“My heart belongs to da da da da da da da…” Peggy Lee

I can go decades without watching television but while recovering from parathyroid surgery a few years ago, I steamrolled through all seasons of Downton Abbey. Now with a broken foot, I’m hooked on Derry Girls on Netflix. Not only do I love the nostalgic soundtrack of being a teenager in the 90s, it delivers one-liner after one liner without feeling forced. And Im sure I’ve already mentioned that I don’t think much is funny since John Candy passed. “Erin” has an elastic face that reminds me of Jim Carrey (who I also don’t think is funny but his face is impressive the way it pulls and peels from one ridiculous expression to another). Resting, “Erin” is an ordinary looking girl until her lips peel back, eyes bug, and nose turns up. And I’m cracking up while also thinking “Good God girl, put that thing away!”

Less than two weeks until our next cabaret show, the one Ive secretly dubbed the “Boring show”. So boring that I couldn’t even come up with a better nickname than “the boring show”. I’m already missing the Halloween show part of me I wondered if I should just miss this one too. Because of my foot, they’ve left me out of almost every number. I suppose I can’t fault them for that even though it would be relatively simple for them to put me back in if MRI results come back positive. But the set list is very tame. Almost strictly Broadway. The fantastic, complicated and inappropriate crowd pleasers are not in the set list.

So I’m agonizing even more so than usual over carefully selecting my solo singing numbers. I’ve decided to try my hand at channeling Grace Slick while our contortionist gets weird. But the other number, I have no one to assist. Considering the placement of it being the last number before intermission, “Why don’t you do right” aka the Jessica rabbit “Get me some money too” song seems perfect to one of the girls come out and dance around while passing the tip hat. I was told firmly that no one was available. So then I considered Peggy Lee “Fever”. I don’t particularly like it plus it’s more played out than Greenday on commercial radio but I also know for a fact that the girls love the song and would like to sooner rather than later work a routine around it. So maybe I just sing it and give them a taste of what it would sound like with me versus a canned track. But then Peggy Lee’s version of “My heart belongs to Daddy” played. The syncopation reminded me of Copacabana and I was instinctively choreographing it in my head. Yeah, I could nail this one without any backup.

So I asked a few friends who are coming to the show for their opinion. Out of the three songs, which did they prefer to hear? Unanimously, they all chose Greenday (I mean “Fever”). I wonder if this is what bands feel like every time someone in the audience yells out “Play Freebird!”

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“If you can’t hold on, hold on” ~The Killers

I told my family I loved and appreciated them. I don’t say it enough even
though they occupy the first row of my mind. I’m nearly 43 and my mother
still covers me with a blanket. I fear the day she’s no longer here. I’ll be
alone and that’s a fact.
Last night, I was dry-eyed as I moved a few pictures of “C” to a folder
where they would be out of sight but not deleted. Even the picture of the
apple and honey as he observed Yom Kippur with me long distance.
I’m compartmentalizing, I think.
Although as I nurse my forsaken body from a the most punishing training in
years, the grief creeps into the stillness. Of all feelings, there is an
intense loneliness that I havent felt in years. Back when I used to think I
would die alone and cry myself to sleep barricaded by pillows at night.
Well, I still believe I will die alone but I had reached a space where I was
okay with that. Now, I’m back to wishing I had someone that I could call
just to come over and “distract” me for an hour or two. Take the edge off.
Touch me. But it can’t be just anyone. Who do I even want? Who even wants
me? Both faces are necessary to make a coin so I’m flat broke as ever.
Thirteen days, I’ll be another year older and had plans to again, again, to summit
mountains. One of my few friends will be with me this time and as honest as
we have always been with each other, I’m afraid he will mistake my
loneliness as an invitation. I don’t know if I’m physically capable of doing
10+ miles a day on a mountain right now with my knees and feet swollen and
taped. I don’t know if I’m up for conversation either.
During a round of acupuncture at a community clinic, I watched him through
my eyelashes: former Cavalry, Afghanistan vet, a humanitarian, a healer,
married with two kids. Two fat tears leaked out and I was grateful for the
darkness. All the good ones are gone. Or their dick doesn’t work.
Or they didn’t pick me.
That’s something my mother gently reminded me of. Maybe that’s not THE point
she was trying to make as the only person I’ve discussed the death of “C”
with. But that was my take-away and maybe what helps me cope when the image
of him unstaring, with a bullet hole in his head comes unbidden to mind.
“You offered him a better life, and he didn’t take it,” she said. Reminding
me, he didn’t choose me. If I hadnt completely moved on, I must now. That
business will have to remain unfinished. It was finished to him. I thought I
could “save” him but he didn’t want to be saved. How often do we do that to
ourselves? Cling, thinking we will be the unshakeable force of change in
someone’s life?
And I’m back to wondering if G-d exists, if there is a “plan”, if I have a
“purpose”, if I will die alone…

