weird. I took it to t-Mobile and then graciously blew some compressed air in the SIM card connector area. That helped, but now it seems to not keep a charge for all that long. I could be in the middle of a confab, fully power-barred, et voila! - dead phone. Not good considering that the deductible on the cell phone insurance is more than the phone is worth, and I didn't drop it or have it stolen. Oh, and, of course, the warranty is expired. I've gone through more cell phones than underwear in my lifetime and I keep both very clean.

2. The big TV in my living room is starting to get pincushion-y, that is, squeezing in from the sides. Bad flyback transformer, probably, which I hate because they carry ten thousand volts of electricity through the capacitors they're attached to, so, one false move and PFFFFFT! Just in time to spend $800 on a flat screen LCD, huh. Me no likey.

3. My satellite receivers seem to lose their collective minds once a week, necessitating a call to India, where the routine is the same mind-numbing, "unplug the unit and wait sixty seconds then plug it back in" even if the problem is with the remote! Maybe I should just leave it unplugged for good.

4. My computer was massively infected with a virus and spyware. No, it's not because of the porn sites I cruise. It just happened, okay? Two weeks it took me to back up, virus check, re-install, over and over again and get this machine running . Arrrrrggggghhhh!

5. The lifetime fluorescent light bulbs I had installed all over the house to save money on, well, light bulbs and electricity, are all burning out at once, one after another. I can get them replaced by shipping them individually in "adequate" packaging back to the manufacturer for a free replacement if I include a shipping and handling charge of $4.95 per bulb. I think not.

6. Don't get me started on software malfunctions. Just don't.

7. My PDA refuses to charge. All of my passwords, contact names, important numbers for cards and such (in case I lost my wallet) were on that and are now wiped out. That's not right.

8. My car was burning gas like it had stock in Lukoil. The solution was to hook it up to an analyzer at the dealership and then, you guessed it, unhook the battery for sixty seconds . . . Now it's fine. C'mon, now: really.

9. My penis is affected severely by the Lexapro that I take, making one problem (depression) a trade-off for another (having a girlfriend.) How is that advanced pharmacology? Doctor dudes - didn't it occur to you that depressed people might get depressed over not having a functioning member? Gawd.

10. It goes on and on. There's just too much more to manage because of marginal technology. Cell calls disappear in major urban centres. E-mail make or may not be received due to spam filtering or a messed-up ISP. Jobs are yards harder to get because the software that screens your application was set up by a $12 an-hour receptionist whose main philosophy in life is Thinspiration. Credit cards are subject to strong magnetic fields - like those found in gas pumps, leaving the gas pump attendant screwing up his eyes in disgust at your perfectly good but otherwise declined card.

I was doing graphic arts back in the days when it was paste-up, meaning non-reproducing light blue lines on a big board formed your design and then you glued type and images to the board. There was some skill involved and paste-up artists abounded. But the work was right, ready for the separation camera, another specialty.

Now, we're all "enabled" through technology. We're enabled to be tracked down through our cell phones by whiny kids that want to use Dad's ATM card at the mall, by spouses that give shopping lists item-by-item over the phone to beleaguered counter-spouses at the Stop, Shop and Slave, enabled to have our identities, lost, stolen, spindled and mutilated and in general, to run down the clock on time that could otherwise be deployed to useful, fulfilling tasks.

Oops, gotta run. My cell phone is vibrating. I think it's Software Support calling me from Mumbai . . .

Monday, October 22, 2007

Mmm, Mmmm, Mmmm

Friends. I think they come in two flavours. One is the confection that tastes kinda good on a hot day, dripping with sweetness, crunchy at the core and somewhat sticky, having you wish for a clear glass of cold water to wash down the excess sucrose. The other is the sort you can rely on - a familiar flavour that rarely disappoints, not because of any extra effort or gimmicky special recipe, but because of a rich rightness that shows through on the gloomiest, rainiest night of the year. It's a taste that may be challenging and you know with the first spoonful whether your palate is a match for the challenging nuances of refreshing yummy-ness.

I think I would prefer Green Tea ice cream to Rocky Road anytime, even if it is an acquired taste.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Guest of Insanity

Jealousy is a mighty force. If we look at the word itself, we can see that what ends jealousy is "lousy." How 'bout that, huh?

Friday, October 19, 2007

Banal Sex

Okay, ladies. Time for a reality check. Here's the moment to face facts. You like cunnilingus. Don't deny it. It's like masturbation, only, you don't have to do it. And, it's moister, fluffier than ever! So, why aren't you getting any?

