God… I used to write so much. I used to really enjoy it, thought maybe it’d be a good backup plan if I didn’t become a rock star. What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. The moment I stopped writing was the moment I stopped being honest. A long time ago one of these stupid rambles hurt someone I cared about a lot. I didn’t want to do that again so I stopped writing. Instead of just censoring or being more considerate with my words, I gave it up. I figured if I couldn’t pour my heart out and say what was on my mind, there was no sense in doing it. I still feel that was the right decision and I certainly know it kept me out of a lot of trouble.
She’s gone. You know, if you couldn’t figure out why I suddenly picked it back up. It’s been about three or three and half months since we broke up. I suppose I could have started writing right away, no doubt that I had plenty on my mind. I couldn’t do it… I still felt like I’d be betraying her or intentionally hurting her. I mean, if I was going to be honest in my writings I’d undoubtedly say a few things she’d be directly involved with.
Why now? Why three and half months later? I don’t know… I’m still pretty friggin’ miserable. Just as heartbroken today (maybe more so) as I was the day it happened. The worst part is that I knew that I would be. I knew I’d hurt this bad this long into it. I’m not surprised by this, confused, or frustrated. I just hurt. I simply have a chest crushing weight of longing. I really miss her. Like I said though, I fully expected to feel this way.
Honesty is what this all boils down to. Once I got past the nasty words, bitter thoughts, jealousy, vindictive plots, and blackout anger- I was hurt. I was hurt by the reality that we failed and we were no longer there for one another.
I think the hurt is good. It’s a constant reminder to be wise of the situations you put yourself in. All growth in life requires some sort of sacrifice or pain, why should emotional growth be any different? I had a lot of maturing to do before I could ever be functional in serious relationship. The hurt I acquired for this failure will undoubtedly lead to the personal growth I needed to ever be successful in a future one. For that, I am thankful for experiencing every moment with her and I don’t regret it for a second.
I like to reside in my imagination most of the day. To the causal observer I must seem alert, coherent and productive because I haven't gotten into much trouble over it. However, as I'm going through the daily motions a fantastic screenplay is flickering in my mind. For example, I spill a carton of orange juice and think to myself "what would Peter Griffin do?" I chuckle as I search for paper towels. Peter would probably blame it on Captain Jean Luc Picard at which point the entire crew of the USS Enterprise would walk into the kitchen where there'd be a long awkward silence. Peter in a condescending tone would ask Jean Luc if he is going to clean up the sticky orange mess.
Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman, the paperboy, evening TV? Casual drives over the Golden Gate Bridge and neon windbreakers to protect us from that brisk Bay Area sea breeze? Back when times were simpler and the world had three fathers- and by no means am I referring to the holy trinity. I’m talking Danny, Jesse and Joey. All were miserable failures with personality dysfunctions but somehow were able to pull themselves together to raise America’s favorite girls. What this country’s fascination is with “three men and a baby” is beyond me.
Aside from the horrible acting and after school special “the moral of the story is” writing style, Full House was mashed potatoes and gravy to my generation. When the theme song kicked on, you felt good. Because, “everywhere you look there’s a heart and a hand to hold on to.” I always acted as if I was bored while I watched the show though, even at an early age I was aware that it wasn’t socially acceptable for a dude to like chick flicks. And that’s what Full House was, a weekly soap opera for young girls.
The last couple of months have been filled with rock stars, strippers, drugs, girls and way too much alcohol. Cool, right? Late nights and lots of confusing mornings… If being backstage has taught me anything it's that I am completely out of my element.
It's 6:30 pm as I'm wiping the drool off my face and fumbling around the nightstand for my glasses. I laughed and shook my head, instantly followed by a long swallow and a groan- I could feel my brain still sloshing in last night's bourbon. I submitted back to my pillow and continued to chuckle. "What the fuck am I doing…" I muttered as Cassidy hopped into bed, realizing I've finally come to. Her brown eyes told me everything I already knew, and I hated her for it.
I pulled her close and we hid from the cold under the blankets. Her warmth angered me, why hadn't she been here the entire time? The sun had already set and the outside world was muffled under newly fallen snow. She began to nibble my fingers as my other hand caressed her back. The painstaking silence was broken with Slash, who seemed to be turned up to 11, shred my ringtone.
"Jumpy, are we?" I said to Cassidy as I reached across her to answer the phone.
"What it do!?" I greeted the caller who had also been a cohort from the night before.
"Dude, you're the biggest pimp I know!" His voice was crackly but managed to show some amount of enthusiasm. "So, how'd go last night, playa?!"
Cassidy didn't take her eyes off me as I let out a long "goooood…"
"Shit, man. I'm so hungover. I've been puking all day." He sourly admitted.