Later. X-rays confirm one of my feet is broken. Mountaineering is off. Well, postponed until September. I ate the plane tickets. I’ll be at work on my birthday but the worst part is my coping mechanism, dancing, is off the table for six to eight weeks.

“C”

I didn’t hear it from a personal source. No, I learned about it at work, in
detail. More detail than his family will see or know.
Sure, he told me he and his wife were separated, that they were getting a
divorce, that she was already seeing other people…he used to show me her
insane emails and texts and photos of the bruises and scratches she would
leave on him…I got a firsthand taste of her crazy when she found out about
us. But it doesn’t matter if she was nuts or if he lied about the separation
or how many girlfriends he had during his three marriages…none of that
matters because I loved him and it’s hard for me to call it a mistake.
Although it was the first and last time I ever got involved with a married
man. Every day, I drive by a road that bears his name and my eyes are always drawn to it. 
And now he’s dead. Shot in the head by an enemy sniper on a night raid in Afghanistan.
Obviously, because of the circumstances of our relationship, I can’t show up
at the funeral. His kids never met me and his still-current wife
would very likely attack me. And I’ve disrespected her enough already for my part in the affair. So with exception of messaging my mom and my three closest friends who knew what he meant to me, I’ll bear this alone. I
read an article in which his second wife gave a beautiful testimony. I’ll
keep it. 
Unsure about the necklace though. The twisted pearl he gave me for Christmas four years ago. I often thought about dropping it into the ocean, but couldn’t ever bring myself to do it. Holding on, like a charm that might
bring him back to me. It didn’t and now it never will. 
He was my Lightning Strike.  He was everything I desired in a man. Perhaps I was blinded by the chemistry which was unlike anything I’ve ever felt with anyone else. The way he would look at me, unapologetic. We were confidants and compatriots in arms before we were ever lovers. Sitting outside in the darkness watching for incoming rockets like shooting stars. He set the bar by which every man after him failed to hurdle.

Even so, I found the strength to break it off, telling him I was not the
“mistress type” and sneaking around and never meeting his kids was a reminder that I was indeed, doing something “wrong”. I hoped he’d follow through with a divorce and reach back out to me eventually but he never did. Although “C” once told me I was better to and for him than anyone
in his life ever had been, in the years that followed, I thought of him often and never heard from him. So maybe I was the only one between us that cared beyond the moment.
Maybe now I should bury that necklace, the same as they bury him. 
I’m oscillating between dazed indifference and involuntary bursts of tears.
I think of him, naked and shining, climbing atop the furniture in his room,
catching ladybugs and releasing them outside…

“I’m the bad guy. Duh!” ~ Billie Eilish

Three Thursdays ago would’ve been our month-a-versary. Which I never remembered but he always did. He reached out, in pain, said he won’t pressure me, he respects my decision though he disagrees with it and believes that our story is not finished. I told him that while I am sticking to the decision, I miss him and think of him every day. That was three weeks ago and it wasn’t a lie. Then another week went by and I saw his name pop up on Facebook and suddenly wondered, when was the last time I thought of him? Was it a few days ago? Yes, it had been several days since he crossed my mind. Then another week. And another. And I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t miss him at all.

