You Left Me After Ten Years, Now I'm Trying To Get Over You, Asshole (a break up tale)

Update

2009-05-10T14:35:00.002-04:00

Well, here's a quick and easy update: I am living with a wonderful guy (yes, the "Nice Guy"). I am working steadily as an actor and writer. I am healthy (quit smoking over a year ago) and happy.

There is always hope in life!

There's the nutshell for you!

Peace and Be Well!

Starting Over: Day 190

2007-07-23T11:39:00.000-04:00

The divorce is final and my ex has paid the very last of his share of the rent.

I no longer have to deal with him.

But I still have to deal with the "tape" (my therapist calls it) of him that plays in my head sometimes. That tape that says I am so awful and monsterous that no one will love me. I hear those things he said to me the night he left and it makes me sick to think...

What if I AM really that person?

I know I'm not.

I just don't ever want to be where I was almost a year ago when he walked out on me: fat, sedentary, lonely, smoking... sad. I don't ever want to be there AGAIN. Because I know he is still that way; he is still living his life the way he did before and is still as miserable...

I trust Nice Guy. I trust him so very much. He is a genuine treasure.

I only hope that I am.

Starting Over: Day 154

2007-06-26T12:57:00.000-04:00

My divorce is final.

I got the paperwork today.

Starting Over: Day 132

2007-06-04T19:52:00.000-04:00

I need to forgive my ex.

The anger, resentment and hatred are weighing me down a lot.

I find myself echoing those words he said to me the night he left and the way he treated me the last few months of our marriage, and it makes me hate him so much. We spoke a few days ago and I just hated him more than anything in the world. We had been texting and emailing regarding financial matters. He had left me a message that morning. I finally called him, just to say that I hated him.

Super Mature!

I swear to God, if I were in Austin, I would find him and punch him in the throat. That is, to put it lightly, not a good thing.

Nice Guy and I are doing so well and the last thing I want to do is bring in baggage from this breakup.

Meditation has been suggested to me. But I have never been that "centered" of a person that I can concentrate long enough to chill out. Besides, I'd probably start thinking and meditating on how much I hate, hate, hate my ex.

I don't think it's done that way.

So, yeah, I've got some work to do on that.

And to the lovely person who said I looked like a fat wad... I've lost 50 pounds. 40 of those pounds were after I shot that commercial. I'm a size 12 now. I don't consider myself fat anymore.

Amazing to me is, also, that hateful and negative comments on myself are always sent soon after a fight with my ex. Hmmmmmm...

He's got friends in low places.

Starting Over: Day 95

2007-05-08T22:40:00.000-04:00

Not that much time has passed since my husband left me, really. Technically, it's only been 7 and 1/2 months.

But, then, I looked like this:And, now, I look like this:

But, even better, I feel like this:

I have gone from duckling to swan, inside and out.

When my husband left me, I felt so ashamed and empty. I was altogether relieved and frightened. I was sixty pounds overweight, broke and taking a cocktail of medications, eating myself silly, hadn't had sex in four years and smoking two packs a day.

Now, I am fifteen pounds overweight, broke and down to three "crazy meds" a day, haven't had ice cream in about a month, see my boyfriend regularly and fuck him as much, and no longer smoke.

I am working, in therapy and with my psychiatrist, on getting off of my medications for good and working through my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I eat vegetables.

That is not to say that I don't slip into old behaviors. I certainly do.

That is not to say I do not hate my ex with a passion. I certainly do.

But I no longer hate myself.

And that's something.

I seem to be more than on my way.

I am close to being close to there, I think!

Starting Over: Day 60

2007-04-02T15:18:00.000-04:00

Oh GOD I suck.

I have been busy. Which is good.

I have been swimming. I quit smoking last week. UGH. I am in a size 12 from a size 18 and 1/2 when I started this blog.

The Nice Guy bought me a pink toothbrush to keep at his place and pink goggles because my shitty ones were leaking.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Shut up.

I may have a (part time) job on radio.

I still have that little voice.

Hi, everybody!

Which I am working to silence.

It's Day 60, and all is pretty good.

I'll end this soon, I still have a few more things to jot down.

I'll try to write more often.

And I'm still getting laid. A lot.

Starting Over: Day 46

2007-03-19T10:58:00.000-04:00

I am in a place where I don't want to be "sick" anymore.

And I want this divorce to be over.

I want all of the past, that includes my history, this marriage, my depression, my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder... all of it...

the whole fucking ball of waxing poetic

gone.

It feels like I'm letting it really weigh me down. Maybe I'm using it as an excuse, I don't know... maybe it's like, "Oh, I'm such a failure, all these things have happened and I can't recover", but I don't want to feel that way anymore and I'm working as hard as I can to fight that stupid voice.

I'm not the one that's stupid, you're the one that's stupid.

See?

It's no wonder your ex left you. Look at you. Fat--

But I've lost 50 pounds--

Lazy--

But I'm trying to write a book proposal, I just get sidetracked, depressed, discouraged...

beaten down by the past--

... sometimes the memories just come and I can't stop them. And I hear that negative talk in my head. I'll start to blame myself for the break up and I'll see how great he seems to be doing and how I seem to be stuck in limbo even though I'm in a great relationship...

You're still broke and unemployed...

I want to stop that voice.

It seems that, at this time in my life, my resolve is stronger than ever. I don't know if it's that I am older, healthier, The Nice Guy or what, but I want more than anything to be well and strong now.

But... but... but...

Fuck you, "but"--

I'll shut your fat trap yet.

Starting Over: Day 34

2007-03-06T08:30:00.000-05:00

I was surprised to be in a relationship so soon after my break up.

And then, I wasn't.

But I realized my marriage broke up a long time ago.

Dead. Dead. Deadinsky.

Neither myself nor my ex had ever led healthy lifestyles, either emotionally or physically. We didn't grow up in very healthy homes and were latch key kids, taking care of ourselves from a young age; being reared by the television.

I always dreamed of being one of "those people" who exercised and ate right and didn't smoke and felt that high from feeling fit and healthy.

What a concept...

I tried to get my ex to impart on this lifestyle with me. Didn't take. We never stuck to anything. And because we never did it together, I never did it alone. My own fault, I know.

Just looking for an excuse to NOT do it, I know.

We both ate like fiends, we didn't do anything... ever. We lumped together in our house, "like a mudslide", someone said recently.

And then... he was gone.

And then... I was losing weight. And doing yoga. And not eating crap.

But I still wasn't living to my fullest. Like "those people" do. I wasn't comparing myself to those people, though. I was on my own course, doing my own thing. I was groovin' on it.

Then--

Then I meet the Nice Guy.

Nice Guy who works out 4-5 times a week, eats right, strives for bigger and better all of the time... he even meditates, for fuck's sake.

A "Normal". I'm dating a "Normal".
Excuse me while I check who I am in the mirror again.

I've gone from 0-60.
Wow.
Whoa.
Woe.
Is Me.

Like I said, I have always wanted to be one of those people... I never said I would be. I realized that maybe my way is just that: my way.

But does that mean that I have to be paired with someone who also does things that way? Can I be my little old non-gym goin', nougat-lovin', cynical self and still hang with an athletic, meditating, granola eating guy who wears pink, plaid Hugo Boss shirts to work?

Oh, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Can I hate the world and my life (theoretically) and still like a guy who believes I can do anything?

Maybe I should just stay alone and live with myself and my insecurities, my self-hatred, my little angry voice and my hang-ups, my PTSD, my memories... never having to bother someone who could never possible understand what it is to fight every day to just SURVIVE.

Someone who really believes if you dream it you, can do it...

This is probably the time in my life where I should stop hating "Shiny Happy People" because it looks like I might be going out with one...

Starting Over: Day 27

2007-02-27T20:07:00.000-05:00

I am officially "in a relationship".

How do I know? I have changed the status on my Myspace page...

Nice guy is really a nice guy. And I am letting it all go well.

Even though it scares the bejesus out of me.

He is motivated. I feel motivated around him. He cares about how he looks and feels physically and mentally. He inspires me to do the same. He tells me that I make him "better". He loves the way I look. We make each other laugh. He is beautiful. The sex is amazing. Right now, everything is so great and I am not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I don't think there is another shoe.

No, I know there isn't another shoe.

The divorce becomes final in the next week or so. I still feel some anger--

alot of anger

-- towards my ex. I find him smug, self-satisfied, elitist, pretentious and non regretful for any part he had in our breakup. I try so hard not to let it get in my way, but it still does. I know that I cannot speak to him right now, I cannot see him right now, I cannot have any communication; I don't want to know what he's doing or how he is...

I don't want to keep feeling things aren't fair, but it sneaks in every now and then.

But mostly, I am still feeling strong and stable, free and more alive than I have felt in more than ten years.

My God, that's a long time.

Starting Over: Day 20

2007-02-20T22:20:00.000-05:00

I can't lie.

I can't pretend all the time that I'm this great big ol' butterfly, fresh out of the cocoon.

Strong like bull...

Today is one of those beat down days.

Waaaaaaaaaaaay beat down.

It seems what happens is that things start to pile up and I get a little overwhelmed. Then some more things happen and I feel like I can't deal with it and then I remember that I'm in the middle of a divorce--

another failure in a list of failures

--and then I start thinking of what got me to this place, of being in this fragile state of not being able to handle things and in the middle of a divorce--

another failure in a list of failures

--and then I get really to feeling beat down by life and like I don't know when the universe is going to be done with me and "Okay, fine, I give up!!"

I don't want to bother nice guy with it all. It's way too much information. Not good. I don't want this new relationship to be...

another failure in a list of failures.

All of this empty and alone-ness, it hurts and sickens me. I know it'll pass. It just feels too heavy right now. The alternative would be-- what? To be unhappily married and fat; sexless and miserable?

Wheeeeeee!

I'd rather feel a little beat down every now and then and fight through it then struggle through that again any day.

Starting Over: Day 18

2007-02-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

The week before Valentine's Day, CNN's Showbiz Tonight asked me to come in and do some "funny commentary" about Britney Spears. So I did. Then Anna Nicole dies and it all got pre-empted and I forgot about it. I did a show on Valentine's and forgot about it. Apparently, it aired that night. I was on, like three times during the segment.

A while back, a woman who runs a website about being a Mother wrote a review of my book and didn't like it for several reasons. I posted on her site, defending a few of my choices, but thanking her for her review. She and I had a really good, positive dialogue about it and I had a subscription to the thread. This was, I don't know, six months ago or something. Then, the other day, I get a post delivered to my mailbox that is from this person who saw me on CNN's Showbiz Tonight on Valentine's Day commenting on Britney Spears. They hated me. Amongst other things, they said I was conceited, unfunny and, this was the worst, had "a face for radio".

