Significant 

There is no place for consumption.  You must be eradicated.  You need to be a distant memory and it needs to be soon. I feel like I’m drowning and I am so transparent that everyone can see.  It’s time to cleanse. Purge.  Start anew. I need a break.  I want to feel whole, healthy, happy.  My friends don’t like you and neither do I. 

You fill my thoughts.  I can’t sleep.  I lie awake trying to figure out how to be better for you. To be successful.  To make it work. But it just isn’t.  This isn’t what I thought it was going to be.  It makes me sick when things don’t work out the way in which I planned.  

People tell me I need to leave you.  Take a break.  I tell them I can’t.  Why?  Because I need you, even though I don’t want you.  In fact I hate you… But I depend on you. 

I’m trying to replace you.  Im going to replace you.  And I’ll be happy.  The next one, I’ll like seeing.  You suck.  
I can’t wait to put in my two week notice.  

….I’ve never hated a fucking job so much in my life.  I’d rather eat worms. 

I can’t help it

I love him.  I do.  Its beautiful and poetic and filled with laughs and intimacy and chocolate.  Who wouldn’t love something associated with chocolate.  i can’t help it.

He’s married.

The sun is setting and the sheets are rumpled.  I climb into the shower.  He wanders in, ice cream in hand, feeds me a bite and reminds me that his youngest’s birthday is tomorrow.  “How old is he now, M?  Ten?” Eleven, he tells me.  I sigh and think to myself, “Fuck.  Only seven more years…”  Then I can properly love him in the fashion that he deserves. What started out a few years ago as me browsing the internet for a new conquest or simply, something to do, has manifested into this relationship.

By the time I discovered he was married, it was too late.  I loved him.  And still do.  I tried to break it off, but I am mesmerized by the man who loves Bruce Springsteen and possesses an accent that is music to my ears. I withdrew myself, became an asshole.  Told him to go home and fix his life, fuck his wife like he did me and maybe his problems would dissipate.  I became busy, and saw other men.  Readily available men.  No one was charming enough, or educated enough or well traveled enough or enjoyed chocolate in the manner I did.  No one fit the bill.

He wandered his way back in.  I realized I was a provider.  Not only of physical companionship, but love, and compassion and encouragement.  My home and heart was a refuge, where he could put his feet up, watch sports and forget for a minute.  He could talk to me about work, or his aspirations and I would listen.   Little does anyone really understand this.  With that being said, its not one sided.  He has instilled a hunger within me.  He gives me inspiration to be a better me, and have done well with academic and career pursuits with him in tow. He also provides me with the most beautiful breath taking ocean view condo, located in one of the most amazing cities.

Some may call me a home wrecker.  Sure.  But if it wasn’t me he met, it’d likely be someone.  They decide to stay together for the kids.  He has his own room.  I don’t ask what goes on or what he does to keep the peace.  Life is simple.  We enjoy each other.  We eat, we drink, we travel and explore.  We talk about hopes and fears and what each of our futures hold.

As of late, she has been looking through his phone.  She caught a glimpse into M and I’s life together.  I was told I’d receive a phone call on Sunday.  She wants me to know that I am being used for sex, that I am dirty and he doesn’t love me.  The call never came, as I suspected it wouldn’t. She’s not interested in hurting me, just him.  She knows I’m not being used.

It’d be easy for me to withdraw, and tell him to fix his life,  I know he doesn’t want that.  I don’t want that.  He feels the closeness we have, as does she.

I laugh from the shower as my mind wanders. “Eleven already?  Wow.  Time flies when you are having fun, doesn’t it? Only seven years to go, M.”

He spoons me another bite of ice-cream.  I smile. I can’t help it.

Just a little white lie…

People lie. On average, a person lies six times a day.

The most common lie? “I’m fine.”

They lie to look smarter, be more attractive to the opposite sex, procure a job, get out of responsibilities, and a variety of other reasons.

I consider myself to be a fairly good judge of character. And sometimes… I can’t help but turn my head in disbelief. I overheard a doozy the other day.

Maybe it’s because I’m special, or maybe it’s just that badof a lie… Oh Lord.

“Yes, I am part of a military combat operation. I jumped out of a plane before I came here today” … As he is perched on the printer in the trauma unit wooing a nurse. I keep listening as I’m looking at CT scans. “I got stabbed last week. See?”

She’s NOT believing this shit. Is she?

Now I have to subtly spin and look. There’s two steri-strips to his flank area over a very superficial scratch.
This is an overweight middle aged man, who gives respiratory treatments to patients in the trauma unit. Where did he get stabbed? In the jungle? Afghanistan? By an elephant?