I had a dubious encounter with a copy of Cosmo while waiting forty-five minutes to get my oil changed on the Honda Accord I call Intrepid Mark III as it's the third long-haulin', ass-savin', comfy chair on wheels I've owned as compared to the death-teasing American grease buckets and the German wallet-emptiers I've had the occasion to own over my thirty some-odd years of driving and owning cars.

I haven't seen Cosmo for the editorial content in quite some time. As a retoucher, I've seen the ads that go into that paper monstrosity, but I've not look at the "articles" since I was in my twenties. It seems that times have changed, but not really.

This issue was chock full of sex advice that was quite racy. How to do this for your man and how to get him to feel that. How to ride the waves of the Big O and so forth. I think I might have sensed the beginnings of a woody, in fact, and I don't mean the cool wood-sided cars of the late fifties popular with the West Coast Surf Crowd, either. What struck me was how focused the material was on getting the dude off without making much mention of getting the woman to the higher plane of off-ness. In other words, it was more like reading an issue of Concubine Today than anything else. But I was getting my oil changed at a dealership, no less. What did you expect me to be doing? There's only so much flavoured coffee one can drink.

I was thinking in context of my daughter, now 14, and how the f*cking establishment culture seemed to STILL think that a women's place is at the mall and in the bedroom, trying to keep her man and get him off. It's pretty disgusting, actually. Now, don't get me wrong: I like to get off as much as the next guy, but I'm not interested in bedroom inequality. That's a major turn-off for me. And I would NOT want my daughter to think that sex makes for roles of submission and dominance in or out of the bedroom. So, Cosmo can blow me. I mean, really, talk about career moms in one article and provide blow-by-blow instructions on how to keep that hot man in your life by delivering the ultimate hand-job? Really? Are men that narrow in their need structure? Are women only supposed to tally my abs and my ATM card? Yuck. Double-yuck.

But (that's the most powerful word in the English language, by the way, as it changes everything) there is one thing . . . pubes. No, I can't speak for other guys, but I know the trend seems to be, in popular media and in Hollyrude, to be as hairless as a new-born rat. No chest or leg hair, fer sure. Back hair? OMG, no! And Gonad Central? The smoother, the better.

Now, we all get hairier as we get older. Some of us more so than others. But as any porn aficionado will tell you, bare bumps are in, baby! Pubic hair serves a practical function, in case you were wondering. It's a sort of a slip-sheet between those who are knocking boots, avoiding skin irritation and such. It also protects all those little nooks and crannies from debris and vermin, even. Ew. Okay, so, why make it go bye-bye? One good reason! Tongue sex!

Ya see, us guys have a hard enough time as it is finding the Man In The Boat. Having to tongue-machete our way to him is yet one more impediment to the satisfaction of the sucking reflex. I believe that given a clear path, the reduction of the hazard of choking on stray pussy camo and the nice, smooth polish of a nearly chrome-plated labia dazzling with a spit shine is motivation for most guys to chow down, unless they're just plain lazy or the experience makes 'em want to call out, "The shrimp boats are comin'!" That's another issue, but let's move on.

Bobbie Flay, the Iron Chef and gustatory gazillionaire will tell you that the difference between a Big Mac(TM) and a $70 hamburger at his joint is mostly presentation. I agree. The experience is not to be trifled with and, if handled correctly, can be enticing enough to be repeated, without coaxing, no less. That sounds pretty good, right Ladies? So, one thing you can do to make this happen is to beat back that JuJu Jungle! How? Don't shave. Let me tell you, there's something about stubble that makes me think I'm giving Rod Stewart mouth-to-mouth. This is your Package, girls, treat it like the main attraction it is - WAX! Oh, I know you're saying, ew, that hurts, I'm embarrassed, wah, wah, wah, but if I can do it with my manly wiring, so can you. Don't be a pussy about your pussy. It's worth it's weight in wet, so to speak.

Better yet, if your guy is into it and a bit of a straight gay guy like me, he may want to help you wax! Since you'll probably not be in the mood after yanking out 100,000 hairs, it's a sure way to heighten anticipation. And if you just won't do it because you feel that crabs are an endangered species and should not have their home destroyed, get a good-quality trimmer with a safety head and bang back that bush to the length of Justin Timberline's 'do. That's the least you should be doing if you like The Mouth Wash. This is definitely one area where less is more and the imagination should not have to resort to mystery or the blanks may wind up filled with NASCAR standings.

