dilletantism, romanticism, charlatanism
The worst thing about Thanksgiving is that my autocorrect will replace “thanks” with “thanksgiving” until May.
Misled
The algorithm found a meme for me yesterday.
Nobody talks about how change doesn’t require motivation.
It requires disgust. You don’t transform because you’re inspired. You transform because you’re finally sick of your own excuses. Disgust is the strongest fuel there is. Embrace it.
It’s not wrong. This is why I’ve stopped progressing. Hell, my wheels aren’t even spinning.
Comfort is one hell of a drug!
Do I have wants? Desires? Certainly.
Needs? Not so much.
Ironic how my desire to perfect the art of doing absolutely nothing hasn’t fulfilled me at all. While it is a goal, it is definitely easier to have something (at least quasi-)tangible to work towards.
Like when I was determined to weigh 140 for my class reunion.
Or determined to adventure Bucharest on my own.
Now... I’m clearly not disgusted with my disinterest in getting out of bed.
When it gets down to it, all of the motivation and inspiration in the world is fleeting. Humans crave comfort. Rest.
Yeah, it’d be cool to make a bajillion dollars before the year’s out—and I can point to at least five Instagram influencers who will help you do it—but you aren’t lacking motivation. Nor inspiration.
You are not disgusted with your life. You are content to do your time at work/school. Then go home and play video games until you’re sufficiently numb. Maybe scroll some social media reels. Have a snack and a nap and do it all again tomorrow.
And I am not sufficiently disgusted with my life. Perhaps, awareness of wondering why I am not disgusted with my own life will begin this... because my life is not great. It can be so much more.
Compensation alone is a poor motivator. And family/friends who don’t share your vision will destroy any inspiration. When will you be disgusted with your “lot in life?” They don’t want to see you improve. They tend to like you as you are.
Should I be disgusted?
It’s time for a change. I know it, deep inside. I can feel it.
As much as I love this li’l space and this platform, let’s face it.
I have no audience.
And if I want to write for myself AND others, I need to find another platform. One that has an audience.
Anyone remember LiveJournal? I recall stumbling on so many different blogs there. Time wasters, all.
But now there are platforms for writing that means something. And I want to write something that means... something.
Of course, the options flood in: Medium. Thought Catalog. Substack. Something else? Do any of these have a clear advantage? Or disadvantage?
Especially for a horny, old misogynist like me? Because, in today’s cancel culture, that is something to keep in mind as well.
And then what becomes of this space? And the nearly 1,000 posts of content?
This. Is a big step. Yet, one I need to take.
Was it your lips?
Was it the sex?
That’s left the aftermath of you
Still pounding in my chest
This song I wrote for you
This song’s what got me through
This song’s the only weapon left
To get me over you
Lesson learned
Love ain’t fair
Even burned the bed we shared
This song’s in memory
In memory of when I cared
Our tears of joy
Raged like a flood
We made a vow we would stay together
Blood on blood
But I’m still here
Just like a ghost
Feeling your skin against my skin
That’s what’s killing me most
In Memory (Of When I Cared)
I am broken. Lost. Heartless. Soulless.
Mindless? Maybe. Maybe that’s next.
The best way to describe what I’m going through is an operating system crash. Too much information. Unable to process it. To reconcile.
Kate. Oh, Kate. What are you doing to me? What are you trying to show me?
Last week, Kate tells me that, as humans, our capacity for self-deception is our greatest curse. That things are not as we believe they are.
You see, for the last month, since Clarissa and I parted ways, Kate has been trying to convince me that it was never love. Clarissa never loved me—to Kate’s credit, this may be true. How will I know? And that I never loved Clarissa.
Because I have had so little love in my life, that this relationship wasn’t love at all.
Kate is investing a lot of energy in this. Why?
Am I a fool for refusing to believe this? Am I worshiping an idol of Clarissa? Lord...
Knowing and loving are never simple. We are creatures of delusion and we are tempted by idolatry. Knowing and loving demand choice and resolution. There is a detachment in every attachment, an emptying that precedes every filling, a death in every life.
And then, there was Amy, who took a turn roasting me last week as well. Amy insisted that I bring nothing to Clarissa’s life. Or the life of Clarissa’s little girl. Nothing.
I need male friends. Women are highly emotional, and I can see Amy projecting her needs, wants and desires onto Clarissa. Clarissa knows what she had, and what I brought to the table. That isn’t the reason for the split.
