Ho

"Yeah. More ho's than a scammin' pimp. I'sa gots the Christmas Spirit, okay. Now, Ima gonna sees if I can run me down an ol' bitch scratchin to WalMart."

This was overheard at a QuickChek near Dover, NJ. I sh*t you not. This Great Utterance was produced by a 300 pound man "of color" who was wearing uniform coat and associated gear of those that "Sever and Project."

That's the last time I take Route 46. FOR ANYTHING!

The Drama King and the Queen of Hearts

It occurs to me that I may already have a blog entry with a similar title or subject, but this won't be boring or wind-baggy. It will be to the point.

As humans, we have the unique ability to define reality. My definition of love, true love, no matter how juvenile it may seem, is the fairy-tale take. It's permanent and forever. That means it can never be put to rest, that it has a life of its own, once it takes hold, virus-like. And forever and never are the two defining temporal descriptions that mark the scope of love. It is God-like.

Humans are rarely God-like and so, as humans, we choose to discount our love. One may be worthy today but after a bout or five of disillusion, that love-distribution is in doubt. Therefore, that is not love, by my understanding, but is something else, something complex and grey and confined to the machinations of the human mind as shaped by both nature and nurture. It is drama.

Never is not now. Now is not forever. Forever is not tomorrow. Time continues to flow at its dependable pace. What have you done to set aside the drama surrounding the choice of who will be blessed with your God-like love? If nothing, then your love is a confection, a hobby, some expression of something else than grace. And, in the end, it is a lie.

True love forgives the lie and the fault and the failing and the sin. True love looks back but cherishes the distance unknown. It finds a way and it never, ever rests. It is forever.

Verbum Caro Factum Est

Suspicion, Guilt and Fate

People make mistakes all the time. Some of those mistakes take a very long time to come to fruition. Of course, the mistake itself is made at the outset of an event and the rest is just exposition. Mistakes that repeat over and over for the same person are, I'm sorry to say, probably the fault of the person making the mistake. Mistakes in relationships are fairly common and when those mistakes repeat, well, one has to ask a question or two about whether there's a common denominator.

Girls like bad boys. In fact, a 2008 study by the New Mexico State University at Las Cruces (link to ABC news article)indicated that bad boys get the most girls through the exercise of what would otherwise be considered negative traits - "deceit, callousness and impulsive behavior." The why of it is interesting, but not where I'm going here.

I'm not a bad boy. Even my mother said that I was a good boy. I know, though, that I've done many "bad" things - not evil, mind you, but bad just the same. At the core of me, though, I don't see a cause for deception, diversion or politics in any kind of relationship. Needless to say, I never really did "get the girl" and I'm much better left to things technical instead of being out on the road selling myself. I'm not ashamed of this, particulary but, apparently, I a) should be and b) am a failure because of it.

What's worse, for some reason, women seem to think that they should punish me for my caring but sedate life choices. Um, no, that's not okay. For instance, and not pointing to any New Jersey resident in particular, a love relationship I had was terminated simply because I refused to be discarded (yet again, I should add.) Yes, now I'm complaining, but only because I have a point to make. Hold on for a minute.

This woman lured me into her web of romance thinking God only knows what and in the end, simply terminated our relationship. When I say "terminated," I mean as in that now-classic line from Apocalypse Now where the CIA agent say, "With extreme prejudice." One could take that phrase to mean what it seems to imply, that is, "kick his ass but good, chop off his dick and then dump his saggy-assed body in the Mekong" (or Raritan, to keep it all in the scope that Jerseyites can process.) Or, it can mean, "without recourse."

So, she terminated our relationship by simply being progressively more and more unavailable until I could never get her on the phone, she wouldn't respond to texts and e-mails were, well, impossible. Maybe it was a ploy. Maybe she thought I should feel how much I already felt for her by removing the source of my addiction and forcing me to go cold turkey so that, what? I could feel the "burn"? Maybe she had learned or was taught that men love the pursuit. Well, maybe most men, but then, I'm not most men.

Instead, I was frightened, hurt, insulted, angry and frustrated. I asked myself whether I should keep backing up until I found a new path or stand my ground and retain what little self-esteem I had left. And, she absolutely didn't listen to me on this. Why? Couldn't get her on the phone. Couldn't get her via text. And e-mail? Well, she knows what happened. She decided and I accepted her decision, as much as I did so out of anger and sadness. The sorriest thing is that, had she permitted it, I could have talked her away from the abyss. So, she didn't want it. So, she's gone.