I'm not going to let guys off the hook here, either. Good lord, fellas, you're looking short and stout as it is, burn back the brush so that your spout can stand out! How attractive do you think it is to be sporting an afro in your boxers? No, it's not faggoty. It's hip and will be letting your girl (woman, female, f*ck-buddy) know that you care about the presentation of your privates. Good groomin' and broomin' is an essential social grace, don't you know.

If you're not sure whether you're doing it right, please send me pictures and I'll post them here in an effort to discuss the good, the bad and the oh-so-hairy. In the meantime, I hear Rite-Aid is having a sale on Sally Hansen wax removal products. You can always pluck before you . . . oh, well, you get it. Now, just do it!

Thursday, October 18, 2007

That Was Easy - And Then You Die

I was just thinking that it's sort of interesting, coming to understand my process in writing this blog. It's not at all like the much more formal process of writing my Great American Novel. I have what could only be termed a Divine Funneling of my roundabout and zig-zaggy thought process into a topic, where, in my mind's eye, a clearing appears and the piece reveals itself. I know it's fleeting, like sex, so I rush to my blog, am presented with the Edit window for a new post and the first thing that occurs to me is The Title.

Now, I will admit to Kerouac-ing my way through many an entry except I do minor edits for grammar and spelling, sometimes structure, but rarely a significant re-write. While working on my "book," I tend to sketch, re-write, let it ferment, re-write again and much later, make adjustments to flow and character to meld whatever I've written into other segments I've produced. But the blog is pure, raw, yank-off-the-panties and go-to-it, rub-the-paint-of-the-wall sex. Simple as that. The titles, however, are never changed. They don't need changing. They spring forth, fully formed, set in stone, rigid and ready to rock.

All of the preceding is just a musing. A clever distraction from the fact that I finally died tonight. White light and everything. Here's what happened:

I was working in Maya, sculpting an orb to be incorporated into the graphics for my new website
. I had an interview with a major folding carton printer earlier in the day and had a late afternoon lunch. I came home, took a 90 minute nap and was made conscious again by a call from my daughter who was asking me if I could give Frank a ride home. In my most non-groggy voice, I said, "Sure, be right there, hon!" Jumped up, washed face, brushed my few remaining teeth and rushed out the door.

I picked her up, went with her to Staples for a couple of sketch pads and DVD-Rs for backup purposes (they have 50 on sale for $14.95 including a FREE USB flash drive) and then went next door to the Subway to get her a veggie delight sandwich, with chicken, of course. My daughter is the strangest Vegan you'll ever meat, but that's another story.

We went home to hungry cats - they're always hungry, even after they're fed (tapeworms? better look into that . . .) and a sickly doggie. Not sure what's wrong with her. I wanted to get her to the vet but being that my STB Ex was good enough to burn both of the local vets with non-payments and bad checks, I'd have to go 40 miles to Hackettstown to get the poor animal checked out. I sat with my daughter and the doggie for a little while and then went up to my lair to work.

My ex called me to regale me with her latest work horror story. Ever know someone too well? Yeah, well, while I was wondering why the heck she even bothered to talk to me, though I've come to realize that the output may be on but the input is shorted out, I was reading my friend's blog and getting distracted. Yadda, yadda, everyone on the planet is insane except me, she was saying in between ordering Coronas and fajitas at what I guess was a bar at the train station, along with a glass of cold water filled with ice. I could just manage to read the waitress's thoughts through the phone and let's just say that a) I feel ya, babe and b) those thoughts could not be mistaken as complimentary.

Just as an aside, the black cat I secretly call Blackster and which my daughter refers to as April, is holding paws with me, watching me type, her chin on my knee, my legs falling asleep because I love her so much that I don't want to roust her. Every time I pet her, she extends her super-sharp claws into the skin that is otherwise hidden beneath my Dockers. F*cking ouch. She will also lick me if given the chance, using my flesh as her washboard. Lick, rub, lick, rub.

I finally just had to dump my Ex's call because I literally could not take it anymore. It's the same old song: I f*cking hate your guts but could you please support me so that I don't have to work in the real world like the rest of you mere mortals, and, by the way, though I would cut your heart out with a box of toothpicks and Q-Tips, could you fork over the check you got for last week's work so that I can dole it back out to you while I prioritize Coronas over gasoline? Thanks.