Puh-scuse me?

Now, normally, I would have been really upset and let this bother me all weekend. I would have not wanted to leave the house with my ugly, hideous, "face for radio".

Well, fuck that.

I wrote the following response on the site:

"This is how I get "let on television": CNN's Showbiz Tonight calls me and they let me out of the doghouse to comment on pop culture sometimes.

However, that is not the subject I wish to address:

A "face for radio"?

To personally criticize someone because of their looks is ignorant and offensive. I don't care if you call someone conceited, unfunny or flaunt your opinion of their talent or lack thereof, but to say that they are ugly (or to use your far more eloquent statement) is part of the reason for this culture's obsession with looks and glamour. It is part of the reason our young people suffer from eating disorders and obsess over plastic surgery at the age of sixteen. A young girl who looks like me or has a similar face shape or is at my weight, and feels she looks just fine, could read what you wrote and take that as a sudden blow to their self-esteem.

The next time you decide to attack someone based on their appearance, "conz", please attend to yourself first, for it seems you have a problem with beauty on the inside"

Then I signed my name.

You go, girl.

Nice guy came over Friday night and spent the weekend. Saturday we went to dinner (Indian food at Vatan) and a Broadway play ("The Little Dog Laughed" which was fantastic) and had a wonderful, wonderful time together. It is a little scary to like someone again. I tried not to freak out too much and tried to just let it be whatever it is...

My radio face never got in the way and I had forgotten about it completely.

Things sure do change.

Starting Over: Day 11

2007-02-11T10:35:00.000-05:00

Things are good.

Nice guy is still very nice. I cooked dinner for him last night and he brought me yellow lilies and a gift. We always spend the night together and it's nice that no one takes the "train of shame" home. It also feels good that no one wants to get out of bed in the morning to leave...

My house is becoming a home. Slowly, it is changing into what I want and need it to be. There is a security here that was lacking a wholeness and is nearing completion.

Sort of like me.

I may be able to afford to go back to therapy soon. The break's been kind of nice, though, not drudging up memories and wounds for a while.

A mini vacation from madness.

Things are good. I can say that with certainty. Not that my hang up aren't still hanging around, drinking a kegger and saying things they'll apologize for in the morning...

"You know how we get when we drink, baby..."

I could say they're inching towards great. Despite things.

Settling like easing onto a new bed.

Starting Over: Day 6

2007-02-06T19:36:00.000-05:00

Hard hard hard things are hard right now.

Unemployment is STILL withholding my benefits for another 2 weeks. Not so bad, because I got a few residual checks and that has helped. Auditions are dried up right now. The agent who's looking at my blog doesn't "see it as a book" but, at least, will try to refer me to another agent. Still a letdown. Then my cell phone bill comes in. It's $500.

What the fuck? What? Of course. Things can't stay good. That's not possible, is it?

I called the phone company and I went over my minutes. Big time.

Idiot. Idiot. Fucking Idiot. Way to start over.

So I upgraded my plan and tried not to panic.

But I started to backslide.

Stupid. I'm so stupid. I was so stupid to not save my money and spend all of it on things for me and him. I was stupid to think we would last forever and he would be there for better or worse. God, how could I be so stupid, stupid, stupid? Why do I make these mistakes?

I kept going. I kept going. I kept going.

I ran my errands. I listened to the angriest music I had.

And when I got home, I pulled out my box of my old clothes, the ones I had left, photographed them and started creating listings for ebay. That should bring something in to help.

Not so stupid after all.

I'm going to book another commercial and my Ocean Spray will air soon. I will get a deal for my book and finish my proposal by month's end. I will not have to work as a temp, prostitute or barista.

I keep going.

Starting Over: Day Four

2007-02-04T22:35:00.000-05:00

I went to dinner with Nice Guy last night at Zen Palate. The food was so-so. The conversation was excellent. My face hurt from smiling so much. I laughed until my sides hurt.

I got home today by 5:30pm.

I came home and wrote a lot... I relaxed... I just let myself feel really great. It's cold outside, but it's warm in here.

I like Nice Guy. Turns out, Nice Guy likes me. Cool. Beauty.

Nice Guy works all day and goes to acting school almost every night. He is only available on Saturdays and Sundays.

I get my space! I get my fucking space!

Turns out, nice isn't so bad after all.

And, it turns out, nice can be awfully naughty...

Starting Over: Day 2

2007-02-02T19:57:00.001-05:00

Damn cats woke me up at 8:15am. S'okay, it's good for me to get up early.

So, I did my taxes.

Yup. I did my taxes. Done. Finito. I mean, I didn't make all that much money and I'm very organized with my receipts and I all I had to do was total everything and plug it into the program. So, I just have to file.

Then I decided to thoroughly clean the kitchen.

Why did I do that?

So I cleared off the fridge and opened the cabinets and remembered that those cabinets hadn't been opened since before my ex left. I was faced with the largest roach graveyard I have ever seen in my life. There were little headstones and wreaths and, in the far right corner, was a well-attended service for a bug who, I believe, was named Joe and was well liked and respected.

As much as I wanted to just keep a straight face and close the doors, put everything back and pretend that I hadn't just seen all of that, I told myself that, no, I wasn't living that way anymore, the way that we lived when he was still in the house.

Just sort of blinded... ignoring things...

My hands curled inside my rubber gloves and I stood on my little stool (I'm only 5'4") and held my big ol' vacuum in one hand and sucked up the graveyard, roach ancestry and tribute to Joe with the nozzle in my other hand. Then I went to town with the Fantastic (w/ "ORANGE ACTION"!) and wiped out what I could with a sponge. But I'm so short... so I got my Swiffer, dipped it in water and scrubbed my cabinets clean as the dickens.

This is how MY home is going to be.

I vacuumed and mopped, I put my black beans and pinto beans into clear containers, I rearranged my spices and then I replaced my old, black plastic knobs with the green, vintage looking, ceramic ones I bought three months ago.

This is MY kitchen.

Before I go to bed tonight, I will replace my broken toilet seat and lay down my new bath mat.

I am suprised and scared at the same time to be happy about all of these little things.

Such small acheivements that feel like great distances.

Starting Over: Day 1

2007-02-01T20:51:00.000-05:00

Me and the Fam, Christmas, 2006

Today is the new day.

That's the newest pic I have of myself, although I am ten pounds lighter now. I am officially in a size 12, down from an 18 (and 1/2, really), when my husband left me in September. I have lost approximately 45 pounds.

I had to buy a new pair of dress pants and a new pair of jeans today, size 12. I had to buy a few new tops, too, size Large. My clothes are looking a bit clownish and I can't have that for auditions.

Plus, I'm a total hottie. Especially because my breasts are staying the same big ol' gianormous size.

I had lunch with an old, dear friend today and the first thing out of her mouth was, "You look amazing". Then I had coffee with another old, dear friend who said, "You look amazing". Then, after I got my clothes, I stopped to get a tuna wrap and my pharmacist, who I hadn't seen in a few months, came in and I said, "Hey George". He looked straight at me. "How are you?" I said. Then he said, "Oh, hi! I didn't recognize you! You look so different!"

I'm sure he was thinking, "You look..."

EVERYONE TOGETHER...

"...amazing!"

Funny... I feel it, too.

I'm broke as hell, I don't know where my money's gonna come from, I'm still working through all of my issues, but I'm feeling pretty... you guessed it...

maze

zing

!!

I am doing my yoga every day.
I am writing and working hard on my book.
I am getting out and seeing friends.
I am getting laid like the dickens.
I have a new "friend" to replace Frankenstein (courtesy of this guy- ask and ye shall receive!).
My sick cat is doing just fine.

Today is the and a new day.

I have a second date with the "nice guy" that I was so afraid of. It's all good and I've conquered that fear as best I can and am allowing myself the good things in life, including going to dinner at Zen Palate and having fabulous... whatever... after.

and my friend I had coffee with went to my ex's going away party and said it was under attended and a miserable experience, kinda sad and depressing.

I'm not gonna lie... that made me feel...

amazing!

122 days, 17 hours, 4 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-28T18:16:00.000-05:00

I met a very nice guy last night.

So nice.

I mean really nice.

Red flag.

The nicer they come... the further I run.
I just don't do nice. I can't handle the nice. I am ever so ready to fuck it all up.
I mean, when comes the time when the other shoe drops?

So I untie the shoe.
Lift it up high.
And drop it myself.
Big, red clown shoe.

Midwestern boy, to make it worse, practically corn fed. Husks almost pouring out of his ears. This guy was the kind of man who was.... naturally good for you.

This guy was steel cut oats.

A man to keep you regular.

And, just after one date, a great date, a date on which he said enormously wonderful things about me and on which we had a fantastic time, I know that I can never see him again. I am so uncomfortable with his... steel cut goodness.

He's tall and handsome, smart, funny, responsible...

not my type

I know I need to make that my type!

I have to work on making that my type.

I need to eat healthier.

119 days, 19 hours, 45 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-25T20:55:00.000-05:00

The problem is, the silence is really getting bad.

It's getting loud.

Oooooooh. Deeeeeep. Silence getting loud. Way to go, Ms. Plath.

It hasn't been that long. Four months. I think I'm doing pretty darn well, considering. Chin up, shoulders back. Getting laid. Losing weight. Auditioning. Writing. Keeping the house clean. Seeing my friends when we're available.

Still, it's kind of slow right now, it always is in January, right before pilot season not too long after the holidays. So I have some time to kick around.

A lot of time.

To think.

and think. and think.

Can't really paint the bedroom like I want, I can't afford the paint.
Can't afford to see matinees, even.
Don't have anything to embroider.
Assembled the kitchen set.
Do yoga.
Walk.
Read.

and think. and think.

I start to sink into the couch. Slooooooooooowly. I start to wonder who you are. I start to wonder who you were. I start to wonder how awful I was that you had to leave. I sink further into the couch and just light cigarette after cigarette. For the day.

and the next day.

I start to think that no one will want me because of all of my baggage and the goodness in me does not outweigh the five piece set, hanging bag and two carry on items that are my life, even though they are a lovely pattern and I come free with them! Even if those bags stow securely overhead because things shift slightly during takeoff and one of them could hit somebody hard on the fucking head when they open the hatch, giving them dain bramage; scarring them forever and I wouldn't want that.

So I tell myself that I don't want them, either.

Whoever they are.

Whatever. I don't care.

Shields up.

I don't want my hand held and I don't want my head stroked and I don't want my back tickled and I don't want to be asked if I'm warm enough and I don't want anyone to put their arm around me and squeeze and be proud to be seen with me.

and think. and think.

I just want to get laid and be alone and unpack my bags and see what's inside without any distractions or sharing or any of that crap.

