The billboard read: Say NO. We don’t need another state-run hospital murdering our unborn babies.

Clearly, I am driving through a Catholic community. It’s small. A lot of classic cars. Railroad tracks. Cornfields. And bridges. And a distinct lack of racial diversity. And church-run hospital’s sponsoring billboards.

No homeless people. No one goes hungry. No one is cold. All of the beautiful white children excel in school. Everyone’s needs are met.

Yes, the American dream is still alive and well in this place. There is no need for abortion here. Because no one has any unfulfilled needs or wants. And everyone is wanted.

And this is where you are relocating. Your new and happy family. Three bright children with another on the way.

I’ve never understood your desire for more children. I don’t even think you’re Catholic, yet I’ve never asked either. But you’re happy here.

As former lovers, you’re giving me an auto tour of this idyllic paradise. Is it South Dakota? It sure looks like it… but in the sixties. Don Draper, eat your heart out.

As we’re driving around this small community, and you’re sharing in great detail, all of your hopes and dreams for your new family, the right wheels of the car keep dipping into the shoulder.

Yet, I say nothing. It’s not in my character to tell you you’re doing something wrong.

The tour continues. Frequently, the right side dipping into the shoulder. Then off the shoulder.

You’re so bright and happy. Your voice and eyes both filled with the delight of your new life. And I listen. Dutifully. Excitedly. It really does sound wonderful.

We tap a curb. Run over a toy on the side of the road. As we head towards an overpass. And towards the river.

As we exit the overpass, the wheels dip off again, onto a strategically placed trailer, which guides us back onto the road. You don’t even notice. No damage. No harm. No foul. Just an enjoyable li’l adventure.

Then over the bridge. Over the river. We’re remarkably close to the right side of the bridge, in this small community where there are no guides. Just a drop.

As the bridge ends, the river turns to run along the right side of the road.

I continue to say nothing about how close you ride to the right side of the road.

And as we exit the bridge. And the road. And into the river. In your last breath, you ask me, “Why?”

Why didn’t I tell you? Why did I let you kill us both? You, filled with joy and aliveness, and myself, filled with despair and dead inside.

—

I sit up awake. Is this what I do to others?

How much stock should we put into our dreams? Are they trying to send us messages we’re too stupid to receive when we’re awake?

I am guilty.

Of over-inflating my importance in your life.

You don’t need me. You certainly deserve better.

You, my dear, deserve the world. And joy. And happiness.

Someone who will deliver that promise. To take you to the moon and back. A sugar father, perhaps. At least someone who has found success.

Not someone who is afraid of success. And continues to run from it.

(And not just because his writing is better when he… avoids… success.)

I have fooled myself into believing I bring value to your life. Probably because you’ve brought so much into my own.

Yet, as last night’s dream demonstrated, I only bring more misery. And remind you of our miseries. Oh, and I bring trite platitudes.

Do I tell you what you want to hear? Or what you need to hear?

With me, as your navigator, will we drive off a bridge and into oblivion?

Yea. Probably.

I deserve to be alone. And you deserve better. Hell, you wouldn’t even be facing what you have to face if it wasn’t for me.

Yea. I deserve this immortality. Filled with vitriol. And solitude. And pain.

At least until I learn to be… better. And if you find… better… before that is a role I can fill, well, my dear, you deserve it all.

You deserve someone who isn’t (at least subconsciously) holding you (or both of us) back.

I believe in you. You’ve got this.

What i'm listening to:

Self Control
Laura Branigan
Self Control

There is a blister on the bottom of my foot. It hurts. It distracts me.

Which is good. It keeps me in the room.

You see, I have slipped back into a pattern of self-centeredness. Narcissism, if you will. I failed the test.

The color of the wallpaper? Wrong. The temperature of the room? Right. The number of girls in the room?...

Wrong. Wow. What have I become?

So, for the duration of this blister, I will use its frequent reminders of its existence, to check in. What is the experience of the others in my conversation. In the room. In my life.

And be aware. And stop being an asshole. Stop being consumed by my own problems.

Today’s thought: is Wordle utter agony for those who can’t spell?

Then again, I feel that way about fantasy football…

“I have something to tell you. It’s good news—or bad news—depending on how you look at it.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the fear that the rubber(s) failed—and a little Meg or Jay was forthcoming.

“I… met someone,” she offered.

