“Looking for my sole mate”

“u cute” Yeah, me also literate. The majority of men who are messaging me on the other hand…I can’t tell if they are dumb or just lazy. Neither impress me.

“I love your eyes, your hair, your tattoos your smile. We should meet” Thanks but you forgot to mention a non-physical quality that you like. “Huh?” Did you read my profile or just look at my pictures? …delete.

“Do you date younger men?” You’re only three years younger, stud.

“This is a landline. When is a good time to call?” When you join the 21st century and get a cell phone.

“I know someone who needs to come see me to tonight” Yeah? Who’s that? Tooth fairy? ‘Cuz it sure as hell isn’t me. If you expect a woman to come to you, you probably also expect her to pay for dinner and open YOUR door.

“I like good food and I like to laugh…” Oh not me! I prefer to eat shit sammiches and be miserable.

“I served in the military. Well, I mean, I went to boot camp and everything but dropped out because my mom and girlfriend at the time didn’t want me to go”. You mean you washed out. Loser. And you’re blaming your mom and ex-girlfriend. Double loser. And you claim to have served in the military. Douchenozzle.

“Wait I think I just dropped something…my jaw!” (Forehead slap!)

“My neck, my back, lick my…”

I do love covers and that is one by Elle King… I wish it was available in instrumental version. I’d kill it for karaoke. And give some old vets heart attacks.

I wonder again if I’m getting better, getting over him. Recall my little “problem” getting off? I’ve discovered the inkling of a physical attraction to a visiting Marine. He’s the movie version too: Tall, a mountain of muscle covered in ink, bright eyes set off by dark hair and despite the high and tight, there’s an adorable cowlick that makes me want to pat his head every time I pass. And whereas Fridays are “casual” for civilians, I call it “Fancy Fridays” for him because Marines wear their class uniform that day rather than fatigues.
I know nothing about him except that he’s tdy from Camp Lejeune and a hard core cyclist, riding a minimum of 30 miles daily and over 100 on weekends. I don’t k ow of he’s married, single, gay but I do know he’s not interested in me. He’s nice, we chat and I offered to play native hostess (as I do with most visitors) because I hate for someone to leave thinking Ybor is the place for entertainment and Clearwater is “the Beach”. He said he would take me up on it but weeks passed and he hasnt. That was his “opportunity” if he wanted one. But today, I “used” him. It’s better if I don’t know his relationship or sexual status because that might ruin the fantasy. And that’s all this is. I desperately need to take the edge off and he’s the first and only tinder other than “him” that has successfully started a fire in 8 months.
So I picture myself in my burgundy sheath top, beasts barely concealed behind thin curtains which he need only brush aside. Thumbs brush lightly then lips…I can see myself on my knees, him looking down with bright eyes gone dark and deep voice telling me “Good girl.” And he can lift me easily. Pinning me between a hard wall and hard him, roughly pulling my panties aside and entering me urgently, hungrily. I love that! “He” could never do it because he just wasn’t tall enough. But the Marine is.
Mmmm….