I've been there and I've done that with disastrous results.

The wheels fell off and the fabric tore and the leather got scratched and I feel like I got pounded into the ground with a toiletries case!!

So now
I want
to travel
alone.

117 days, 23 hours, 35 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-23T00:40:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June 11th, 2000

God, I fucking hate you right now. You did this to get to me. You did this to needle me.

You are a sick sick fuck.

You have admitted to me that you were particularly cruel to me, emotionally and verbally cruel to me, the last two or three months of our marriage. You left me in the middle of the night without warning, ripping me to shreds without me being able to defend myself after I had just gone through one of the hardest periods in my life. You disappeared without hardly a trace, barely communicating with me, cutting me off almost completely.

I chose to begin expressing myself through this blog.

BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO DEFEND MYSELF.

BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET TO SAY WHAT I NEEDED TO SAY AND YOU GOT TO SPEW ALL OF YOUR RESENTMENT AND VENGEANCE ALL OVER ME LIKE ACID AND THEN JUST GO AWAY LEAVING ME TO BURN AND SCAR.

BECAUSE IT IS

WHAT

DO.

THIS IS WHAT I DO.

And I'll bet that this entry reads as funny as hell in front of your friends at the ol' improv comedy house--

a yuck yuck yuck

--but this is my life, you stupid sonofabitch.

My GOD, you are an ass clown. My GOD, you are a child. How important did you feel when you were up there? How cute was it when you lit the candles and made your doe eyes?

"Awwwwwwwww", said the audience because they don't know you yet.

"Poor me. I'm the subject of a blog that I'm not really the subject of but I think I am because I'm a narcissistic cocksucking titty baby who cries and manipulates to get what he wants and look how sad I am, folks and look how I'm 'taking back the power' everybody by moving here to be a big fish in a small pond and read out loud how mean my ex is to me and can someone get me my big, red hat and help me douche because I like to look pretty and feel clean when I'm empowering myself like the little girl that I am."

Did it feel good to do this now that you were out of New York City because there was no danger of you being so scared you'd shit your Muppet Babies-printed diapie?

You are garbage.

I would read from your self-published piece of shit... but it's a self-published piece of shit.

Look at your tattoo.

i.e. you're garbage

i.e. you're lower than low

i.e. you're predatory

i.e. you're rotten

i.e. I fucking hate you and I will never stop hating you

It's like you can't stop twisting the knife, can you? You just can't leave me alone. I am trying to heal myself. I am trying to work through all of this mess and you have to keep on keepin' on, as they say.

Keep on truckin'.

Breaker 1-9, we gotta cocksucking, mother fucking, passive/aggressive titty baby twisting the knife into his soon to be ex-wife. Seems he can't just leave well enough alone. Seems he gots the need to break her spirit something awful. Come on back...

Keep on truckin', mother fucker.

Keep on truckin' until you run my ass over like a fucking armadillo on one of your precious, new Texas roads.

Piercing my solid, grey armor and spilling my guts out onto the black tar.

117 days, 15 hours, 6 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-22T14:50:00.000-05:00

I was busy working on my book and still basking in the afterglow of another night of great sex (that's 2! Same fantabulous guy... I'm not a slut! and I was going to write a glorious review, but...) when I got this comment:

"Anonymous said...
I saw your husband this weekend in Austin at Coldtowne Comedy Club. He lit candles and read your blog. It was gold! Funny stuff!"

It's hard for me to type right now because my hands are shaking in anger and frustration.

I picked up my phone and dialed you:

"You're lighting candles and reading from my blog? You're mocking my blog?" I asked you.

"No. I read the parts where you were mocking me..."

"Did you read any other parts? Did you read the parts about what I'm going through?" I started to cry, "Did you read those parts? Did you read the part about what you said to me that night? Did you read the parts about", I was crying so hard I couldn't even think anymore, "what I'm going through while you start your 'new life'?" You were quiet on the other end. "I wanted to remind you to put a check or money order in the mail for rent," I said and then I hung up.

and I cried some more.

This is not about you. Why do you have to make it about you? It's about what I'm going through...

and you've negated me again.
Negated my feelings again.
I hope you choke on that Texas dust.

So, the next time you decide to take this blog for a reading, try some balance, you asshole, and give these entries a try:

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/09/2-days-20-hours-and-8-minutes-since.html

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/10/6-days-12-hours-and-4-minutes-since.html

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/10/12-days-20-hours-2-minutes-since-you.html

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/10/20-days-22-hours-30-minutes-since-you.html

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/11/53-days-14-hours-24-minutes-since-you.html

http://tryingtogetoveryouasshole.blogspot.com/2006/11/57-days-9-hours-24-minutes-since-you.html

Or try the one about my father raping me...

my sides!

that one's super duper "gold"!

...a real showstopper.

I know how they like everything big in Texas.

115 days, 23 hours, 48 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-20T01:18:00.000-05:00

TRULY

Tonight, over tea, my friend said I was "redefining" myself.

Is that what it is?

I don't know. I've never been through this before. Meaning, I've never been through ten years of a relationship, had it end and then just been left...

asea? adrift? a-lone?

Yes, I guess that's it.

I don't want to "redefine" myself. Did I ever "define" myself? When we were together, I don't recall "married" as one of my self-describing words. I don't recall feeling as if you defined me.

When you left, you did just that: you left. You did not come back. There was no discussion. There was no crying on the phone, begging you to come back. There was no talk of how things would be taken care of, not even the retrieval of your things, at first.

So now that you are really gone... I mean GONE GONE... what is this feeling that I have?

Part of me is, as usual, angry as hell that you get to walk away, scott free, onto the shores of a brand new life, leaving your responsibilities and worries behind. But you had already done that. You never had to pay rent or bills anywhere else or storage for your things. You continued your life on a better, higher plane, now without the burden of me... Lucky, lucky man. For four years you didn't fuck me and then you decided to do it proverbially in four months.

Part of me is, once again, in shock, as if you've walked out once more. You've just left this life behind as if it didn't exist; as if it never existed. So, deep down, there is a part of me that feels like, perhaps, I never existed, either; my part in the entire relationship, that entire world, was only a fantasy.

Therefore, was I ever "defined"?

If I opened up a dictionary and looked for me, I could find a jumbled page of words, all crammed together, mixed like melted crayons in the back of a hot car, that I had written there to show the world of what I was defined.

But, if I looked closer, all they would be is words and I couldn't pick out one single thing to capture where I am or what I see or who I know myself to be.

There is no longer a reference to which I can relate.

I am, in my heart, an undefined entry.

113 days, 18 hours, 8 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-17T19:38:00.000-05:00

I know that you are leaving tomorrow for Austin.

There was something I wanted to say to you:

The divorce papers are signed. You are moving. You are fulfilling your legal obligations and nothing more.

I don't care if I ever hear from you again. I never thought I would say that. I thought and hoped that eventually we would be civil towards each other, but now I don't particularly care what happens to you, as you have made it quite clear that you do not care what happens to me or what my feelings are.

I tried to express myself to you. In all fairness, I felt I had a right, after all, you got an entire evening to rip me to shreds and then flit away into the night, leaving me without naught a shred of dignity. But, that day at lunch, you wouldn't even let me tell you how I felt about things... my side... without even attacking you; just explaining how I felt.

You left me high and dry in the middle of the night without warning. You blamed me for the misery in your life and have never apologized for saying those things. You became a complete and cruel stranger overnight. Yet you continued to manipulate me with your passive aggressive behavior and lies, convincing me to drop the issue with the project we were involved with together or allowing you to pay rent late, etc. To think you "cried" on the phone to me from Austin and I bought it. All the while, looking so saintly because you had the grace to pay for some extra cat food or fluids. What a martyr you are.

There's a word for you: deadbeat. I just thank God we didn't have children. I am grateful that no innocent lives had to suffer due to your ignorance, immaturity and emotional retardation.

You are a miserable and sorry person; pathetic, angry, resentful, bitter, confused and completely fucked up in the head. You make me sick; physically ill, not only now, but in retrospect. I spent the last few years of my life with a stranger and you don't know what that does to me. Every day it affects me differently. But every day I have to keep believing that it happened for a reason; that everything happens for a reason.

The only reason I don't want the last ten years of my life back is because I have learned from them. For while you may have financially devastated me, I have only grown stronger and wiser with your leaving; my life is one hundred percent better.

So thank you for getting your sorry self out of my life.

You were right to say "we are nothing more than two people who are going through a divorce and trying to get our individual lives in order. We are not friends. ... I want us to finish the business of this divorce and give each of time to get on with our lives". Part of getting on with my life means cutting you out of it and expecting the only time I speak to you to be if I have to contact you to ask you where my money is, but I sincerely hope that it will not be late.

I don't remember what it was like to love you. Right now, I don't remember what it was like to love anyone, except maybe a long time ago, like when I loved my father or when I felt the first pangs of love when I was very young... yeah, a long time ago, when love was pure.

If love was ever pure in my life.

I do know my heart will never be the same. I do know I will never trust anyone the same. I do know I don't ever want anyone to live in my home with me, see me cry when I really cry, hear me when I really hurt; know when I really need them. I gave you that and you took it all away. I am deeply angry, I am deeply covered, I am covered in armor, impenetrable and cold to any man who comes near me. I don't want to "date" or "see" anyone; hold hands or cuddle or any of that bullshit.

None of that means anything to me anymore.

I'll fuck a guy until his eyes cross, and we can laugh and talk until the sun comes up, but then I'm rolling right over for a good sleep.

In what is now MY bed.

You leave tomorrow.

I am alone.

I am not lonely.

You don't mean anything to me anymore.

And some days,
that means everything.

A Friendly Visit

2007-01-17T11:23:00.000-05:00

... from our favorite psycho...

So last Thursday, I am in a heated argument with our lovely Goth boy about taking down his profile from the "Don't Date Him"-type site of which he is now a part. I, tree trunk that I am, and tired of being called "big", "fat", "lonely", etc., am refusing to take it down, as he is threatening to put up a site "exposing" me with pictures, emails, personal info, etc...

Then he begins to tell me that he still wants to see me when this is all over.

Knock knock...

Who's there?

My dignity... asshole!

You've got to be kidding me. Do I not know a player? Am I stupid? And he proceeds to offer to come over and fuck me.

I'm not kidding.

And he's trying to get me to say that I will take the page down if he'll come over and fuck me. Sure. Uh-huh. That'll happen.

Frankly, I don't have the 10 minutes to spare.