Why is it that all my unworthy exes who treated me poorly took me so much longer to get over? Even when I was the one who ended it, as I always did, eventually coming to my senses, I thanked G-d as the time between thinking of them gradually stretched out a little further. Still, in every case, it was months and months get to that point. And they were nothing to my heart compared to CK.

Or so I thought. I feel guilty as I wonder again, if I didn’t love him as much as I should have, or as much as I thought I did. He’s suffering and I am not. I am busy as always between a new job (that I DON’T hate), working out new dance routines with my cabaret troupe and reclaiming some sanity with “me time”. If you ask me when the last time I had a climax during penetrative sex was…frankly, it’s been 4 years (since “C”). So as frustrated and rarin’ to go as I am, I’m still not actively seeking to get laid.
The team I work with right now is full of the sort of vibrant, forceful personalities that I would fall in love with (if they weren’t already spoken for). The type of people I’m instinctively attracted to. And as clever as CK can be, he’s not particularly interesting to me. In fact, I used to joke with him he should apply to be a member and the Dull Men’s club. Which is a real, long-standing club by the way. Not everyone has to live an exciting life but by comparison, he and I have little common ground. He sincerely believes his job is interesting and important which always made me want to roll my eyes when he’d tell a work story. Then there’s me, with the job(s) that I couldnt talk about except in the most general terms. Sure, we aligned on the important things like core values but otherwise, we had nothing in common. I don’t believe I respected him enough and I think he kept me on a pedestal, a disastrous combination for the long-term.
Add in bad sex and it becomes the relationship that never should have left the friend zone. My opinion which he doesn’t share.

Or perhpas the nudge to move on came from G-d’s celestial creation as the Vernal Equinox and darkening moon in Aries pulled me away from that which no longer served me. Or so my horoscope said.

And yet CK was always the suffering face of servitude even as I recognized that face of martydom that I wore myself in all my prior relationships…and began to resent him for this unattractive role reversal.

Two months has passed and the only thing I really miss is having someone to talk to everyday. Someone to give a mutual damn about. But I don’t miss the guilt trips, intentional or otherwise. I don’t miss the attempted sex: his timidity in and out of the bedroom, his fumbling and insecurity which had, I came to believe, as much to do with ignorance in the bedroom as his malfunctioning cock. I realize that sounds harsh, even mean, but it was such a turn-off. And I don’t miss the floppy dick.

So yes, I’m alone again after 15 months of sincerely trying to be a good sport but I AM relieved.

“I think that God’s got a sick sense of humor” Depeche Mode

Here’s how my conversations with myself are playing out on my commute. It‘s probably a rehash of everything I’ve written over the course of the last year-and-a-half with CK but that’s what we do isn’t it? Second-guess ourselves ad nauseam? Like with any break up, my way to get over it is to get pissed off. With CK it’s a bit difficult to do because so much of this “fault” is my own. He’s still the best, healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. We didn’t really fight and he wasn’t particularly mean (passive aggressive snarky at worst). So instead I focus on all the reasons we weren’t going to work out. But if I’m being honest, all those reasons were not reasons to break up. Really, the sex was the only deal-breaker. Everything else just became a compounding annoyance that I would have likely overlooked had things been good in the bedroom. For instance, his dull job that he loved to talk about as if it was as stressful and paramount as a political ambassadorship. His wholehearted disinterest in ever learning to dance. His lack of initiative or opinion on everything from what we were going for date night to what we would have for dinner. His hollow reminders that he was ready to help to give me more breathing room to free up quality time for us. He didn’t present concrete solutions to problems which made his offers to help sound more and more like lip service. Folks, if your partner looks like they are drowning, don’t sit on the side of boat and say “I’m here if you need me”, jump the fuck in and help!

