Me Shit-Ripper, You Saboteur
I was writing in my journal this morning about my last night. Kind of pits of despair nether-regions. Nothing too drastic. It only made my want to have one little glass of vodka, happy I didn't have any beer in the house as it would have been too much liquid, and truthfully, the bubbles would have been too chipper and cheerful. Last night I felt A-L-O-N-E.
I was in such a yuck state last night I ended up emailing David. Yeah, great. Like I haven't put myself on the line enough lately. Obviously I just needed further rejection. I think I just felt at the end of my tether emotionally. What's another stab? Like I haven't been humiliated enough recently.
I do like being alone. What I don't like is being lonely. Being single and alone is a hell of a lot better than being with someone and alone. So I'll take it, if there is a choice. And if I'm to remember the big girl who is embracing Buddhism and mysticism then I should remember that these feelings bring me closer to my own truth. However... I still felt lonely last night. Why isn't a wonderful body of friends not enough sometimes? Well, you can't get too physically close to friends. It's too confusing. I was dying for it last night. Not sex, per se, just the closeness felt when two people who care so much about each other are together and beauty is created. Then tears welled up. Sucks.
I can't tell everyone about this. Yeah, so that's why I'm blogging. I told Dirty. She was great. She told me she was lonely too. Somehow this made me feel better. I don't know why. It really makes no rational sense. I think it was the same feeling I had when I watched that 20/20 episode on Attention Deficit Disorder. I was no longer alone. There is comfort. The thing is I think what so many people are going through is utter bullshit. They don't want to get tied down. They don't want the titles "girlfriend" or "boyfriend". It implies too much. Makes them responsible to too much. To one. Really, they are so afraid of having their guts torn out that they hold back constantly, never fully giving of themselves, always the back of their minds thinking this new person is going to rip the shit out of them. Me. Shit-ripper. So they sabotage their efforts.
My friend Dirty was supposed to go on a buying trip with her current boss down in NYC. The night before she'd run into me quite by accident. A happy accident. We decided to go down the street and visit mutual friends that worked at a neighbouring restaurant, after closing hours. Dirty decided she could stay for ONE drink. Ian, my lovely, wise for his years and wonderful friend, generous to a fault, particularly when it comes to pouring vodka, made Dirty a Caesar. Normally, and I have worked as a bartender for many years, this drink contains, at most 1 1/2oz of liquor. Ian didn't measure, but by internal counts he'd put in approximately 5oz of vodka. Ian didn't know Dirty had driven. Ian also didn't know she hadn't eaten anything that day. She'd also ordered a shot of tequila, something I'd never seen her do in all the years of knowing her. A decade. She got so wasted she was hurling matter and non-matter in the basement's washroom, replete with the most beautiful and refreshingly chilled porcelain goddess Dirty's ever borne witness to. She worshipped for an hour.
She poisoned herself. She didn't want to go to New York with Wendy, her boss. She was trying to sabotage the effort. She wanted to make herself so sick she couldn't possibly board a plane, let alone drive with her to Buffalo, Wendy's idea, where airfare is deeply discounted from there vs. from Pearson's YYZ. Cheap cunt. She still went, begrudgingly obliged, still sick, and had a horrible time.
Ian is my self-professed Detachment Specialist. He doesn't listen to the women he has sex with if they talk about themselves and try to endear themselves to him. He says, "Mm-hm" and "uh-huh" in roughly the right places, but when there's a lull in conversation he'll turn to the girl in question and say, "Sex, now? Now sex?" Ian heatseeks "warm bodies". He says he doesn't want the complication of the next morning, or mornings to come. When I ask him about meeting the great girls, the ones he can really see himself with and potentially giving him some extra happiness, he wriggles in his skin saying, "Too scary. Don't want." He later confesses his tactics are a lonely road.
What do I want? I want something incredibly meaningful. I don't want "him" to be my everything. Whoever Him is. I've got a lot going on with my friends and the life I really love right now. I want extra meaning, though. I want to be cherished and loved in the same way I give it out. Well, not exactly the same, otherwise I'd know exactly how it's to come and it would no longer be so exhilerating. Kind of like tickling yourself. You know it's coming, so it's not tickly. So why is masterbating so good? Hmm.