She looks intrigued. Maybe he’ll get her number.

Now I’m no rocket scientist but… I would think the army or special forces would want someone in pristine shape, and they would NOT want you telling everyone about their escapades.

…maybe lies just don’t work on me?

It made me chuckle as I turned back to my work. I don’t know for sure what it did for the nurse, but I think he thought he made a good impression.

Lies. They only *really* work if they’re plausible. I’m just saying.

If I was looking for acceptance, you may be reading my obituary…

If I was looking for acceptance, you may be reading my obituary...

I didn’t come here to write a blog and defend myself. Incidentally, I didn’t come to write and put myself on display. In all honesty, I thought it’d be safer to put my thoughts in a blog than in a book where someone may find them.

Read it. Don’t Read It. Look into it, or take it at face value. My life is mine and mine alone.

the truth and nothin’ but the truth…

He smells good and has nice teeth.  He is successful and educated. He can talk his way out of anything and people respect him.  He is well traveled, well read, and a foodie. He can virtually name any piece of music regardless of genre and he is very devoted to his children.  He is tall and amazing in bed.  He supports me in my time of need, lends an ear and admires my accomplishments.

Sounds like the perfect man, yes?  Well he would be, if I could squeeze the two men into one.

 I met Mr. A on a dating site.  He was handsome and charismatic, very accomplished in the same field as I.  His profile said he was looking for a committed relationship. We had many amazing nights of food and wine, weekends away to exotic places, but he was generally very busy during the workweek.  Given the nature of our occupation, we both were.  I was madly in love when I found out he was married.   I thought I’d give him up and find someone “available”, but I loved the attention, the intelligence and the adoration.

With a married man comes limitations.  Once the cat was out of the bag, I suppose life was easier for him.  I knew he’d never call after a certain hour, and now that I knew, the false wall of being a single man came down.  It actually made things easier for me too.  After a year I was asked if I wanted to move somewhere closer to his work, and he and I “share” a place together.  I was reluctant at first, but I had nothing to lose.  What he really meant was he wanted to move his things, which includes me into one place. 

As time went by, he stopped sleeping over.  I know Mrs. A knows about me, and I know the reasons that they stay together.  I am realistic.  I have never loved a man the way I love him, and will likely never experience it again, but I know he will never be mine.  I fill a need for him, and essentially, he does the same for me. I’d give him the best years and wait for him if I knew there was a prize at the end, but he promises me nothing.

I get sad waiting for him.

I get lonely when he never calls.

I get tired of sleeping by myself.

I get angry that I love him the way I do.

The way our schedules are and the way life would have it, I have successfully integrated another man in to complete my life.  Mr. B has no idea. Mr. A does not ask where I go or what I do with my evenings.  He can’t. After all, I’m pretty sure he shares a bed with his wife nightly although he denies it vehemently.

I met Mr. B through a friend.  I didn’t think much of the situation, but did see him a few times.  He was charming, and newly divorced.  He had been treated poorly by his spouse and he was so soft, and open.  He was unpretentious, although successful. Dates turned into overnights and overnights turned into weekends.  Mr. B has shared custody of his son.  We regularly do family things that provide balance and offset the irrational crazy relationship I maintain with Mr. A.

Its interesting, because I feel whole, but feel like I lead a double life. I think that I am winning the game, then I really wonder, who has the upper hand?

In the afternoon, I put out slippers and lounge clothing for my charming, witty, unobtainable, married man to slip into so we can lie next to one another in our pricy condo downtown, eat expensive chocolate and plan our next getaway.  At night and on the weekends, I see my family man in suburbia who watches television with me and asks me about my day.

Mr. A makes me feel protected and sought after.  Needed.  At the same time, I know that I provide a safe haven for him, he can rest in my arms and I know he feels loved.  He is passionate and dominant, he makes me want to be more. 

Mr. B makes me feel thought about and loved.  Cared about.  I know I give him happiness, and while there is always an internal drive, he makes me feel as though I am enough.

I don’t even know how I got into this.  I couldn’t even tell a soul. 

I am alone, but I am not.   Oh, how I wish the two were one.  

Throat Punches for Everyone!

I hate people.  At least today anyway.

People… Piss.  Me.  Off.

I didn’t wake up very happy anyway, but it was a stone set in motion, and it just happened to be a perfect storm today.  Thank God I live alone and only the refrigerator and the macbook have to deal with my bullshit.