Everyone has habits and hobbies that annoy their partner but it’s usually not a reason to break up. Still, these reasons that I nitpick at until they bleed, I only do so because I’m sexually frustrated. Fifteen months without good sex is an eternity. When we first started out, I was consoling, encouraging, told him “it’s okay, we will work through this”. But things didn’t improve much as time went on. Some treatment helps, like the injections to correct the worst of his Peyronie’s curve. But then other treatments such as the bevy of erectile dysfunction pills only upset his sensitive stomach (another irritant) and that “GainWave” therapy which he paid entirely out of pocket for was as useful as snake oil.

 Fifteen months later, he still lacks the length or the firmness to get in there! We purchased a silicone extender which worked well to give him an added inch but then his dick still flopped around under the weight, even after the Trimix injections directly into his penis! So sex was still awkward, careful and unsatisfying. Also, after 15 months, I am convinced that he didn’t know how to fuck. Quite simply, quite sadly. At least he didn’t know how to fuck me. The last time we attempted sex, I spelled it out for him: before he came over, I said I was going to lie down for a nap and I wanted him to come in quietly, do what he had to do to prepare, and then fuck me awake. I was hopefully excited in anticipation. But when he came in to my room completely naked, he started kissing my face and then he asks me how did I sleep? My eyes snapped open wide and irritated I asked “You really want to have this conversation right now?” Even when I told him exactly how I wanted it, he shied away! I was sick of his excuses “I need more practice” . Do I really need to teach a 50 year old man how to fuck? He told me later he literally wept over his inability to please me. I know he did. I know he does. I never wanted to hurt this man. I do love him evern though I type this and feel like I don’t deserve a good man. CK was the whole package for me minus the sex. I did enjoy his company. I miss him when he’s not around but I don’t miss the pressure of the expectation of sex, or his increasing insecurity both in and out of the bedroom which was making him less attractive to me. And I was tired of my own mounting sense of guilt for the constant night dreams and daydreams about sex with other men. I think probably the only reason I didn’t cheat was because no one made a pass at me.He messaged me last night for the first time in 48 hours which is the longest we’ve gone without talking. He said he felt okay Friday and most of Saturday but then by Sunday he was ugly crying again. That breaks the heart of the woman in me. And it hardens the heart of the man in me.

“And if you don’t love me, let me go” The Decemberists

Good news is, the police dept offered me the job. Sad news is, I had to decline. Four months of waiting while they invested time and money to vet me, I had convinced myself that I would accept the offer, if they made an offer, no matter what that offer was. But that was before I saw how bad the offer was. When it arrived, I doubled back over the email looking for active links or attachments, thinking they had simply forgotten to include them. So I asked. No medical? No life insurance? And a salary so low, I can’t afford it out of pocket. An inflexible leave policy and a convoluted promotion scheme. I did expect a low salary but not AS low as what they offered…which was also not negotiable. Was this why they refused to have the conversation about what was even on the table before an offer was made? I could have saved them time and money (which obviously, they don’t have) by admitting months ago that the terms were not acceptable. The more questions I asked, that “No” cake baked up higher and higher and frosted itself.

I asked G-d for guidance and he answered with the voices of my friends and family: Stay where you are. You like the job. Benefits and pay are generous. It’s a good company. Take the financial breathing room and something else will come along over the next few years. Then when my mother didnt have enough money to buy her medicine this month, that gave me the final answer. I would not be in a position to help my family financially if I accepted that job. And my mother isnt getting healthier/younger.

It was still a hard email to send. The “thank you, but no thank you”.