“It’s a lonely road where the forgotten go…” ~Elle King

There’s a song for that. A lyric to compliment every thought, feeling. They come to me the way my brother quotes movies in place of conversation. But right now, I can only thing of two lines: This is the world’s slowest suicide & happiness is my writers block. I can lay claim to neither. They come from writers, bloggers such as myself, with a much larger following than I have. And rightfully so because of lines like that. I think “That’s it! That’s EXACTLY what I was trying to say but you found the words first”. Tipping my hat to “MyRedAbyss” here. Yes, this feels like a slow suicide. And yes, happiness, or really just apathy leave me too uninspired or tired to write. I also challenged myself not to write anything until I could spit out something lighthearted for a change. So I waited.
And still wait.
Depression sucks the life out of me slowly and yet…
I wonder if I’m getting better? Either the medication adjustment is working or I’m getting over him. Or maybe the medication is the reason I’m getting over him. The doctor tweaked the dose. Instead of the archaic formulary that the VA prefers, she wrote me a prescription to take to a drugstore. Because at least for the moment, I have health insurance and can afford ‘the good stuff’. I’m almost afraid to admit I’m regaining a sense of balance and control. Like if I acknowledge it, it will disappear. G-d is such a prankster. Ha!
But I’m also starting to hate him. Or so I tell myself. As pain ages, it turns bitter and black. Love gone rancid.
But I continue to get out of bed (most days), go to work, dance if I can muster the energy, go through the motions of living. Watch the days fall off the calendar and teeter somewhere between ambivalence and panic: three months since I saw him. I’ll never see him again. Four months until my birthday. I’m never going to have children now.
It’s always worst when I first wake and as I’m trying to fall asleep. That is when I feel my loneliness most acutely. During the day, I stay busy. Surrounded by living, breathing people. I am the walking dead among them. Then Im in bed, alone and the truth settles like mud around me.
I reactivated an online dating profile a week ago. Is it unreasonable that I ignore every message of “What up, gurl?” What. Not What’s. I could even accept ‘whats’ because I think punctuation is overrated. Maybe those gawdawful talk-to-text programs dropped the ‘s’. But even those programs do not spell “girl” with a ‘u’ so then I know it’s intentional. First impressions are important. Would you walk into a job interview and open with “What up, gurl?”  There are two men I have established some regular contact with…ugh, that sounds so alien and cold to put it that way: I shall establish communications with these humans and begin the vetting process to determine whether or not romantic relations should be pursued. Live long and prosper. I have a bad attitude going in though. Dating is a chore and I’m still unable to shake that feeling that there is no one else on the whole planet that I want or will ever want more than him. My Lightning Strike.
Even though he lacks integrity, used and abandoned me like I was less than nothing. I know this. I remind myself. I even wrote it down in case I ever ‘forgot’.
But back to feeling better.
I also caved and agreed to try therapy again. Cognative therapy is not the bloodletting like my past experience with counseling. Funny, we dont even really talk about him. Maybe she doesnt feel like we need to. What she is trying to do is train me to think differently. WHen I feel that trigger and the thoughts, which lead to feelings, begin the downward spiral, I hit ‘pause’, step outside myself and begin to dissect each thought by asking “Is this logical? Is it based on fact or assumption? …” I dont know if this is truly re-wiring my head or just putting it in ‘time out’.  This out-of-mind experience, if I keep it up long enough, is almost like counting to calm down. Re-direction, like making a loud noise to distract a dog whose hackles begin to raise and ears flatten.
Oh but it’s so poetic to suffer! I am a martyr! Am I no longer ‘legit’ if I put my demons to bed rather than dance with them?
I got my American Legion membership card in the mail today. Yay! Now I can karaoke in the middle of the day and get shit-faced for $10 alongside toothless Vietnam vets and my brethren spawned of this last decade’s fucked-upedness.
And I didnt go dancing tonight. I was half compelled to go. No, really less than a quarter compelled. I think I could have benefited from catching up with some friends there. I was even dressed for it. As if dressing the part would be enough to motivate me. But here it is, the time I would be leaving the dancefloor to come home and get to bed and Im alraedy there: in bed, wearing a teal swing dress and hair pinned up with a large flower. And typing. Exhausted but envious of the snoring dog beside me.
I anticipate a few restless nights as the moon fills up. Tomorrow is Passover. My mother said “Maybe next year…” when I asked if we would have a seder. Saturday is a blood moon and I’ll email him and ask him to think of me, of us, and the full moon illuminating the hills of Konar Province, Afghanistan. And I’ll burn stuff. And Sunday, Easter sunrise, I’ll join my family at my father’s graveside.
But here. Watch this. Like Taylor Swift’s Twerking Tunnel, this lifts my spirits:

Blood! And froggies! And lice all over their bodies!