Or is it?
I cannot speak for Clarissa, yet I know I showed her genuine love. I saw through this woman’s façade, and she blossomed for me.
Yet, we’re told if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Plus, she was ashamed of me. I get it. A significant age gap is hard to sell to your peer group.
We tell ourselves stories all of the time. Why not tell myself she’s into me?
It certainly made for a better story.
She was. Into me. I know this woman better than anyone. And she knows me. Is this a delusion? Maybe I should ask her?
So, I’ve been bumbling through this transition, believing the relationship was real. To me, it was. Do I hope she finds a love that sees her like I did? Absolutely! Do I want to be around to witness it? Not a chance. In hell.
The love we shared on our last night together was real. I’ll die on this hill.
And I have yet to kiss another. Is that weird?
Then, they say everything happens for a reason. Another old axiom. So many use it as an excuse to escape accountability. Are our choices really ours? Perhaps not.
My sister recently celebrated a birthday—one year sober. Congratulations, Melissa. This is a tremendous accomplishment! And certainly not an easy one in the world we live in. As such, she invited me (and the family) to her baptism yesterday morning. I was thrilled to share this with her!
Some days, I wish I could find solace in scripture. Community in church. What happened to my operating system? All I see is indoctrination. Thinking instead of feeling. I was reminded why...
Yesterday’s sermon was around the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians. Chapter six. Verses twelve through twenty. I remembered it instantly. It ruined my life when I was young.
12 “All things are lawful for me,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful for me,” but I will not be enslaved by anything. 13 “Food is meant for the stomach and the stomach for food”—and God will destroy both one and the other. The body is not meant for immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. 14 And God raised the Lord and will also raise us up by his power. 15 Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shall I therefore take the members of Christ and make them members of a prostitute? Never! 16 Do you not know that he who joins himself to a prostitute becomes one body with her? For, as it is written, “The two shall become one.” 17 But he who is united to the Lord becomes one spirit with him. 18 Shun immorality. Every other sin which a man commits is outside the body; but the immoral man sins against his own body. 19 Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God? You are not your own; 20 you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.
There I was. Standing in shame. Finding myself envious of the Greeks who enjoyed sex as part of worship. Imagining every curve—every inch, every pore—of Clarissa’s body. And feeling enormous, useless guilt for it. Recalling countless conversations with Clarissa. And with Kate. About shame and sexuality and no answers.
We ARE animals. We have these urges and impulses for a reason. We are horny—often! What are we to do?
Think our way out of it?
No wonder everyone I know is mad!
Unhandled exception, indeed.
So, here I sit. Unable to do anything. I can’t eat. I can’t concentrate. I can’t read. Trying to “reason.” Trying to “feel.”
Was it an illusion?
Did I waste her time? Did I waste my own? How do I find love without knowing love? How do I gain experience without experience? How do I start again with someone new when I am still so deep with the last one?
How do I process this? Do I process this?
“You don’t want to be my friend?” she cried.
“Babe, we’ve never been friends,” I replied. I could feel my own tears welling up inside.
How did we get here?
Oh, I can identify some missteps along the way. None of them matter, because here we are. She doesn’t have to buy what I’m selling. And I don’t have to settle for less than I desire.
“Don’t look at it as the end of the book,” the social media warriors chant. “Look at it as an exciting new chapter!”
Fuck that, frankly. I don’t want to keep reading this book. It fucking sucks.
Not to spoil Mockingjay, but there was a point, midway, where I threw the book against the wall and didn’t look at it again for a month. Anyone who’s read it knows why.
That’s how this feels.
I can’t believe I walked away from the most important person in my life. Yet, she can’t give me the love I crave from her.
“Right person. Wrong time.”
That old chestnut is all over the social media as well. Hell, we even mentioned it last night.
Fuck. I know she loves me. I know she needs to focus on herself. I know she’d like me by her side while she does it.
Yet, I can’t. Not anymore. What a waste of time. Resources. To be downgraded to “friends.”
I chose myself. I’m not a social being. I don’t need a friend that I will always be in love with. How fucking heartbreaking is that?
Now, we’ll find out if I can find, within myself, a reason to live beyond her.
Are we the soulmates we claim to be? Will we find each other again? I suppose we will see, but I’m no longer counting on it.
Damn, I just don’t want to be here anymore. Hearing her cry last night, knowing there’s nothing more to do at this moment in time. She didn’t see this coming.