CK has finally accepted my resignation notice on our relationship as well. THat step back that I took before the holiday which didnt result in any change to status quo…now we arent even speaking. He’s hurt. Angry. Some of what he says is true like I probably didnt try “hard enough”. But other accusations like I took advantage of him nearly caused me to snap because I was careful NOT to ever take advantage of him. Fact: What I sacrificed for him was not good enough. He needed more time and attention and there just werent enough hours in the day to make him feel loved. Yes, the attempts at sex were for me, always disatisfying and often disastrous. In the end, I realized how bitter he was. He raged like a martyr (I know a little something about that) and finally I told him “I think you don’t love me as much as you love feeling self-righteous. The neglected, lonely, victim”. The tragic poetry of it. He did his best writing while “suffering” under me.

That part makes me angry. Like I spent 15 months with him for nothing. Yesterday was the first full 24 hours we’ve gone without speaking. When you talk to someone (even if you only see them on weekends) every day for that long, the silence is a little unsettling. Of course I miss him. He was my best friend. I wish I could chat with him like “normal” but that would be misleading. He said I never loved him and THAT bothers me but I can’t, right now, try to convince him otherwise without falling back into the rut we were in. He’d rather be miserable with me than happy with anyone else. That’s horrifying to me. Here, let me do YOU a favor and clip that cord once and for all>


lAST weekend, I went to an annual swing dance event out of town (that’s what started his passive aggressive snide comments that led to me saying “Enough. I really don’t want to do this anymore.”) I was trying not to let the fight ruin my mood but I must have been scowling as I stood there stewing angrily over his words, over how I didnt like the band, and how I didnt like the crowd…then a man proposed to his girlfriend on the dancefloor and the band started playing “Come on, get happy”. I put my street shoes back on and left, dry-eyed and suddenly tired.

I am sad. I loved him more than I loved anyone else. But maybe it wasnt enough. And it certainly wasnt a good sexual fit. But I appreciated feeling like, even if it was lip service, I wasn’t alone or lonely for more than a year. But he was lonely, he told me. So I ended it as much for him as for myself.

“My name is Might’ve Been” ~Hole

It’s the “here we go again” 70 page background check and polygraph prep: Recall my mailing address two decades ago in South Korea? Nope. My ex-husband’s social security number? Nope. His current mailing address? Definitely not. Have I ever allowed recreational marijuana use in my home? Define “allowed”. Have I ever worked at a job where alcohol consumption on duty was allowed? Yes, in fact, it was encouraged. It’s called “radio”. Ever blog about porn? Guilty! Oh wait, that’s not one of the questions. Wheew!

I’d rather be bedazzling on this Friday night. My grandmother was a costume designer in the golden age of Vaudeville in Miami and she made it look so easy, affixing rhinestones armed with nothing but a metal nail file and her own acrylic tipped fingernails.

I just returned from a few (too few) days in the woods with my dog. We were along the GA/SC border and it was cold! I’m part lizard so I’m always cold but even my wanna-be mountain dog didn’t want to get out of the car on Day 2 after traipsing (more like tripping) 8 miles through the hills the day prior in 30 degrees. Probably spent more time on the road than in the woods, I simply didn’t have much PTO to spare.

But road trips are a game of Name That Roadkill, of signs warning me that Judgement Day is coming, and old trucks on the side of the road that I salivate over the idea of buying and busting my knuckles on, , singing to my dog for 10 hours, choreographing dance and comedy routines in my head, wishing I’d thought to be a Park Ranger when I grew up, and overthinking in general.

Thinking about random shite. Like…

And so it begins again, New Year, New You. The usual suspects on my social media checking in to their gyms and taking pictures of their salads as if NOT doing this would negate any benefits of their temporary new routines and diets.

If I had a New Year’s resolution it might be to run (okay, slow jog, ie: “Slog”) every day (yes EVERY day) and replace wine with tea.

Then I think about these studies that say running is NOT the best form of exercise and I think “Those are conducted by people that sincerely hate running”. And I eat them up like gospel because I sincerely hate running. But the fact in my experience remains that I do not know a single sincere runner in bad shape. Even those like me with bad backs, knees, etc…their conditions improved with running (ie: losing weight). When I ruck 15 miles carrying an extra 50lbs, I hurt the next day. But I’m carrying an extra 50lbs all over my body EVERY day. So I hurt. Dur.