That and the blog was too much to process and, frankly, the blog was of much more interest. So, I mysteriously ran out of phone power. Those who know me know I always keep my shit charged, y'all, as I'm way into P.O.W.E.R. Blimkp - sorry, gotta go, one bar left, gotta charge it in the car, C YA.

I read the blog, sent a text to the author and went back to work. I had to pick up Bitchums at the train as she can't manage to do her work to anyone's satisfaction within a normal scope of time and the time of others, especially me, is less than irrelevant. Should I be one minute late, the sword does fall with a vengeance. Anyway, I thought that since I'd recovered my computer, more or less, that I really should get my stuff up.

I rode to the train, picked her up, got harassed for 40 minutes on how getting money from me was impossible. The usual set of delusions with every threat, insult and warning of dire harm you could imagine and some you can't. Trust me on that. For the record, as soon as money is wired to me, I had written her a check for Mortgage, Water, Electric and so forth. The last time was the last time. She cannot manage money. I wish her employer luck. I told her, with the last check, that I would direct pay only after she reported to me the budget, after we discussed it and it was agreed upon. Yes, every last comma has to be discussed and agreed upon and will result in her accusations of my unfair dealings with Satan, blah, blah, blah.

Oh, boy. We got back to the house. My daughter was sound asleep on the floor, near the ailing woof-woof, match book open, homework undone. I went to wake her, her mother immediately "competed" with me, doing the same exact thing. I sighed and withdrew. Enough craziness for one night. Oops, I forgot to blackmail her with a ride to the train in the morning. I must be slipping. I walked away, so, score one for me.

I went back to my Orb. I was feeling peckish and, having retained my 2 fer $2 selection of Wise Cheddar Chips, decided to snack on same. I had no water or other beverage nearby. Blackster, observing that I had settled into work, decided that it was Lap Time, though she seems to shun any other kind of interaction, resorting to whip-clawing or chewing the offending hand under non-lap conditions. So, I start munching on the extremely crisp bits let in the bag while looking at the work. The cat gyrated back and forth, walking on the desk and generally displaying great affection as sh is wont to do, especially when Human Snacks are about.

I tipped the bag into my mouth to gain maximum snackage of the small bits of fried potato and orangy-coloured cheese flavoring. The cat was bumping and grinding vigorously, perching on my narrower-than-ever thigh, bumping the hand that was tipping the bag.

Now, I know you can see what's coming here, right? I choked on a stray chip. The cat bumped into the hand and I lost my grip, panicking that I'd have to pick up a hundred thousand orange bits of mouse food with a noisy vacuum cleaner, possibly awakening the demons below. On the first floor. In the separate suite, okay? With a mouthful of chips, I juggled the bag, finding it all very funny and aspirating the bolus into my throat. All air suddenly, completely cut off. My one though was this: Uh-oh.

I was alone, except for the cat who seemed to be chiefly concerned with whether she'd be getting another NaCl-enriched treat. Since separating, I never got visits up here unless I was being directly harassed and abused, then it was okay. I found myself exhibiting the International Sign of Choking, because, I probably felt, I was choking in any language.

Now, on my production desk, I have three battery powered clocks, all with sweep second hands, There's no mysterious technical reason for me to have them, I just do, okay? Anyway, I realized that I really, really could not breath and really, really was going to choke to death. Really. I tried not to panic. I could see the second hands on the clocks tick by. I was feeling weak but I tried to use diaphragmic pressure to move the mass. Fortunately, I had been working out, and I had enough abdomen muscle to be able to squeeze my diaphragm. My heart skipped a number of beats, the seconds were ticking by into the vast infinity of lost time. My situation was not changing. That was not good.

I fell to my knees. The pussy seemed non-plussed and sat on my desk, waiting for me to die, I guess. I started involuntarily gasping, but the passage was shut, so it must have looked like I was pretending to be Shakira. Things started to go white in my visual field with little twinkly sparkles. I believe I fell over and proceeded to die.

For some indeterminate time, probably under ten seconds, my day, not my life, flashed before my eyes. The hateful looks, the loving words, the missed opportunities and the sheer busy work that it all was. Disappointment, fear, loathing, reverence and ahead, a bright white light.

That's all I remember until I came to, coughing, cat right in front of me, me sideways on the floor. Whatever happened, I did not croak. Or, maybe croaking is what saved me. I will never know and the cat's not saying a word.