Do I figure slimeball is recording me? Yes, I do. Because I am trying to get him to repeat the offer and he won't. Which means he thinks I am recording him, as if we're in the Watergate Scandal, which he's too stupid to even recall. So we speak in Spy Vs. Spy cryptic verses about some sort of whorish "deal" and nothing ever happens and agree to "cool down" for a week and I hope to God NEVER to hear from this lowlife, lying loser again. I graciously take his ugly mug off of the site, leaving only his slimy profile. That should do it, yes? I don't hear from him. I breath 1,000 sighs of relief.

Please, God, let him go away.

Oh, no no no no no.

Meanwhile, his ex contacts me, heartbroken, truly heartbroken over him. I hear her story, and a few others' stories and it is sickening; deafening. His pic goes back up. I'm Gloria Steinem.

This morning, I get this jolly email:

"Subject: Information

I see that you not only left my page up but you put back the picture.
Well, I just want to let you know that your page is done, jam packed with personal info, e-mails and a little recorded message that says you would take the page down if I came over and "@#%$'ed" you. I am sure your friends would like to hear what a phony you are.

I do not want to do this shit, I just want us to go our separate ways and move on. I do wish you the best but you cannot let it go.
I will have it up Friday if you do not take it down."

Ladies and Gentlemen, Richard Milhouse Nixon.

Phony? No. I sent a gianormous amount of emails and messages at a time when I was desperate and lonely to a man I thought cared about me, liked me a great deal and wanted a relationship with me and led me to believe those things; a man who encouraged me to trust him and express myself to him. He told me he loved my writing and to send him emails and messages, as a matter of record. I was fresh off of my husband abandoning me and was very, very vulnerable. Was I out of my right mind? At times. Was I depressed? You bet. Did I express some of the same thoughts here on these pages? Yes, I did. Am I ashamed of anything I wrote to him? No.

Was I going to fuck him in exchange for taking down his profile from that site? Fuck fuck fuck fuck NO. Did HE offer? Yes. Did I want to? Hell to the nuh. Is it a capitol offense to record someone over the phone without their permission? Yes, oh, yes, sir, it is.

Would I fuck him?

Not with Richard Milhouse Nixon's dead, dead dick.

I do not need, nor do I want, this drama Queen's drama. I have enough of my own.

What a way to start my day...

110 days, 9 hours, 9 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-15T10:21:00.000-05:00

When you left me, September 27th, at 1:30am, you told me that you were no longer in love with me, no longer attracted to me, no longer wanted to be married to me... and you had felt that way for a long time. I thought a long time meant six months. Oh, no no no no no...

Years.

I, you, me, us, WE had not had sex, well, completed the act of sex in, approximately, four years.

Years.

If I had a uterus, it would have run away from home by then.

I had gained, I'd say, a good, oh, 30 pounds or so during this time; completely lost my sexuality; any sense of myself sexually. I was reduced to masturbating with a Frankenstein Vibrator while watching porn on the Internet (not a fun task, as we were not yet wireless, so I was stuck at the desk). I had three ways with Ben and Jerry, because I felt so very alone.

After you left, I stopped binging. I started doing yoga again, swimming more, working out more. Little by little, my self-confidence came back...

I hooked up with certain folks because I got desperate... then really desperate, as time wore on... I was unsure about how I looked, how I felt; it had been soooooo long since i had felt like a sexual being...

Last week, I had lost a total of 42 pounds. I am 3 sizes smaller than I was when you left me. Suddenly, I was looking in the mirror and I didn't have to lie to myself about how great I looked and how great I felt and how I deserved to get what I wanted and to be pleased the way I wanted to and that any man who touched my body would be privilaged...

And how.

So that's just what I did.

With genuine confidence, sensuality, sexuality and passion, I had sex Friday night.

Finally. After four fucking years.

It is just like riding a bike.

A really niiiiiiice bike.

You don't ever forget how, that's for sure. But the beauty was, I wasn't shy or embarrassed about how I looked; I had no inhibitions and he, well, he loved my body; every inch, every curve, all of it.

It was fun, it was awesome, it was just what I needed. It's nice to make someone's eyes cross and blow their mind again... to feel in control and make them say, "How did you do that?", instead of complete silence or having to roll over and cry because I feel I failed... again.

I got right back on the bike and took a long ride on the scenic route.

Twice.

I had forgotten what it was like to be wanted like that. I don't think you ever wanted me like that. Which doesn't really matter now.

I am wanted like that.

Whether or not it happens again for a long time...

I am wanted like that.

I am

wanted.

108 days, 14 hours, 49 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-13T16:19:00.000-05:00

I went to see "Pan's Labyrinth" last night.

It was a great film. I can see why it is on the top of many critics' lists...

... but I don't remember a lot of it...

You know... 4 years
4 years

it's like I feel like Billy Babbitt--- f--f-f-f-f-f-f-f-four y-y-y-y-y-y-years---N-n-n-urse
Rr-ratchet...

Seems so hard to say (no pun intended).

4
4
4 years
without anything, really.
Let's say a GOOD, SOLID 2 without anything at all...

"and Wife of The Millennium Goes To--"

Well...

I'm tired.

My 4-4-4... f-f-f-f-four years is

Over.

Happily, I say:

Mama needs a nap; she was up laaaaaaaaate.

I'm just pissed that I have to pay $11 to see that fucking movie again.

Today...

2007-01-12T18:50:00.001-05:00

...is a fucking GREAT day!

That
is
all

for now...

106 days, 9 hours, 21 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-11T10:30:00.000-05:00

Back to said tattoo...

I was pretty disturbed by said tattoo. I'm not gonna lie. It's only been 106 days, 9 hours and blabitty bla since you left, abruptly, at 1:30am and

scroll way the fuck down for the dirty details.

So, nosy and angry, angry, bitter bitch that I am, I emailed you and I said:

"You will probably say it's not my business, but did your friend do that tattoo for free? You can get angry, but I'm giving up both of the cats and very hungry, so I just wanted to know if you paid for the tattoo."

Also remember that you paid the rent late, after sweet talking me in your typical passive aggressive way... which, I do believe, was the week that you got the fucking said tattoo.

Your response:

"I am sorry, but no, it is not your business what I do with the money that I work hard for so many hours a week for. Especially if it doesn't interfere with the payments I am sending.And I am sorry you are giving up the cats, but after this much time, I cannot take responsibility for your financial situation."

This was a few days ago. I am still

SURPRISE!!!

pretty speechless.

Should I have anything to say?
Does you have any responsibility?
When you take a vow, does it just STOP when you walk out?
Is 3 and 1/2 months "this much time" compared to ten years, or 5 years that you were on my insurance or the years where I made the most money and paid for big ticket items or allowed for you to travel and promote himself as a teacher and director and your self-published book (which you vehemently deny I did)?

Hmmm... I guess I do have things to say, but they would fall upon your deaf ears.

Well, your tattoo looks pretty shitty, anyway. It's supposed to be an old-tyme ampersand and exclamation point, but facing you . So, when it faces me, it looks like a 13.

Unlucky 13.

or it looks like an "i.e."

As in "i.e. I'm an asshole", "i.e. I'm a passive/aggressive asshole", "i.e. I'm a passive/aggressive asshole who may like the cock".

So, really, I guess I win.

You're stuck with the tattoo for life.

And you're stuck with you.

i.e. You're fucked.

Class Dismissed

2007-01-10T19:58:00.000-05:00

Whew!

I've graduated Middle School, got through High School and am now back on my way to becoming a full adult again.

Lost my footing there.

And howdie ho.

Be back soon.

After summer vaca!

More Distractions From My Worries

2007-01-10T09:33:00.000-05:00

This guy's a real trip.

So, Morgan and my ex from H.S. send his these scathing messages to defend me. I thought it was kind of funny.

Myspace.com turns everyone into 12-year old girls... even the men. A friend of mine said that once.

I'm not saying I helped the situation, I updated him on which sites he was posted on and my future plans for his sorry ass...

Because all of this is distracting me from my financial and ex-husband woes and really pumping me up to work on my book...

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I'm a twelve year old girl.

And, of course, Glennda texts me what totals about 40 texts (I was texting mostly "leave me alone", "You're an asshole"-type stuff and I know I shouldn't have, but I am a twelve year old-girl). Included in his texts: "I just signed you up for dontdatecrazyfatwomen.com look for it, you will love it, smelly", & "You are a hurt little girl who wants revenge. You are transparent".

1. Smelly? That hurt. 2. I am not hurt. I'm pissed.

He pulled my pigtails.

And then, in the middle of the texting and the name calling ("fat", "big"), he calls my phone. I did not answer. His voice mail said something about why wouldn't I talk and I was hiding behind words, why was I always hiding behind words...?

Another text follows: "This is the last time you'll hear from me"

This morning: "I just wanted to say that I am honestly sorry for the hard times in your life. I hope they get better for you. Goodbye."

The lack of sincerity was deafening.

There was probably an audience for that drama...

Bigger than The O.C., which got cancelled, OMG! Sooooo bummed!

I just told him that he was "Pathetic. My big, fat, abused self will be just fine. Now leave me alone. Goodbye."

And I hope he finally does.

Me? I'm still not done laying down the hurt, ya'll.

Big hurt.

I know... I'm a child. Well, then he's the fetus.

Like I said, don't fuck with this female.

Big hurt, comin' down, watch your heads!

Tomorrow, I'll get back to my ex.

Today, revenge is still mine!

And there's an Algebra test after lunch!

Don't Hate The Game, Hate the Playah

2007-01-09T08:45:00.000-05:00

Remember the "nice guy"?

The nice guy I was so pissed because I had gotten so scared about, the one who really cared for me? Well, last week he had sent me a message asking me to "Just give me some time"... and yesterday I got the message "I miss you too", after I sent his a message.

Nice guy is a playah. Nice guy is a full of shit liar.

Nice guy, as I said earlier I would not say his name, but it sounds a lot like Buhglenn Buhhildalgo, has been seeing this other girl who, poor thing, according to her blog, he said she was his one and only and he was in love with her and wanted to marry her. This was roughly around the same time he was a-courtin' me.. he pulled the same phone bullshit with her... his tricks were the same... he just upped the ante with stronger emotions.

Oh, yeah, children.... oh, yeah. I was right to be paranoid. I was right to be insecure.

So, you know me, what with my mouth and all... I call him on it and he is saying "You're going to believe some hurt girl's blog for christ's sake (sic)?".. "I belong to no one"... "I said those things because I thought you were great"... bla bla bla... the finger points right back at me...

I asked him, "Why'd you break it off with her?" He said, "I really didn't want to get that serious". Ouch. What a tool.

Everything was always someone else's fault. And, reading her blog, he did the same game with her. How do guys get away with that? Like magicians, lot's o' practice, I guess.

This guy is siiiiiiiick, ya'll.