A massive wave of relief washes over my face. “Oooh. Tell me more!”

She proceeds to tell me the story. About how she met him through a coworker. About how they’re messaging non-stop. All the while she’s smiling and giggling, with an intoxicating light in her eyes.

“He talks to me like you do. He treats me like you do. He makes me feel like you do. Like I deserve happiness and joy. But…,” she trails off.

“But?”

“He hasn’t had sex in… ten years!”

“Wow! Ten years? What’s that even like?”

“Right?” Yet, she is excited!

And it’s in this moment, I know that she understands me. We adore each other, and enjoy being together.

However, our journeys are very different. I explained that from the start, but it wasn’t until this conversation that I know she understands.

That it’s about the love. And that each of us deserve it.

Last winter, I lamented that I don’t want to feel like a charlatan. Anymore. Ever. Perhaps it is because I feel as if I’ve always bought into “Fake it until you make it.”

Yet, I’ve never made it. Fake it? Yes. Make it? No.

Dilettante, indeed. Jack of all trades, master of none.

Or have I?

My inner voice is constantly telling me I’m unsuccessful. Always riding the struggle bus. One disaster away from ruin. Constantly searching for evidence of a single decision in life that wasn’t… stupid.

So, I was stunned when my favorite girl tells me she’s jealous of my life. My freedom.

Yes, she’s an important part of my life. We have proven time and again that we support each other through all of our… stupid decisions. And hoping one will prove to be that springboard into our fantasies of being eccentric billionaires. Hoping. Maybe wishing is a better word.

So, what is real? As a charlatan surviving in an increasingly cruel world, is anything real? Apparently I am good at something. Money keeps appearing, even though it seems so surreal. As do the words on the page. Am I a writer? Perhaps.

Neither her nor I are making any obvious strides to get ahead. We take turns getting into trouble. We help each other out when we can. But neither of us manage to get ahead… for long, at least.

And, while we share many of the same passions and ideals, neither of us have anyone in our immediate social circle we can identify as successful. Or a mentor. Her friends are self-absorbed, drink too much, and are underwater in debt. My friends have a li’l money—enough for a comfortable living—yet have nothing else in their lives I find… desirable. And continuously give advice that is not asked for. And pass judgment on my unconventional life.

Is anything real? Am I truly immortal? If so, I’d better find a mentor who can help me live better than I am now.

I think I know where to look…

You said it last spring. That I was wasting my time. And well, we have different ideas about relationships, and it is my time to waste, and ultimately we do enjoy each other, so I continued.

To waste. My time.

And life is unkind. To both of us, really.

Yet you have more at stake. And you shut down. In that respect, you truly are a modern woman.

I’ve awakened a lot of greatness in you. But when you go back behind the wall into your safe space in your head, well, let’s just say it is getting quite tedious to start over. Yet again.

Wasting my time, indeed.

Yes, you deserve joy. And love. And everything that comes along with it.

I adore you. I always will. But, perhaps, I can’t be around you.

Is there a balance? Can I be available to you? Without being there? Always checking in? And feeling like I’m... in the way?

Wasting my time, indeed.

After all, there is so much beauty... everywhere. Such as the lovely gymnastics instructor with sparkling blue eyes I am currently talking to.

Why intrude where I’m no longer wanted? I guess it’s time to let you make the next move...

What i’m listening to:

Don't Answer Me
The Alan Parsons Project
Ammonia Avenue

Damn.

I knew it was a bad step. Judging by the sharp pain from my lower back.

At first, movement helped. The pain is there. Just dull. Okay, dull-ish.

And now?

Pushing it into the lumbar support of my seat helps. With the pain.

Buuut…

I need to get up. And I can’t.

The beauty in the summer dress across from me in this coffee shop doesn’t need to see me cry. Or hear me yell.

Yet, I can’t stay here forever.

What did I do? Monday’s chiropractor appointment seems so. far. away.

So, here I sit. Crippled. A gimp. Until I grin and bear it.

The letter had an apologetic air to it. An air of sadness.

Almost regret.

Don’t be sad about breaking up.

Never be sorry. People get together. They share. They learn. And then they part. Life is like water, if it stays too long in one place, it goes bad.

Look at it as a business transaction. If both of our needs aren’t being met, it is time to part.

To grow. To get that satisfaction we crave.

To move on.

Best wishes to you.

The day you sign a client is the day you start losing one.