I was in such a yuck state last night I ended up emailing David. Yeah, great. Like I haven't put myself on the line enough lately. Obviously I just needed further rejection. I think I just felt at the end of my tether emotionally. What's another stab? Like I haven't been humiliated enough recently.
I do like being alone. What I don't like is being lonely. Being single and alone is a hell of a lot better than being with someone and alone. So I'll take it, if there is a choice. And if I'm to remember the big girl who is embracing Buddhism and mysticism then I should remember that these feelings bring me closer to my own truth. However... I still felt lonely last night. Why isn't a wonderful body of friends not enough sometimes? Well, you can't get too physically close to friends. It's too confusing. I was dying for it last night. Not sex, per se, just the closeness felt when two people who care so much about each other are together and beauty is created. Then tears welled up. Sucks.
I can't tell everyone about this. Yeah, so that's why I'm blogging. I told Dirty. She was great. She told me she was lonely too. Somehow this made me feel better. I don't know why. It really makes no rational sense. I think it was the same feeling I had when I watched that 20/20 episode on Attention Deficit Disorder. I was no longer alone. There is comfort. The thing is I think what so many people are going through is utter bullshit. They don't want to get tied down. They don't want the titles "girlfriend" or "boyfriend". It implies too much. Makes them responsible to too much. To one. Really, they are so afraid of having their guts torn out that they hold back constantly, never fully giving of themselves, always the back of their minds thinking this new person is going to rip the shit out of them. Me. Shit-ripper. So they sabotage their efforts.
My friend Dirty was supposed to go on a buying trip with her current boss down in NYC. The night before she'd run into me quite by accident. A happy accident. We decided to go down the street and visit mutual friends that worked at a neighbouring restaurant, after closing hours. Dirty decided she could stay for ONE drink. Ian, my lovely, wise for his years and wonderful friend, generous to a fault, particularly when it comes to pouring vodka, made Dirty a Caesar. Normally, and I have worked as a bartender for many years, this drink contains, at most 1 1/2oz of liquor. Ian didn't measure, but by internal counts he'd put in approximately 5oz of vodka. Ian didn't know Dirty had driven. Ian also didn't know she hadn't eaten anything that day. She'd also ordered a shot of tequila, something I'd never seen her do in all the years of knowing her. A decade. She got so wasted she was hurling matter and non-matter in the basement's washroom, replete with the most beautiful and refreshingly chilled porcelain goddess Dirty's ever borne witness to. She worshipped for an hour.
She poisoned herself. She didn't want to go to New York with Wendy, her boss. She was trying to sabotage the effort. She wanted to make herself so sick she couldn't possibly board a plane, let alone drive with her to Buffalo, Wendy's idea, where airfare is deeply discounted from there vs. from Pearson's YYZ. Cheap cunt. She still went, begrudgingly obliged, still sick, and had a horrible time.
Ian is my self-professed Detachment Specialist. He doesn't listen to the women he has sex with if they talk about themselves and try to endear themselves to him. He says, "Mm-hm" and "uh-huh" in roughly the right places, but when there's a lull in conversation he'll turn to the girl in question and say, "Sex, now? Now sex?" Ian heatseeks "warm bodies". He says he doesn't want the complication of the next morning, or mornings to come. When I ask him about meeting the great girls, the ones he can really see himself with and potentially giving him some extra happiness, he wriggles in his skin saying, "Too scary. Don't want." He later confesses his tactics are a lonely road.
What do I want? I want something incredibly meaningful. I don't want "him" to be my everything. Whoever Him is. I've got a lot going on with my friends and the life I really love right now. I want extra meaning, though. I want to be cherished and loved in the same way I give it out. Well, not exactly the same, otherwise I'd know exactly how it's to come and it would no longer be so exhilerating. Kind of like tickling yourself. You know it's coming, so it's not tickly. So why is masterbating so good? Hmm.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
12:13 p.m.
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