Yet, he was probably at her side last night, begging for her hand, playing it all up again. And she probably fell for it, because he is that good. He's always got one waiting on the sidelines, too, so if she fell apart, no worries, he's got another one to fall back on... onto... into... whatever. I don't know how he does it. He's losing his hair, his teeth need repair, he has that landing strip on his chin (the flavah savah), he has no chin, he has that annoying Brooklyn accent and he's not in great shape. He doesn't open the car door for a girl and he punched me in the arm once, hard, after I play hit him several times. Plus, he uses poor grammar, a big problem with me after a while and he has a great lack of education. But, hey, I fell for his shit, just like the rest, so...

But he's very good at covering his ass. I guess you call those "Street Smarts". This guy is good, people. Very good. Years of practice.

He must be hung like a blue whale (I didn't get that far, he only got above the waist). Thank God I didn't fuck him.

What's most disturbing is that he lied about having kids. Who does that? Wouldn't you be proud of that? Not such a big deal that he lied about his age (30, not 33) or being divorced... but kids?!!? What a great father, huh? And he left his ex-wife in the 8th month of their second child's pregnancy. Niiiiiiice. He showed me a picture of his dog before he showed me a picture of his kids. Classy.

I would've like to have slept with him one time, just to have kicked him in the balls the next morning as he dropped me off at home. If he has any...

But I'll find a way to put the hurt on him, whether it's vodoo, a hex, gris gris, plastering fliers about the E. Village with his picture that say "DO NOT DATE THIS MAN!!" or just rising above it... I'll get revenge.

Nobody fuck's with me... especially not ignorant Bay Ridge, Brooklyn trash.

103 days,12 hours, 1 minute since you left me...

2007-01-08T10:04:00.000-05:00

You got a tattoo. You had been wanting one. Your friend did it for you. I don't know if you had to pay him. I hope you didn't. I hope you didn't have to pay him. You will tell me it's not my business. And I guess it's not. I just hope, when you told me that you couldn't pay half the rent at the beginning of the month, when you're not paying rent anywhere else, or utilities, or for storage of your things, you didn't pay for a tattoo.

That's all.

102 days, 17 hours, 44 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-07T19:14:00.000-05:00

I am trying to be strong, but at night, it feels like I am slowly losing my mind.

101 days, 20 hours, 50 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-06T22:20:00.000-05:00

I can't breathe.

101 days, 7 hours, 56 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-06T09:24:00.000-05:00

Chibi

Sanford

I had to redo my budget Friday. Things are really suffering financially. I am due some checks that will not be here for six weeks or so and they are already spent. My unemployment was suspended on a technicality for another 3 weeks (9 or 10 total). I can't seem to book a commercial and the one I did shoot won't air (if it does) until spring).

I really wish you had at least planned ahead to take care of me a little more. I wish you had separated and said, "Don't worry, you'll be taken care of...", oh, wait, I think you may have said that... and then I wasn't. No wonder I can't trust anything.

It's still time I stopped blaming you, though.

I'm going to sell the clothes I don't fit into on ebay.

In looking at my budget, I found the one things that I have to get rid of: the cats. This isn't being dramatic, I have to find new homes for them. I can no longer take care of them. Chibi is 12 or 13 now. She is getting elderly. Her vaccinations are coming up soon, which will also include a senior profile, which is blood and urine work due to her age. I can't afford it. Sanford, of course, has renal failure already, and gets his subcutaneous fluids every night, which cost money every week, plus supplements, plus his blood and urine are due for testing every four months or so often, which I cannot afford (and am behind on). Add to that their ear cleaning medicine, hairball remedies, grooming appointments every six months and dental (both of which I way am behind on), special food, litter, any other vitamins... I am skipping meals to insure their health... it isn't fair to them if I skimp on their well being. Someone else can take better care of them.

I have to get rid of who I consider my children.

I can't believe it.

The two things I always said were, "I won't lose my home or my cats".

Well, look at me now.

It makes me want to die.

Now I will truly be alone.

Isn't that sick and sad on too many levels?

99 days, 11 hours, 52 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-04T13:22:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I would lock my door and put on records and dance and dance.

I still dance in my house. All by myself. I don't give a shit who sees.

When you were here, reading on the couch or at the computer, I would put on music and dance. A long time ago, you would dance, too, sometimes. Whenever I booked a job, I would play "One Week" by Barenaked Ladies and we'd bounce up and down. Well, when I first started booking acting jobs anyway. You'd say, "Did you get it?" and instead of answering, I'd play the song. Sometimes over the phone, if you were at work.

I have a mix on my iPod called "funkified". It is, indeed. I would never dance at a straight club these days. Gay club, fine. When in London in January, my performance partner and I went to the biggest gay club in London. It had 4 floors and 13 rooms and we danced our asses of to everything from disco to electronica to reggae. It was fucking amazing. I don't even remember how long we were there. In between, we sat in the dark on a couch and judged people, like a good gay boy and fag hag are supposed to. I lost my $18 Urban Decay "Gash" lip gloss, but it was worth it. I had so much fun, I even took off my shirt and only wore my tank top.

I was glad that you had left London early and weren't there with us. You sickened me. I didn't want to see you sweat and I didn't want to smell you, especially next to a bunch of hot, hot gay guys (let me add one extra hot... okay two--HOT!).

By that time, it was already over. Even though when you left, it still came as a shock.

I've still been dancing every day, despite the threat of eviction and an empty belly, despite that I had to pay a huge phone bill today and it fucked up my finances even more, despite the cats' vaccinations coming up, I owe everyone money, I'm lonely, I'm sad alot, I can't get rid of my arm and belly fat, I need a breast lift, I can't afford therapy, I miss snow... sigh.

I still dance every day. I know it's some stupid-ass, put it on a paperweight/mug/calender/magnet inspirational fucking bullshit metaphor, but fuck you, it makes me feel better, that's what matters.

And maybe it will juice up my flat, white ass.

Here is my funkified mix (it's in artist alphabetical right now). I do shake it up frequently, but this is it right now:

Jive Talkin, You Should Be Dancin'-- The Bee Gees
I Feel For You-- Chakka Kahn
Brick House-- The Commodores
Don't Leave Me This Way-- The Communards
Last Dance-- Donna Summer
Boogie Night, Boogie Wonderland, Got To Get You Into My Life-- Earth Wind & Fire
My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It), Free Your Mind-- En Vogue
We Want The Funk-- George Clinton and The P-Funk All Stars
Too Funky, Freedom '90-- George Michael
Boogie Shoes, I'm Your Boogie Man, Get Down Tonight-- K.C. & The Sunshine Band
Lady Marmalade-- Labelle
Goin' Back To Cali, Mama Said Knock You Out-- LL Cool J
Love Rollercoaster-- Ohio Players
History Repeating-- Propellerheads (featuring Shirley Bassey)
Whatta Man, Shoop-- Salt N' Pepper
Let The Music Play, Give Me Tonight-- Shannon
The Glamorous Life-- Sheila E.
You Make Me Feel-- Sylvester

Today...

2007-01-03T20:16:00.000-05:00

... at an audition, there was this woman who seemed soooooo put together that I thought, "I'll bet that she's even in touch with her inner vagina".

I never want to be that put together.

97 days, 9 hours, 16 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-02T10:43:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony 2000

When we had lunch a few weeks ago, I tried to tell you how I felt about the night you left. I tried to tell you how your words haunted me and how fucked I over these last three months. I could see your jaw tightening as you got more and more defensive inside. I asked you for an apology.

You said, "Not just yet."

We discussed the project that we created together and that you and a third party are now continuing and profiting from and that from which I deserve compensation. You told me that lawyers could handle it (later you sent me an email saying that it was the only income the third party was earning and that I was "affecting the lives of 7 people" if I went through with it" so I said I wouldn't do it... once again passive aggressively manipulating me into doing what you wanted and shafting me).

I was on the verge on of tears and I didn't want to cry in the restaurant so I said I had to go and I got my things and waited outside.

You came outside and that's when I got my apology. You apologized for the way you said things and the way you left but not for what you said. You apologized for the "manner in which" you said things.

I stood there, sick, holding the Christmas present you gave me, a book of Pugs dressed in different outfits. An "impulse buy", you had said.

Then, it started to turn angry. We started at each other. You started about the blog. You started about the "fans" of my blog who "hate" you. You said that you don't read it, but have "people" from "all over" who do and they "report" to you.

"What was my favorite?" you said, "Oh yeah, that I was a, let me try to remember, oh, that I was a, I think it was, a little girl." Then you went on about how the blog could be considered slander and you could sue me and all kinds of shit because I plug the blog on Myspace.com and people know who I am and know who you are even though the whole blog is anonymous...

"I tell people to read the blog," you smiled proudly, "I tell them to read the blog so I can take back the power."

Suddenly you were Bella Fucking Abzug with a big flowery vagina hat.

You were Chuck D and Flava Flav, "Elvis was a hero to most, but he nevah meant shit to me, you see racist the suckah was simple and plain, mutha fuck him and John Wayne!"

THAT'S when I said that I lost my job because my demeanor had changed at work since the breakup and you said, "I'm not taking responsibility for that."

I gritted my teeth and said, "I'm not asking you to take responsibility for that, you."

"Oh, I thought you were asking me to take responsibility for that."

GRITTED TEETH, RAGING, "You are such a narcissistic fuckhead."

Your jaw clenched and tightened in defense.

"I gotta go", I said and I walked away, not looking behind. Never looking behind.

That's when I get the email about the project and I sent the email saying I wouldn't pursue litigation and that I would no longer post bulletins about the blog on Myspace for everyone to see. . Then I get an email from you, saying, once again, that you don't care about the blog, but I had already backed down once again.

So, last week, I send you an email regarding rent and you send me an email telling me that you can't send it until next week and you're very nice and fluffy about the whole thing. I tell you, "I don't want to fight" and you write, "We're not fighting"... I tell you, fine, give me the rent $ next week. At the end of one of the emails, I ask you how your holiday was, you tell me, and then I say, "The divorce papers are being signed, it makes me sort of sad, does it make you sort of sad?" No response. Fine.

Then, through Myspace, since we are "Friends" on Myspace, I get a bulletin that it's your last show in the last show with your duo and I send you a message, "Who else is performing?" I get no response.

I sen you an email: "Why don't you respond to my message?"

This is what I get:

"Until the papers are signed, we are nothing more than two people who aregoing through a divorce and trying to get our individual lives in order. Weare not friends. I feel like our lunch made that clear. If you need todiscuss how sad this process makes you, I am not the person to discuss itwith. I did not respond to your question about my show because I do not wantto encourage you coming to my show. I don't want you to come to my show. Idon't want to respond to messages. I want us to finish the business of thisdivorce and give each of time to get on with our lives."