I still don’t want to run.

And I think I’ll stick to the state highways and off the interstate as much as possible in the future. On these now “back-roads”, there’s less traffic and I don’t have the peer pressure of keeping up with the speeding flow or avoiding leapfrogging semi-trucks or impatient assholes psychically nudging my bumper to force me to drive even faster than the 20 over I’m already traveling (by the way, Bitch, I can pit you. Back. Off.)

And I think about CK and his love of museums. I told him the only museums I enjoyed were the Smithsonian in DC and…I think I’ve been to the Louvre but that year was a blur for me. “Where is the Mona Lisa?” I asked. The Louvre, he answered. Then yes, I’ve been to the Louvre because I remember her. I don’t enjoy the Ringling museum but there are two pieces I like, the portrait of Salome and the three muses: spinning, measuring and cutting. I’m particularly drawn to the one that cuts.

But back to CK, the man who loves museums and spends Friday nights organizing his desk drawer and kitchen cupboards for the 5th time this year. I told him he is a prime candidate for the Dull Men’s Club and should apply. They’d send him a certificate that he can frame for his office and everything.

“Cream,shahboogie bop” -Prince

I masterbated tonight like I was single. Am I single? Depends on if you’re asking Rachel or Ross, I suppose. CK and I are still talking, went on a date last weekend but he didn’t stay the night. I told him if he gets up the nerve to shoot himself up in the c*ck with the Xiaflex, to give me a call for a ride because I’ve waited a YEAR and call dibs on the first erection he gets.

But back to masterbating: I was increasingly aroused all day (did I mention I keep a mini vibrator in the glove compartment of the car in case of emergencies? Hey, some people meditate on their breaks. Some of us take the edge off another way). Got home, fed the fur, stripped, poured a drink, closed the bedroom door… It was nasty. Like lube, vibrating anal plugs, double-penetration, whiskey rape myself, over in t wo minutes nasty. Cleaned up and felt much, MUCH more relaxed. Sure, I still masterbate but not like THAT in the year I was in a relationship. Of course I’m not insinuating that sex with myself is cheating and obviously, I’m not shy about my sexuality but I’m sure CK would have been hurt to not be included. And I didn’t want to include him. Not if he cant participate and contribute with his c*ck. I don’t need a spectator. I don’t need the distraction of an unhelpful set of hands. We already know I don’t get off on tongue, but A-for-Effort. So I just played Susie Celibate all year. Even with myself, more or less.

And that’s that.

Oh but separately, while I’m on a roll with the R-rated content, to all the designers that make dresses with zippers in the back: Fuck you.

No really, go fuck yourself. Are you still designing for an era when post-pubescent women were hurriedly married off but at least had a man to help them get in and out of their clothes? I’m done being half-dressed between home and work and asking my dog’s daycare staff to zip me up. Only a contortionist could tackle a hidden back zipper. Modern women would like to be able to dress themselves.

#BoycottBackZippers

“I hope you are quite prepared to die” ~CCR

It’s one of those days when I forget to tuck my tampon string to the side before I take a poop.

But the good news is always, for me, pooping at all.

Looking at the Brightside.

I had an interesting conversation with my friend (who’s name I forgot last week during an attack of Alzheimers). Never considered him a spiritualist but he became involved with a shaman who “shattered” his third eye and since then, he’s Snow “fucking” White with butterflies perching on him and birds and mice helping him get dressed every morning. Okay, not exactly like that but close. When he first told me about it, I was like a kid jumping up and down, waving my hand in the air begging “ooh! Me next! Me next!” But upon further thought and discussion, I wonder if having my third eye “shattered” or even having that window polished is a good idea. Most of my life, I think I’ve ignored that locked room inside me because I’m fearful. I’ve mentioned before how uneasy I am with the theory of reincarnation or “soul recycling” as I call it. It makes me feel less in control of my destiny and less “Christian” although I feel ignorant for even admitting either thought. I don’t think I have demons so much as ghosts. And I’d like to learn to live with them in peace but perhaps that starts with acknowledging them. If I have spirit guides or guardians, they must be laughing at how often I talk to myself in foreign accents.