I immediately felt totally alone. I would have, should have died right there on the pet-stained carpet. I would have been found cold and stiff by my daughter who would have been awakened by a cell-phone call from her mom, imploring her to be ready in an impossible span of time. I would have been mostly Cyan an quite dead, probably with eyes open, piticulae the evidence of suffocation by food ingestion.

My realization, and I truly hope it sticks, is that I have no time to be loved marginally nor do I have to accept any fcking thing that doesn't absolutely work for me. I might want to but that would be busy work. I also didn't like the idea of being dead with so much more to do. It didn't seem fair.

Of course, I could be dead now, couldn't I? Hmmm. I'll add to this later. It's been a long day and I'm tired And Honey Bunches of Hate will need a car ride in the morning. Hoo Ha.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

See, Saw

In matters of the heart, I, well, I suck. I presume too much, pay too little attention and bite off more than I can chew. Truly, I find it to be work - pleasurable, but not natural. I would not claim to be a nurturing person.

On the other hand, I give what I can, completely and loyally. I treasure my friends and my friendships. Sometimes, friendships can turn romantic and become lopsided, killing the friendship that lay underneath and nearly killing the participants.

There has been much discussion in my local circles about the nature of responsibility in a relationship. I find that no matter how hard I try, I've been misconstrued, assumptions have been wrought and then, I'm to blame. In other words, people want to write their own histories and hear what they want to hear. Fine. I'm not going to be responsible for that.

Therefore, I'm stepping way back, in fact, out of the picture, so that I'm not part of your version of history. I've tried to talk to you, to explain and reassure, to offer my friendship, understanding, time and loyalty. I have always said that being friends is hard because there's acceptance, grace and fealty required. In fact, I should say that it's something the friend should naturally ascribe to.

I've gone through my own personal hell these last few years. It took me along time to even realize it. You stood by me, gave me cogent advice, was my First Reader and shared your love. Then you yanked it back, then you gave it again, and yanked and came back. Okay - I know what I want and what I don't and this is not what I want.

I was always there for you as a friend. Whether it was your household issues or mine, I listened and gave you advice that a romantic interest would never do. I, as a good friend, would advise you against my own interests, had I had romantic inclinations in rendering such advice, to do things that would be best for you. All I asked for in return is for you to listen to what I was really saying. Instead, and this is not an indictment, you heard what you wanted to and used that against me, discarding acceptance, disdaining my person-hood.

I'm not a bad guy. I am still loyal to you in my heart, but clearly this can't go further than it has. This is something that we could have resolved instead of leaving it like a rotting fish on a doorstep. So, that fish must rot, stinky as it is. I understand, but I don't like it. I won't say that I can forget it. I am a person and as a person, I should be allowed to say my piece.

Urge To Merge

I really want to explore a merger with you. I think that we individually represent significant resources that can be leveraged into a greater whole. Therefore, I propose we begin exploratory discussions with specific goals in mind along with an expression of what our ideal desires might be. Of course, the opinions and interests of stakeholders must be taken into consideration and there are numerous logistical, technical and economic matters to be examined. I take all of those elements as part of the process in the forging of a successful, long-lived partnership and I look forward to your active and enthusiastic participation.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Crazy, Huh?

No, I can't stop justifying myself. All things are a compromise. Evolutionary mutations are a prime example. Does any one thing or event erupt into this time and space plane fully formed, perfect for all men, all at once? No - it's a compromise of many factors.

Take my latest, self-generated disaster, for instance. The short story is that I'm married but not really. Without dissing the ex too much, we basically have no relationship, nor have we had for many a year. We have various entanglements, legal and familial, all of which are unpleasant. I want to deal with them, she does not. She would much prefer torturing me to death, slowly, painfully and as completely as possible, then boiling my testicles until well blanched, like almonds, almost but not exactly. She's manipulated my family into hating me and loving her "wackiness", that is, her sociopathic idiosyncratic stylings.

So, the whole thing smacks of a bad soap. Okay - now, me man. Me lonely. Me spend much money on therapy to get to better place. Now, me want friends. Place ad in Craigslist. Friends come, some with less than platonic intentions. I'm intrigued. Do I really care if it's a 54 year old bald guy that still lives in his mom's basement purporting to be a saucy Latina, early forties with a curvaceous figure and a lust for life? F*ck, nah, dawg.