So, here I am again, backed down from your fucking passive bullshit, then you fucking turn again, you Jekyll and Hyde mother fucker.

When will I learn?

When will I fucking learn?

96 days, 11 hours, 46 minutes since you left me...

2007-01-01T12:16:00.000-05:00

Not much better this a.m.

This was a man who cared about me.

This was a guy who, last week, says "I have something to ask you"... I say, "What?"... "I can't talk about it tonight, but we'll talk tomorrow"...

Next day, which was Wednesday, he asks, (conversation in nutshell) "What do you want?" I say, "To have a good time, go out, you know..." He says, "Yeah, me too..." "I mean, guy, I like you, do you want the truth?" "Yes" "You make me stupid. I get stupid around you. The other guys I'm talking to, I don't get stupid." He says, "Stupid is good, though." So I ask, "What do YOU want?" and he says, kind of quietly, "I want to... date you." and I say, "You want to date me?" and he says "Yes." and I say, "You mean, like, more than once?" and he says, "Yes." And I said, "I want to date you, too, guy."
It was high school and it was wonderful and I was high school giddy happy about the whole thing.
And THEN I FUCKED IT UP.
This WAS a man I had things in common with. You don't understand how rare that is for me. I HATE people.
I'm such an IDIOT.
I couldn't SEE it. I didn't LISTEN. I want to take it all back. I hate you. I hate you for putting this fear into me. I hate myself for listening to it.
I guess it doesn't matter now. It's all over and done.

There was a time when I could have used a friend like you last night. But I don't know if we'll ever be there again. You were, truly, my best friend. Now, I don't know you at all.

All of it got me to thinking about the first time I remembered what happened to me.

My third stint in rehab was the blessing and the curse of my life.

Group always began early in the morning with a round up of us, split into two groups of about fifteen, all ages and races. It started with the holding of hands in a circle and the Serenity Prayer. And we’d sit down to talk. There were usually two counselors present. This one particular morning, it was a man and a woman, I remember it distinctly. I don’t remember their names. But I know they were on opposite sides of the circle. I see that picture in my mind. The counselors were always dressed very professionally, too, as if they were in an office. No crunchy, granola-types here.

They wanted to talk about how our drug and alcohol abuse affected our friends and family. I was wracking my brain, going over my Fourth and Fifth Steps: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves and Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs, while others began to talk about the exact nature of their wrongs.

Let’s see: I had driven drunk, endangering people’s lives. I had stolen money from my family. I had told heinous lies. I had manipulated lots of people. I had—

But then my thought process was interrupted by someone’s story. This big, hulking black man was talking about his crack addiction and he was crying. He was telling the group that he had sold his children’s toys for crack money; their bikes, their video games, even his daughter’s Barbie camper. Other people were crying, too.

I wasn’t.

I was shuddering with rage. My head began to shake back and forth, jerking.

It’s like when I make fudge. When I turn the heat up to medium, the recipe says not to mistake the initial bubbles for boiling. Then, when the mixture starts to boil, I have to stir it constantly, so it doesn't scald. But eventually, no matter how much I stir and stir, the mixture boils so hard that some it inevitably pops out of the pot and burns me. So why was I trying so hard not to make it pop out? It’s going to burn me anyway. Because I want it to stay inside so it’s perfect. But it never is.

It began slowly, just sort of bubbling. Then it began to boil. Then it jumped out and burned me.

Sold his kid’s toys for crack. Parents don’t know what they do to their kids. Parents don’t get what that does to a kid. They don’t think. What father would do that? Kids. Kids. Kids. Fathers. Fathers. Kids kids kids kids fathers fathers Parents don’t realize what they- kids and fathers don’t fathers don’t realize my father had sex with me and I can feel him inside me right now—ohmygod now I understand everything—my father had sex with me

And suddenly I understood everything and it began to burn me and I couldn’t put it back in and my head began to jerk harder back and forth like I was fucking Rain Man or something.

Eventually, the male counselor noticed what was happening and he said, “Adrianne, do you have something to say?”

Um, yeah, I’m an excellent driver.

“Parents don’t understand what they do to kids. Parents don’t realize the damage they do to kids”, I managed to get out, still jerking, looking at the floor; I remember now that I had begun rocking back and forth.

Fan-TASTIC! Now I was a Lifetime Original Movie: “When She Remembered”.

The female counselor said, “Adrianne, are you remembering something?” I just nodded. Then I remember a blanket being put around me and I was led out of the room, like James Brown, except I was trembling and I had lost my soul.

That’s how I remembered.

Some days, I'm glad that I did, because I can express myself more freely and share my experiences, which I wouldn't have had.

Some days, I wish I hadn't, because then I wouldn't be sitting here, chain smoking, not having eaten in a day and a half, listening to my Sad Song mix on my iPod...

looking like a low-rent Merideth Baxter Birney.

New Year's Eve

2006-12-31T22:10:00.000-05:00

There's a beer in front of me.

And five more on the floor.

Next to the beer is a bottle opener.

Corona Extra.

11 years sobriety.

I just am so tired of fighting right now.
So tired of crying.
So tired of remembering.
So tired.
So tired of not being heard.
So tired of my laughter being sliced through with shards of memories.

I've taken my sleeping pills early to sleep through the new year.
Maybe that's affecting me.
I don't know.

11 years of sobriety.
38 years of pain.

They took everything from me and there's no one to hear me. There has never been anyone to really hear me. People walk away. People don't listen. People listen and then they walk away.

Or I can't tell them. I open my mouth and the wrong thing comes out. Because--

They took away my voice.

I am just looking at the bottle. It's just me and it. There's no one here to stop me.
This is not the risk.
Or is this only risk left?
Is this the only friend who will stay with me?
The only cliche?

They succeeded in beating me down. Finally. If that was the goal, by fucking me and violating me and ripping out my insides and tearing my heart out and turning my soul completely black and making my brain a map of confusion and numbing the fibers of my very being down to my core... then they have succeeded.

At least the first four years of my life were uneventful.

I am tired of telling myself I am strong and beautiful.
I am tired of head up, shoulders back.
I am tired of watching children and touching my belly.
I am tired of watching men walk away from me.
I am tired of eating every last bite of pain.
I am tired of dreaming of allowing someone to love me.
I am tired of not letting go.
I am tired of having all of the answers.
I am tired of having all of the power.
I am tired of wishing to let someone in.
I am tired of wondering what it is to cry freely.
I am tired of skipping meals.
I am tired of staring at this beer.
I am tired of saying I am alright.
I am tired of being cool with everything.
I am tired of my history.
I am tired of being so angry.
I am tired.
I am tired.
I am tired.
I am tired and I need someone to let me be tired.
I am tired and I need someone to let me lay down on them and go to sleep.

I
am
tired.

I won't drink this beer. Not because I don't want to.
I hate starting over. I'm too lazy. I've said that a million times. I already feel like a failure. I don't want another one on my hands. And I hate AA. Bunch of complainers. And my Mother would freak out.

My friends are all out partying, assuming I am doing the same with this guy who asked me out from match.com who I politely declined because, well, I didn't want to go out with him just because it was New Year's Eve. My family is at a casino in Louisiana.

Somewhere, you, my ex-husband, are at a party with "our" former friends (now just yours), about to ring in 2007. Somewhere, the guy I just fucked things up with is dancing or making out with some gorgeous thang at an industrial night club, soon to take her home and bang her until the sun comes up, when Friday night he told me he was probably going to stay home because he hates "95% of people". Ugly people, I'm sure, who don't sit on his face.

I am going to bed early, after not being heard, crying myself to sleep after taking a heavy dose of Seroquel, next to two long haired Persians (who will wake me at 8:30am for food), with an unused six pack of Corona. I am on my third pack of Marlboro Lights and sipping a Diet Dr. Pepper, cursing the day I was born, the day I married you, the day I met the guy who's fucking the gorgeous thang, weeping and wishing he'd give me one more chance (and is wearing a condom) and wondering if I am going to make it through 2007 without killing myself.

Happy Fucking New Year.

Idiot Country

2006-12-31T17:59:00.000-05:00

Some friends suggested I ask for a second chance; apologize for the letter.

I had also written the requisite and defensive, pissed off follow-up messages, in response to the curt "Goodbye", because I'm, apparently, still in high school.

Then I got the pissed off message back and definitive goodbye.

But I did it anyway. I apologized, I said I was scared and projecting, because I was. Because I want to be happy and not scared.

It was frightening and risky. But you only live once and life is about risks, so...

Idiot.

I'm trying to ignore that voice.

Living in Idiot Country.

Remembering that I'm something really special.
Someone to be forgiven.
I was sinned against by a lot of folk, and I'm still healing, is all.
Doesn't mean I can't have happiness and good things.
Even in Idiot Country.

_______________________________________________

There has been no response to any messages or calls.
There won’t be.
It was frightening and risky. But you only live once and life is about risks, so...

This is why I don’t get close.

The lights are going down in Idiot Country.
I stand alone again.
Fighting that voice.
Admiring myself, my beauty and strength.

Watching the sunset.
Hoping for better days.

95 days, 8 hours, 28 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-31T10:03:00.000-05:00

June, 2004

You Mother Fucker.

I am crazed with anger.

crazed

I am crazed with loneliness.

crazed

I am so mad at you.

So mad at myself.

I can't just shut the fuck up.

I can't just let things go.

And I blame you.

You Mother Fucker.

I can't let things be perfectly nice.

I can't let someone like me.

I can't let someone care for me.

I won't let it happen.

crazed

I don't love you.

I don't want you.

But you are still here. You are still here that night, telling me that you aren't in love with me anymore and you haven't been for several years and you're not attracted to me and you haven't been. You are here, telling me you were pretending and stopped trying and you're sorry, even though I kept trying and loving you and you know that. You are here, telling me it's not me. You are here, packing my bag at 1am. You are here, telling me the last 4 years have been lies. You are here, making me feel like it is all my fault. You are here, telling me I forced you into everything for the last ten years. You are here, telling me not to touch you because you have hatred and resentment for me. You are here, wanting "the last ten years of my life back", as the door slams in my face at 1:30am. You are here, a specter still saying those words over and over again, even though you have since apologized and recanted in that sort-of pathetic and half-assed way that you do.

crazed and alone because that's what you have done to me

I blame you entirely.

What are you doing tonight?

I am here, in my home, that was our home, knowing that I have so much to give someone, but I can't, because you took it all away from me and I don't know how to get it back. I am here now, stealing it away from myself, robbing myself blind out of fear that I will end up alone, which I am, anyway, so... I am here, laughing at the whole, fucked up situation as I just cry, looking and sounding like a maniac, when I'm a very gentle and kind creature--

who wants to strangle you.