Her sobs caught the attention of her mother, so she left the call before we were finished. Maybe nothing else needs to be said. Maybe...
Afterward, insomnia paid me a visit. I knew this would tear me up. Maybe that’s why I entertained the notion of “friends.” Maybe that’s why we both let this drag on for so long. Better to keep each other close. Because we do love each other.
One of us just isn’t “in love” any longer. Which sucks.
She can’t have me if she doesn’t want me.
And I’m not being honest with myself if I accept friendship. Not when I yearn for the excitement we had last summer.
I wasn’t looking for you to reenter my life. Now, I don’t know what I’ll do as you exit it. I am grateful to share bits of our lives with each other. You know me better than anyone else.
Including that I am weak where you’re concerned. Which is why we can’t do this. Not without going for it.
Fuck the next chapter. I don’t want to read anymore. I just want to taste you again.
No More “I Love You’s”
I don’t want to talk to you anymore either. Bye.
It doesn’t take much. A glimpse. A word. A titty.
The smallest distraction, and it’s gone. Whatever I was thinking about. Whatever I wanted to get down on paper. Gone. Poof. Not even a puff of smoke.
Writing is hard these days. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why she’s here. This poor, tortured soul whom I’ve gotten to know. She has beauty. Inside and out. Dancing with so much ugliness.
The beauty? Innate. The ugliness? That was given to her. A gift.
A profound, disappointing gift. Yet she accepted it.
We’re taught, it’s impolite to refuse a gift. So we accept... everything. Even if it harms us.
Can two lost souls ever find happiness? Probably not.
Yesterday, there was so much hate in her eyes. She’s angry at life. The world. And yesterday, she took it out on me. It wasn’t the first time. And it won’t be the last.
She knows I see her. That I’m the only one in her world who does. I reminded her of that. Not to take out her frustration on me.
Not five minutes later, the apology. She knows. She really is a storm of emotions. Of conflicting desires.
Aren’t they all, though?
Simply a storm. Or maybe the sea to my shore.
My own will to live is inside this woman. Deep, deep inside. Each time, I can only hope to plug in deeper... yet I still cannot reach that which eludes me. Thrusting with the essence of my very soul, striving to penetrate her spark.
Stormy
What do people do?
Is this where the bad decisions come from? Idle hands and all that?
Here, I find myself with a day off. And nothing to do. At least there is nothing I have to do. Today.
I can stay in bed. All day. Glorious, no?
Except, that is what I do. All day. Nothing.
Clarissa calls me. “What are you going to do today?”
I have no answer. Other than, “I can come over.”
“That’s not what I want,” is her reply.
Here, I lie in bed. With nothing to do.
Yet, people do things. Have I always been like this? Just sitting in neutral with no tasks at hand?
I joke. “My hobby is sleeping,” I say. It’s not wrong though. It’s no joke. Some days, I don’t leave the apartment. Or the cottage. Or the house.
At times, I adventure. No city is too far. Nor countryside. Nor attraction. Nor mountain, nor monument.
But why? For those Marriott beds? Perhaps. Because I will sleep on “vacation” too. Hmm.
No drive.
Yes, I will wander into the out. I will find something to eat. Likely a sandwich or a taco. Preferably a taco, but again she doesn’t want to see me. I will go get some things from the store. Fabric softener is at the top of the list.
I need a haircut. The bedding needs washed. Or warshed, depending on your dialect. I used to exercise—walks, lifting at the gym, runs. Hell, I used to eat far more protein than I currently do. My back hurts, so a trip to the chiropractor definitely won’t hurt. I have more books to read than I can finish before I die. I’m tragically pale—and unhappy—so a few minutes under the happy lights is an option as well. I used to write. More. A lot more.
And there’s plenty of time in the day to do it. But there’s television. And doom scrolling. Clarissa will call again and we’ll talk—probably for hours. She is also doing nothing. Sitting in the dark. Thinking. About everything. About life.
When did we become so lost? So idle? Devil’s playthings, indeed.
Yet, I am so comfortable. Lying in this bed. Typing this out on a laptop. I can roll over and go back to sleep. And it will be glorious. Satisfying. I’m so relaxed.
What if comfort is an indication that I am less? The key indicator that I am NOT doing the right thing? What if it’s my drug. Not unlike her. This euphoric sensation of the next narcoleptic wave that will whisk me away to dreamland. Where adventure and sex and love and action await.
Seriously, what do people do? And what will I do today?