So this is my Random Rant for the Day

Read books.  Its unflattering to state that you have “never read a book in your life”.  Watch the news.  Do something to better yourself.  Learn something to expand your knowledge. Understand that education and intelligence aren’t synonymous.  People watch you.  They can discern whether you are self made or have had life handed to you.  For those of you who have fallen into good fortune or a good place in life, do not forget where you came from.  It can all be gone in a second.

I hate people who can’t type.  I hate people who don’t know the difference between their, they’re, and there. I have a particular resentment for those who like to put “lol” after everything.  I think it lessens your IQ by 20 points.  Easy. Maybe 40, depending on the subject. What about your and you’re? How about a throat punch?

I don’t like it when people are moody, and act like brats.  When they mope and don’t get what they want and make you feel like shit about it and inevitably you come round, trying to pull them from the clutches of petulance.  So stupid.  Somehow, I have enough conscience or moral fortitude or whatever you want to call it, and I expend the energy.  I hate it.

No I don’t want you to talk to me.  No I don’t care that you feel rejected by that text message that I wrote trying to be funny. Yes I am getting tired of telling you that you are looking too deep into the four word, absent minded text that I sent in the midst of eating red curry chicken, watching house, typing an outline, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, reading stupid text messages from others and trying to text you.  See?  See what was going on there??  Nope, of course not.  You are still licking your wounds.

Nope.  I don’t care that you think your professor sucks.  I really think I should be able to punch you in the face without any punishment or fear of retribution if you think that the letter Q and G can be used interchangeably in someone’s name.  Yes, I know who you are talking about. No, I don’t think its okay. No I will not ever correct you.  What the fuck, are you lazy?  Is Q too far away on the keyboard? Yep. A punch.  In the throat.  For stupidity.  For you.

I hate small mindedness.  When you were born, it was into such a homogenous society that there is only one right and good way. That was the white and Catholic way.  That was 30 plus years ago.  You know this isn’t the only way.  Stop being stupid.  Do not raise your children in the same manner.  It makes them sour for everyone they meet in their adult lives when you raise them to be a hillbilly like you.  People will likely throat punch them, and then find you do the same.

If I start a group thread for things pertaining to school, don’t text me pictures of you drinking beer on it.  Or fishing. I don’t care.  Maybe I should care, but I don’t.  This is a graduate program.  The only way I’d be happy with this arrangement is if I knew you were contributing to mandatory projects, and you are not.  I may drive to your house to deliver a throat punch after I go see the other guy.

Stop being a bitch.  Yes you’re pretty, but it’s only skin deep and it shows.  Makeup doesn’t hide an ugly heart. Be nice to people, it will get you places. If you aren’t, you’ll probably be alone when you’re 40 with a cat, like me.  Trust me.  It happens.

Sigh.  Much better.

 

 

Life in a Can

I was trying to find the right word to accurately describe myself to someone the other day.  I struggled.  Afterward,  it hit me like a ton of lead. I just needed time to let my mind wander.

Like a label-less dented can forgotten in some clearance aisle basket, will some one take a chance on me?  I am most certainly a risk.  What if they really don’t know whats inside, and it turns out to be something they dislike, or worse, something that was once delicious and now sour and rotten?  I think Im damaged.  I was never handled with care, or protected from the trauma in life.  Subsequently, I can say its changed me.

Inside and out. 

Some parts of me are missing.  The label has fallen away.  I am a mystery… Like a tin can, the hard metal protects the contents inside.  No one will ever know whats in there until they take the time to open the can.  Is it worth it? 

I used to be sweet as peaches once upon a time. Like bacteria ravaging fruit, have the insults of life gotten inside?  Turned me dark?  Made me sour? Bitter? Unwanted? Unlovable?  Am I salvageable once you get inside? 

I can say that I have learned in life, the people who buy dented cans really don’t mind what you look like, or what you may or may not be. They pick you up and take you home anyway.  They’re willing to take the risk that theres something inside, thats still good, and thats enough. 

They don’t expect much and if they open a can to find peaches… they are pleasantly suprised.

Bourbon and Resumes…

I’m drunkenly lying in bed, relishing the fact that I had the balls to submit a resume for a position I’ll likely never get.  Who does that?

I’m feeling good, eyes heavy.  Mind free.  It was a good day for me.  Not because of a man, food, sex or money.  It was an internal challenge and accomplishment.

I’m moving.  Focused.  The usual chatter in my mind seems far away. Who knows what they will say?  I have no experience with stem cell transplants.

But God.  We all started somewhere.  Maybe I’m hopeful.  Maybe I’m less depressed and mental clarity is beaming through.

Nah.  I’m still me.  But damn.  That bourbon is good.