I am here, remembering that I know what it like to be happy and have fun with some one's whose company I enjoy, but it seems foggy, hidden behind an accumulation of aversion that is blocking me. It slams down in front of me just when I think I'm getting around it.

I blame you.

Mother Fucker.

I just sabotaged something that was good and promising.

I can't get it back.

I wish I could. I wish I could get a do-over. One more do-over. One more chance to not be afraid. But it wouldn't matter. Nothing would change. You'd still be there, saying all of those things. Telling me he was going to leave. No matter what he said to me. Your cruelty echoes in my head like we were in a cavern.

You won't go away yet.

crazed

I just have to keep climbing this big, fat wall of dark cloud, not knowing where the steps are, not knowing where it stops or how to get over it, praying I find the top and soar over, descending down the other side gently, landing softly on the ground.

Well, it's just later...

2006-12-30T22:03:00.000-05:00

I did send that long, long letter to the gentleman I like, explaining to him that I couldn't see him anymore because I like him.

Now I sit here crying as I write this. Because I do like him and I feel very happy when I am with him, and that scares the shit out of me and the I just turn into a crazy person, all frightened and nervous. It's not fair to him and it's not fair to me.

I don't want to be recovering from this abandonment. I want to be recovered. I want to get on with it already. I want to be able to have fun with someone and date some one with whom I click and connect because I'm selective and I'm very hard to match up with.

And it also makes me sad. Very sad.

I feel alone again. There are plenty of other guys who want to go out with me, sure, but I actually liked this one! And he liked me!

And I miss him already.

Very few people make me laugh. He made me laugh.

I had to walk away. I was terrified.

And now, now I'm just sad and crying and I wonder if I'll ever be able to let myself just like or love or trust someone ever again with out wanting to run away...

like I just did.

Just now.

94 days, 17 hours, 10 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-30T18:27:00.000-05:00

I'll tell you what feels peachy keen: spending New Year's Eve alone. Or, at least, I think it'll be a real blast.

At least last year, even though you fell asleep, you were here.

Here's a fun idea: I'll just take my sleeping medication early so I can just crash early and forget that I'm alone on New Year's Eve.

All of the parties we went to in previous years were "our" friend's parties. "Mutual" friends. New guy hasn't asked me, though last night at dinner he said that he wasn't really doing anything and I suggested we spend it together and there wasn't really an answer which means "NO thank you", plus I haven't heard from him today and he told me to call and I did and blabbity bla...

God, I suck the pathetic cock like it's mother's milk.

Another guy from Match.com asked me out, but I don't know if I really dig him and I'd hate to go out with him just because I'm pathetically lonely. Plus, what about the midnight kiss?

No, I'll stay home, slurping on the cathode nipple until my meds kick in and then probably feel sorry for myself and cry myself to sleep.

YAY!

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5.....

4... does this get easier?

3... I should just stay alone.

2... I hate holidays and I never thought I'd say that.

1... that's me... and I never thought I'd say that.

94 days, 11 hours, 44 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-30T11:28:00.001-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June 2000

The finality of it all.

The divorce papers are signed.

Still, there's a sadness to it, the finality of it all. Feels like another chapter in the Big Book of Failures. I don't know what was the lesson. I don't know what was the experience.

Not to trust again. To push my next lover as far away as possible while still trying to get as close to him as I can without seeming a complete mess of a fool.

I get to start over!

I don't want to start over. I'm tired of starting over. My whole life has been a do-over. My whole life has been climbing the thick, prickly, sticky vines to what?

I promised myself, when I became a working actor, a paid actor, that I would stay in my profession. I have worked too hard to get here. But now here is nowhere. Here is behind on rent and every bill and in real trouble financially. Here is no income because unemployment has suspended my benefits on a technicality for the past 5 weeks and the next 4. Here is waiting for checks to come, busting my ass at callbacks and auditions and battling writer's block and fear about my second book. Here is that I didn't save those years where I made really good money (way more than you) because I never imagined you were going to leave at the lowest point in my life financially, so I bought big ticket items we wanted or needed. I made things possible for you to do for your career. Now, my career is waiting for checks, callbacks, auditions, writer's block to clear, pride and dreams to take a backseat... That's where here is now.

I don't know if I was generous, stupid, loved you, loyal or all of the above... but that's what happened. And all the time, you were lying to me. Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

Next time, I know better.

There is no next time.

There is, however, the finality of it all. In 5-6 weeks, it will all be null. All of that time. 10 years. 6 or so of it was real.

You wasted my time.

I had a second date with the really nice guy last night. He keeps saying he likes me and I want to kill him. I actually told him to stop being nice to me. That's got to make a man feel good. Makes me look real stable, too. Then I finally told him he could, I gave him permission to be nice to me. It confused the shit out of him. I confused the shit out him. And he stuck around. Because he likes me...

He likes me and I want to kill him.

I like him and I want to kill him.

It's like I want to go so fast, so I know he won't run away. If I do this, he won't run, if I do that, he won't run... if I fuck him, he won't run. Because you just... ran away. And I don't want to be that woman. I don't want to be someone to call incessantly, or message or email 10 times a day, or want to "just to hear your voice" and all of that bullshit. That's not me. That has never been me. I know I'm attractive, I know I'm smart and funny and wonderful and all of that, it's not that, I don't need reassurance. I am fucking awesome and any man is lucky to have me. It's just this stupid fucking FEAR.

It's only this way because I like this guy. You made me this woman, this scared person. Scared of what? It's completely irrational and unfounded, to think someone who likes you and thinks about you and wants to be with you will just leave...

Now I have to undo what you did. I have to hope I can untangle this without mucking up a lovely connection with a nice person.

But...

I don't want to start over.

I said that already.

After this decree goes through, I want it to be the last chapter in the Big Book of Failures for a while...

91 days, 11 hours, 41 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-27T12:11:00.000-05:00

Happy Holidazed
12/25/2006

What a strange Christmas this was. "Alone". "Single". "Onezie".

That was me.

"What to do if you're single for the holidays!"

You mean: "treat yourself to a mani/pedi" or "enjoy quiet time"?!!?

Fuuuuuuuuck youuuuuuuuu.

I mean: listen to the criticisms of my Mother about what you need/should/are going to have to do to make it the world now, like "get a part time job" or "marry a man with money"?!!?

Fuuuuuuuuck youuuuuuuuu.

How about: not trust the guy I went out with who is now telling me he "really cares" for me and will "miss" me when I went to Louisiana or that he won't stop being nice to me when I tell him to stop it?!!? Especially when he seems really genuine? Why don't I see how much farther I can push him away this Friday night when we go out again?

Why don't I do that?

Oh, yeah, I already AM!

I can't blame you. I would love to do nothing more than blame you; to say that my trust was shattered solely because of what you did the night you left. That wouldn't be the entire truth, though. It started so long before you.

You just put the nail in the coffin, good sir.

You went from not being a handyman at all to suddenly appearing with a hammer in your hand like Thor the Avenger, swiftly swinging into action, pounding it solidly into place.

No, the fabrication of my doom began eons ago, through all the muck of my life. I just let you into the places, those trusting places I never let anyone go...

I will never let anyone unlock those doors again.

I don't care about superficially discussing my history; abuse, addiction, psychosis... but what is beneath that... no.

No one can have that again. No one can have that gift.

Merry Christmas.

And to all a good night.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2006-12-23T10:51:00.000-05:00

Takin' a bit o' a break while in Louisiana!

BUT HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERYBODY

FROM HERE IN DA' BAYOU!!

84 days, 7 hours, 22 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-20T08:52:00.000-05:00

We had lunch yesterday.

It did not end well.

Not as well I we would have liked.

I don't even want to talk about it.

At least my date went well. He was nice.

That's something.

And none of my holiday cookies or fudge has gone awry.

I have to find some things to be grateful for... besides my health and my home.

Oh, and I quit smoking again.

I wish our lunch had gone better.

I wish I didn't feel you were such a narcissistic fuckhead.

But I'm not sorry

I called you one.

82 days, 19 hours, 42 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-18T21:12:00.000-05:00

There's a breakdown a-comin'.

It feels like it's a-comin'.

Like a twister.

This is the calm before.

I don't know how much longer I can hold it in... place nice with you... not scream at you for helping put me in this position... broke, hungry, indebted, anxious, scared...

After all of those years I supported you. I bought most everything in this house. I let you advance your career. I gladly helped you. I thought I was helping --

both of us.

Why didn't I plan and save?

Because I didn't think this would happen.

I don't know if I can keep my chin aloft any further.

This is the calm before.

Take shelter.

81 days, 16 hours, 43 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-17T16:22:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June 2000

I didn't think the holidays would be this hard. But they are. They are particularly hard.

I am visiting with friends and baking and making fudge and all that...

but they are just

hard.

79 days, 18 hours, 20 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-15T19:49:00.000-05:00

This entire fiasco with the man who's name sounds like Buhyouknowhat Buhyouknowhat is about confusing passion with chaos.

I spent ten years with you. Ten years with a man who was gentle, but not passionate. You were dead a lot of the time, you had no fire and very little spark.

So, the thought of a man just looking at me with desire, Christ, just thinking about me with desire, in his eyes shoots into me the adrenaline of 1000 people.

Here I am.

Not wholly broken.

Not wholly whole.

I lived with and tolerated someone who was emotionally retarded. I lived with it for a long time.

And now, I am playing tag with some stranger with whom I am completely ambivalent who is completely ambivalent towards me.

He is a broken, self-loathing person with an identity crisis, possibly looking for someone to heal him. He's one of those goth, vampire people, from what I gather on his Myspace page. You know, those people who have custom made fangs and contact lenses; they make up their faces to a deathly pallor on weekend nights and go to industrial clubs. They wear dark ensembles and have elaborate "identities" and go to goth nights and shit like that. It's another life they have. Pentagrams, blood stones, fangs, bla bla bla... it's basically harmless. They have their own circles and they don't hurt anyone.

My friend says that's why he won't meet me. He can't show his real self. He can only communicate online or through his other life. That's why he's an artist. She knew people like that in college...

College, people!

This guy is 33. It's not for fun anymore... it's a fucking life choice.

Oh, yeah.

But it's not about him. It's about me.

What the fuck am I doing?

Why can't I just let go of someone, just because he says he likes and lusts after me? Do I need it that badly? Am I that damaged?

Because I'm afraid there won't be anyone after him.

Why do I gravitate to broken, unstable men?

Because I think I can heal them.

What am I learning?

Nada.

Will I stop?

I

don't

know.

78 days, 8 hours, 6 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-14T09:24:00.000-05:00

I was set to have a date last night with someone I met on Match .com.

We had messaged, talked on the phone, texted.

I sent a message in the a.m. that said it was "read" on myspace confirming the time and place.