"Yeah, I just woke up. Feeling a little fuzzy…" Cassidy had weaseled her way out of the covers and let out a whine, thinking I was finally getting up for the day.
"So what's the deal, man? Did you take that chick home? She was all over you at the bar!" He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear it from me.
"Yeah… I'm a pussy though, I didn't do anything… I think I'm gay, haha!" I paused for several moments, giving the statement way too much thought. "Kept it old fashion, we just cuddled."
"Nice. Always leave them wanting more…" I could tell he was disappointed, not the story he was hoping for. "Well, whatever you're doing is working. Pussy or not, you've got more chicks then anyone I know!"
"Wha…?" I said, completely confused by his statement.
"Yeah, man. You've got a different girl every time we go out! How many numbers did you get last night?" He was being completely sincere which further confused me.
"They're just friends, man. It's not like anything ever happens." I quickly tried to repiece last night's debacle and reached into my pocket, still wearing my jeans. Sure enough, two cards. I tossed them on my desk. "I don't know, a couple I think. They just gave them to me..."
"See, that's what I'm talking about! Pimp." We both laughed.
We continued to banter back and forth until Cassidy grew impatient with our conversation. She kept nosing me, she must have had to piss as bad as I did. I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the back door, the air took both our breath away. She hesitated a few minutes before mustering enough courage to put her paws in the snow. "Sucks to be you!" I said as I shut the door behind her and headed to the bathroom.
The conversation lingered with me throughout the rest of the evening. I'm not a pimp. I'm anything but… He was right though, there have been a lot more girls sniffing around then usual. It's not like I've suddenly become hot, what am I doing different? I couldn't pin point one thing other then my lack of caring has somehow been confused as confidence. I honestly could careless about having sex, last night was proof of that. Maybe girls can pick up on that and they feel comfortable around me? Like, they don't have to "worry" about being hit on? Or maybe they see it as a challenge, that they will be the one to "break" me? I'm certain it's the first one, if anything at all, but I find it pretty odd.
It's not that I don't like sex, because I do. Any girlfriend I've ever had knows I have a healthy sex drive, maybe to the point of annoyance. That's just it though, any enjoyable sex I've ever had has been with someone who has meant something to me. The "random encounters" just can't live up. It's takes a certain comfort level before you can truly enjoy the moment. If that hasn't been achieved with someone, why force it simply to spill some fluids? After all, I can do that on my own...
The arrogance in this rant has made me sick as well, but bear with me. I am not Leon Phelps. I am the anti Phelps, which has apparently given me an edge. I am not ruled by the vag and in most cases I don't even think about it. In conventional warfare, most women don't know how to react to this. They're certainly not interested in my striking good looks or the car I drive. However, something needs to be said about a genuine conversation, eye contact, and a few smiles. I usually leave it at that and walk away. What a mind fuck. They're left standing there in disbelief.
There are thousands of reasons for why I walk away and almost every single time it has absolutely nothing to do with the person I was talking to. I've been able to talk myself out of feeling anything for someone for so long that I've lost all ability to take things to the next level. As sad as it is, my phobia of anything beyond casual conversation may have sabotaged potentially one of the greatest relationships of my life… But then again, maybe I'll surprise everyone and "sell my car and go to Vegas. 'Cause somebody told me, that's where dreams would be…".
Recently I decided that I needed to take a sobering look at my life. In an effort to figure out why I've constructed an impenetrable barrier of genuine feeling, I cleared my mind and went exploring. I thought about my past and how every decision I've made in life has lead up to this exact moment of contemplation. I thought about the future and how completely selfish I am. The next several years seemed to have no consideration of family, friends, or the inkling of a significant woman. That disgusted me. My stomach went into knots and I realized I might be worse off then I thought.
That's when my phone rang and Slash started shredding the solo to Paradise City as my ringtone. All the self-deprivating thoughts I was having prior to the ringer completely melted away as my mind was flooded with sights and sounds of Guns N' Roses. My imagination ran wild as the band rocked sold out arena shows and Slash pounded Jack from a brown bag while sitting on a dark Hollywood sidewalk. I didn't feel bad about myself anymore, I wasn't even thinking about myself anymore. The montage of Guns N' Roses continued until the room became silent, the phone stopped ringing. Suddenly the pit in my stomach didn't ache, the thought of being alone didn't scare me, and the realization of me being a selfish prick didn't bother me as much.
Fantasy is my cocaine. One little dose of alternate reality can make anything in this world good and it transcends into every portion of my life. Pop culture is my Dr. Feelgood who's constantly hooking me up with movies, television, books, blogs, videogames, and music to mentally take me away from my existence. Every aspect of my day is in an effort to leave behind the world I've created for myself, subconsciously or not.
The thought will be completed soon. Well, as soon as I stop daydreaming...