But then, it gets serious. We write and write, then talk and talk, then see a little, talk a little, peck, peck, peck, see a lot, talk a little more. In my feeble mind, I'm divorced. My circumstances were to live in this here place I call Chaos Manor until Roxie gets her act on the road and the joint gets upped on the proverbial auction block. But Roxie blows back into town and the shit hits the fan. Doesn't it always, though.

In the meantime, my lady friend is evolving into a girlfriend into a spiteful bitch - oops, I'm getting ahead of myself. What I meant was that I had two battles to fight. One, the battle against poverty since I had become Unexpectedly Unemployed. Actually, I knew I was too expensive for the jokers I worked for and it was just a matter of time, but just so.

Anyway, I'm juggling my balls (the ones that Roxie wants to blanch) and am paying, like, no mind to my GF since I'm shit-ass broke anyhow. So, she gripes and I says, yo beyotch, I'm too sucky for y'all, so blow, dig? But she hangs and that's kewl so I says, listen, I know you be all up in my shit an' all and we spent the night knockin' bootses and gettin' over, like, but, check it, I'm really strating to feell it and if'n that's hows it gonna be, then let me lay the Word on y'all.

I laid all all of the facts - how bad I was as a human, what a Space Case I could be, how arbitrary and misantropic I am, plus, oh, yeah, I'm still legally married. SEND. Um, I shouldn't have done that, now, should I have? I should have doen this in person. Duh! Shades of grey turning black . . .

I texted and called, but nothing stops a person from doing something they probably shouldn't when it sounds just so enticing as to be forbidden. Oh, boy (a phrase that will get you fired from a company that is international and that deals in paper, amongst other things.) No chance of the GF becoming Mrs. Me now, is there? How dern right I was, too.

There's no doubt that I can stretch reality like the sixth member of The Incredibles. For myself, anyway. Convincing others is not so easy. Foolish mortals. Anyhow, that was the beginning of the end. I wanted to set a new baseline, saying, "Hey - this is everything, this is all. Like the plane that crashes into Garp's house, what's the chance of there being any other left shoes to drop. And, of course, I didn't want have just that single, tiny issue to matter for the whole of it.

People will see that which has meaning to them. In this case, the phrase "legally married" seems to provoke a strong reaction. Of course, I knew it was a chance to take, but how much farther could I go without clearing the air.

Anyway, I made my case later. Can you guess how it turned out? Suffice it to say, it is impossible to explain in a microcosm of words what voice and body language can communicate. So, the next time you have to tell your girlfriend you're married, don't do what I have done, as the line in Rising Sun goes. Instead, stop what you're doing, come in person, bring flowers and chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Reality goes down much better when consumed with Cacao.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

And The Winner Is . . .

I want to talk about a lot of things with you. I know you're tough, but I know you're honest, so, I think I'm going to chance it. Pat me on the back for not being a wuss. Is that how you spell that?

These are things that come to mind:
I have to get rid of all my shit. It's about time. Everything on eBay for a buck, I'm thinking.

You sure you wouldn't feel imposed upon? Having lived singly? Could we split costs? How do we do that unemotionally and smartly? What if I become unemployed again? Or if either of us gets sick? How can we love each other for a lifetime? I don't want to start over at 52 or 62. What if I go insane? What if you go insane? My doctor wants me to come into the office to talk about my penis. I asked him for Cialis. I was so embarrassed. Can I satisfy you and keep you happy physically? How will you deal with my numerous introspective moods? My dreamy distances? How about when I space out completely? What if I want to drive to Vermont and you want to sun-bathe nude in Delaware? What if I miss you too much? What if I'm jealous over your man friends or you over my lady friends? Can you deal with me manically cleaning or lying around like an old dog, or writing for hours and totally ignoring you? Can I deal with being an equal and not being the boss? How about my forgetfulness - will you take that as not caring? What if I become annoying? What if I drink? What if I say things I don't really mean? What if I'm sure I'm right when you're sure I'm wrong? Can you really forgive me, or will you give up? Will you give up, regardless? Will I give up? What if you cheat on me or I on you? What if my kid lives with me, nasty teenager that she might be? What if I'm at work and she's at home, at our home - how will that be? What's your role? Should you have a role? Do you want to be married? What if you don't? Why don't you? Is it because I'm a two-time loser? What did happen in those relationships anyway, what did really happen? Am I delusional, marginally so, or is it you? What if everything means nothing and nothing is everything?

Hmm. I'll need specific answers to all of these questions before we can go any further in this relationship. By the way, can I move in tomorrow?



There - I said it before you did. Damn you.