Now, in all this, I gave up my soul. I loved her totally. She had me, completely. And that's a dangerous thing. It's dangerous to trust and count on another person especially when the commitment level, when it counts, is different. True, I may have over-reacted. True, I should have given her time, space and should have kept chasing. True, she made compromises for my nut-state. But I was never dishonest about where I was coming from. If she didn't want to know what other sordid thing was going on in the darker corners of my life, I didn't tell her. When she wanted to know, I told all as I sensed her eyes glazing over. Heck, my eyes glaze over by the shear repetition. But when does the bullcrap end? When? Seriously? It's not a game. Okay - it is a game, but I don't want to play it. This is all too goddamn important. No, really.

So, I'm down yet another woman. That makes the woman count zero now. None. Null. Christmas is a less than a week away and I doubt that I'll hear from her and I have no way of contacting her. I could write her a letter . . . stupid idea. I'm embarassed to contact her kids to touch base since they clearly know what went down before I did so I'm not in the mood to schmuckify myself further. So, yeah, as my kid says, that's it. Accept it, asshole. Love the pain.

Beat Me To It

I believed, until about fifteen minutes ago, that my ex was unique amongst ex's. I believed, and previous posts here provide a nice sidelight to that belief, that there was no one as insane, abusive, manipulative, cruel and delusional. Having missed Thanksgiving with my daughter due to my nutty ex-mate and likely facing a three-peat over Christmas and New Year's, I've been feeling a little low. I just can't justify spending three grand a month on a lawyer to gain an Order To Compel and a Contempt of Court Order which I feel, unless jailed, my batty ex would ignore anyway. It would be a Pyrrhic victory. So, I've been feeling very alone. Until I found this site:

http://www.thepsychoexwife.com/

Now, you have to understand that the other side of my "situation" is that I'm only human and battle does take its toll. I thought, "How much a release it would be if I could simply dump all of my experiences into a book in hysterical, historical form. And to marry that to a blog - that would be a kind of victory." Unfortunately, there is indeed nothing new under the sun.

Within that site is, it seems, a nearly identical pattern of bullsh*t, lies, manipulations and evidence of borderline personality disorder that I'm directly experienced. It's uncanny. It also means that my work is done.

Please quit reading this blog and go to that site now. I mean it!

Bah! F*ck You!

Yes, it's that time of year again, when visions of sugar plums dance through the opiate-addled skulls of terminal heroin addicts and little children are traded for a month's worth of rice into the Albanian Mafia's international sex market.

It's a wonderful time, where global warming is drowning the Mekong Delta and politicians hone their lying skills to spend a Yuletide weekend or two in Sptizbule or Vale with someone other than there respective spouses.

For me, Christmas has become an especially significant season of ill-will, disappointment, loneliness and depression. And anxiety. Let's not forget the anxiety. Like Dickens' Ghost of Christmas Past, all my ill deeds of the past both distant and proximal come to haunt and then, to linger. Plus, there's the bonus of the suffering related to the malice of others I get to enjoy.

Had this been a surprise, suicide would have been the inevitable and just choice. But instead, Father Christmas has gifted me with a long and slow run-up to the season of Anti-Mirth. So, my treatment as a Dark Denizen has, on some level, become a holiday tradition, much like gingerbread cookies, except, without the frosting and instead of gingerbread, poo for dough.

Around Thanksgiving, I feel a glimmer of that Holiday Spirit, only to realize that I'm actually having a nicotine fit. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.

By the way, I'm sure there's at least one know-it-all out there with the strident belief that I made it this way. Well, you're right, but you don't bother calling, either, do you? No, you don't, and that's my point.

So, for Christmas this year, I'm taking it to the streets. I'm turning on my charm to glom all of the fruitcake I can and replace XMas morning stocking goodies with lumpy, greasy, toxic coal. Take that, Copehagen! I'm going to get little kids hooked on cigarettes and whisper to elderly grandmothers that their children never loved them. I'm going to be the one on line at Kohl's and Sears and Target on Christ Mass Eve that's paying for my twelve bucks worth of worthless crap with pennies and a personal check. I'm the one who'll be calling the cops to tow your brother-in-law's car for intruding three millimeters over my driveway-line, all after his six-hundred mile trip from Virginia Beach, two days after his wife's ovarian-cyst-removal surgery. Yes! I will represent the Ghost of Christmas Reality, by and with whom, no holiday delusion will be allowed.

Ho, ho, ho. Whatev. Hold on - I'm a-comin' . . .