And where were they last Friday when I SAT in a fire ant bed during my lunch break at work? Asking “Why, G-d, why do you hate me?” as I hurried back inside, sweating and gritting my teeth through the security screening, up the stairs to strip down in the public bathroom and pick hundreds of fire ants off my clothes and body? Not the least had attacked my back and butt all the way down into my ass crack. CK, a good sport as always, came over that night after work and helped out with tweezers and peroxide.

Another friend laughed and commented, truthfully, “Only you…”

“I’ve got my love to keep me warm”

I felt a bad mood coming on like the first tickle of a cold on my way out of work this evening. I stopped by Starbux thinking a caffiene boost would be a quick cure (and give me energy to dance tonight) but they got my order wrong and as I drove off, I fought back the urge to hurl the cup screaming into road.

An old friend – a close friend – popped into my head and I realized I hadnt talked to him a while or seen him on social media so I decided to send a text to check in (because I’m not a good friend these days)… but I couldnt recall his name. It’s like forgetting your sisters’ name. And it didnt escape me for a moment and pop right back in place like a disclocated shoulder. An hour later, I was crying because I still couldnt remember his name and was sifting through the countless bullshit saved numbers on my phone’s contact list to find him. I finally found him, sent a text but havent heard back. I’m a little concerned because he’s prone to depression. Social media makes it easy to keep tabs on the people we care about but at teh same time, it makes us lurkers in their lives and not active participants. We are watching over them and we care but they dont know that.
Our lives have become nothing more than a collection of hashtags.
If my friend who’s name escaped me is in my Top 10 of friends, the guy who is in my Top 5 was so upset with me for neglecting him that he deleted my number from his phone. I know this because (1. I know that’s something he does with people he truly angry with and 2.) he didnt immediately know who I was by the time I got around to returning his multiple calls. Instead of greeting me with “Hola, Amiga!” as soon as the call connected, he asked politely “Who is this?” (no, he wasnt joking or trying to make a point. I do know him well).
As Im failing at friendship as a whole, my Asshole Best Friend is suicidal again. His other best friend and I have discussed it behind his back, trying to figure out how to best handle it: Tell his father who will put him back in Rehab? Tell his sister who will kick his proverbial ass? We both lean towards the latter. If he does take his life, I won’t be surprised but I”ll aslo feel responsible because how can I not? If I was a better friend…
But we are not responsible for the behavior or happiness of others, are we? Or is that just another popular “self help” quasi-Buddhist nugget of modern-day wisdom that we are supposed to swallow to make us feel less guilty for shirking our responsibility to be kind humans?
As I was crying this afternoon, I ask myself out loud “Why are you upset?”
Is it because you’re a bad friend?
Is it because you’re a bad girlfriend who is unhappy with her current romantic albeit asexual relationship; who may be sticking it out because she already bought him an expensive, non-returnable Christmakkuh present?
Is it because photos and mirrors reflect reflect an old, tired, washed up ghost?
Is it becaue you havent achieved what you expected to by this point?
is it because you had worse than a mild wardrobe malfunction at last weekend’s cabaret show and your entire tit flopped out like an unwelcome fish onstage for everyone to behold?
And then, to snap myself out of that, I went in search of words of wisdom, my copy of The Happiness Advantage that Ive only dented by about 20 pages in several months…and of course I can’t find it. It’s not where I distinctly recall leaving it. And the anxiety is rising again because I’m back in the near empty parking lot, walking right past my car, searching for the car I traded in two years ago…embarassed, confused, and a little frightened.