I had wrapped up a lovely package of homemade fudge (which I was making for gifts for others) with sage and cinnamon, because I'm a sap. I looked really nice. I'm an idiot.

I waited for 20 minutes and was stood up. Now, I am not one to walk away from this sort of thing quietly, 1) because I have been through too much in my life to put up with that sort of thing w/out tearing someone a new asshole for acting in that manner and 2) FUCK YOU for doing that to ME!

SO, I left a nasty, nasty message and sent a nasty, nasty text.

Phone rings... it's him. I won't say his name, but it rhymes with Buhglenn Buhhidalgo. We're both arguing, basically a "What the fuck?" kind of things and he's telling me that he was waiting for me to call him all day to set the time and that is complete bullshit. But I apologize for our "wires getting crossed".

"What now?" I say

"Well I have to work", he says. He asks if I am available Friday. No I am not. He says he'll call me at 10 and if his work is done, he'll get in his car and come over.

What do I do?

I wait. and wait. and wait. And call. and send a clever message. and another clever message.

Takes me a while to realize he's a fucking liar. And a player.

And a liar.

I left a voice mail saying, "I just realized, you're a fucking liar".

Buhglenn Buhhidalgo.

I'm an idiot. AND I'm crying. Because I know I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life.

Because I packaged fudge for him.

Because I thought he liked me because he said he liked me.

Because I don't know why this happened.

I sent him an email, very smart, telling him he was a very sad and hurtful person to have to do this for his own sense of self-worth, but he would not beat me down and I hoped someday he'd find peace. Not that it matters. Not that a man like that gives a shit. Heartless, souless, mean and cold.

I just hope I can find peace. This is why I don't trust.

I need to go back to not dating again.

____________________________

2 hours later...

I get an email from Buhglenn Buhhidalgo:

"I am correcting you. You are a paranoid person. I guess I am kicked out of the Kingdom again. At least it lasted 2 weeks.It was no game, you could of had me."

Am I being paranoid? Am I too sensitive? Is this what happens when my husband leaves me?

Is this because you left? Even though I don't love you anymore?

Well, you know me... I can't stand for THAT bullshit, so I told him about you and what happened and said, "I don't care if you give a shit, but that's where I'm coming from... a low trust factor".

But when will it ever be high again?

75 days, 20 hours, 4 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-11T11:49:00.000-05:00

Universal Studios, Honeymoon, King Kong Ride, 2000

We've been playing nice, you and I.

In fact since the lawyers got involved, we haven't fought at all.

We're having lunch Friday. Just you and me. At Bubby's. No pie for me, though, but they have fantastic pie. Some of the best pie in the city.

I spoke to you Saturday while you were in Texas. We were just talking, no big deal. And you started to cry.

"What's wrong," I said, "Why are you crying?"

"It's just," you said, "This is tough."

"No it's not," I said, "It's fine. I mean, I eventually expect an apology from you for the way you left and the things you said the night you left..."

"I'm sorry", you said.

"No, let's wait until we're face to face for that."

"It's just," you continued crying, "I miss my best friend".

Oh God. Stop it. Shut the fuck up. You know what I miss? Money. Food. Stability. Trust. Sex (I DONE been missin' that). Respect. Are you fucking kidding me?!!? I eat one meal a day right now to save money.

I'm not going to lie. I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah", I said.

I am grateful that you offered to pay for the cat's food and medicine if you could afford it. That was cool.

Look, I'm glad we're getting along. I'm glad we can be friends. I'm sorry you "miss" your "best friend".

But that ain't coming back for a long time.

If ever.

73 days, 20 hours, 46 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-08T23:16:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing I worry about, when I eventually do start to date, in a galaxy far, far away:

When they say, "Do you want children?", I will say, "Yes, I want them". Because I suppose I do. I just can't have them. Now how do you tell a man that? How do you tell a man who wants a child of his own that you can't bear that for him?

And, oh, by the way, my father molested me for 13 years

and, oh by the way, I take tons of medication

and, oh, by the way, I've attempted suicide at least 5 times since I was twelve

and, oh, by the way, I've had hysterical blindness, so I don't want to spend the night with you...

What happens then? How do I tell them all of that...

and more?

71 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-06T11:29:00.000-05:00

I am really in a good place about being alone. I'm not talking about the loneliness factor. That comes and goes.

I miss Frankenstein. And soon, he will be replaced. That'll help. The little death that comes (no pun intended) with the aid of a battery powered friend is always a treat, and I never, ever feel some sort of letdown afterwards that I don't get a cuddle. I usually fall asleep anyway.

I'm such a boy.

I miss conversation, mostly, and laughs; those intimate laughs, not the laughs I get with my friends. I mean, I can fill every night until the cows come home with activities and will still get lonely for intimate contact, but it isn't so bad.

What I don't miss and what I don't want to deal with is the bullshit mind fucking that seems to be rampant in the dating world.

Act cool and let him do the chasing, because that's what "they" like.
Chase him, but don't let him know you're chasing him.
Let him kiss you, but only on the cheek.
Kiss him, but only on the right cheek, because that symbolizes your independence.
Don't touch his cock until the 5th and a half date.
Let him touch your breast on the 3rd and a quarter date if it's with his opposing hand on a cold winter night.
Don't answer the phone if he calls, make him think you're busy.
Don't call for two days after you get his number.
He's just not that into you.
Act like you're just not that into him.
Follow the rules.
Make the rules follow you.
Eat the rules.
Make the rules eat you, but only on a cold winter night.

I feel like we should all be wearing sabre tooth skin letting the men drag us around by the hair. "Men like chase, me like club women and drag into cave, men like poundy poundy on 'gina 'gina then go sleep. Don't show men feeling until men ready."

What the fucky fucky?

I'm not Bella Abzug, and thank God, because I hated her choice in hat wear, nor am I Gloria Steinem. I think a fish may need a bicycle.

I like the thrill of flirting and chasing and all of the fun stuff that goes with the beginning of dating and all that, but fuck all, can't it just happen? Can't I just be myself? Aren't they going to discover who I am anyway?

Pssssst! They still love me for who I am, anyway. They still fall for me. Because I am who I am.

Gah!

Gah, for fuck's sake!

Maybe that's partly why I'm not ready... maybe I'm not up for the games.

I prefer Operation. Don't forget his funny bone.
I prefer Connect Four. Pretty sneaky, Sis.
I prefer Twister. Right hand on my ass, please.

I prefer to just be my silly, unusual, extraordinary, delightful, brilliant, blazing, beautiful self.

If that's wrong... I'll stay alone, then, and play by my own rules.

70 days, 8 hours, 26 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-05T09:55:00.000-05:00

"My spoon is too big"

"I am a BANANA!"

from Rejected by Don Hertzfeldt

A few years ago, we discovered a short, animated film called Billy's Balloon,about balloons that rebelled against kids and started beating them and taking them into the sky and dropping them, etc., by Don Hertzfeldt.

Funniest--thing--ever.

You discovered a short piece on Youtube called Rejection. You showed it to me and we laughed our asses off. Suddenly, "My spoon is too big", became a staple in our household. Another inside joke we held dear to our hearts.

Well, for some reason, when I was home in Louisiana for Thanksgiving, I kept saying it: "My spoon is too BIG... my SPOON is too BIG"... much to the wonderment and stares of my family and friends. I would laugh at the thought of Rejected. I didn't care to explain it or show the short to anyone, because I didn't think they'd get it. It's pretty dark.

Things have quieted since our lawyers have begun handling everything. I told you that I'd like to have dinner or coffee before you leave in mid-January. You said it's cool. I guess we're ready for that now. The more I think about it, the sadder I get.

Like a little piece of my life falling away again.

So, I was in a cab last night going to The Bowery Poetry Club to perform and I was thinking, "My spoon is too big" and I called you in TX, where you are this week and I left you a message:

My spoon is too big. I had to tell you that, because I was thinking it, but I'm in a cab going to my show that (a friend) is also doing, so I'm not doing the voice. But, "My spoon is too big and 'I am a Banana'. I'll talk to you later".

When I finished the show, I had a voice mail. It was you.

(In the funny voice) "My spoon is too big... My SPOON is too BIG"... yeah, I was just showing that film to some friends here yesterday. Tell (our friend) hi and you guys have a great show. I'll talk to you when I get back.

I laughed and laughed at that silly voice, dead on from the stick figure with the spoon. Everyone said that we would eventually be friends and I said "No fucking way". Maybe they were right. Maybe what I'm working through now is just the loneliness and sadness.

It's the thought of betrayal I feel; that I've felt by so many people that I've loved.

Like I seek them out.

Pile on the holiday and we've got depression lift off.

Or not lift off.

We've got depression wanting to lift off, but it can't because, well, it's depression.

BLAR.

68 days, 12 hours, 18 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-03T11:29:00.001-05:00

Holiday Card (1978),
2005

Usually, by this time, I have the Christmas decorations up, the cards are designed (the era is picked, the photo is taken and Photoshopping has begun), the Evite to our holiday bash has been sent and I've planned the menu for the party.

Usually, by this time, I have picked out which 4-5 cookies and candies (plus the requisite "Fantasy Fudge" which is my staple) I am making to give to friends and people with whom I am acquainted; service personnel and the like.

Usually, by this time, Christmas music swells through the apartment as I bake and the scent of chocolate and ginger fill the lobby of our building.

Instead, my home doesn't twinkle or sparkle. It smells like Raid and cigarettes. "Fight the Power" is currently ending on my iTunes, next is "Weapon of Choice", then "Bring The Noise".

Don't be shocked by the tone of my voice.

I am the Martha Stewart of Queens, I swear to God, except with a nose ring and Wellbutrin. Well, I was. Gift wrapping with adornments. "I don't want to unwrap it, it's so pretty"...

If you walk without rhythm, you never learn.

I used to walk up 5th Avenue to look at the window displays.

I didn't think the holidays would be so hard, because you never really cared about them so much. I always had to rally around you to get you excited. I had double the Christmas energy. But I loved it! And then you'd eventually crack a smile. You'd get a little excited, too. I"d come home and you'd have put up the lights to surprise me or something like that. It was lovely. There was spirit.

We wore Santa hats during the party. We watched Rankin Bass videos. We had a craft table for people to make their own ornaments. We had fun. That's all in the closet. Every thing's in the closet now. All the fun is bundled up.

Halfway between the gutter and the stars

I was in a store the other day and Debbie Reynolds singing "I'll Be Home For Christmas" played and every time she sang, "I'll be home for Christmas", I said, with serious ghetto attitude, "No you won't, shut the fuck up, bitch". If I could fly to L.A. and bitch slap Debbie Reynolds, I would.

But that doesn't have anything to do with the song.

She knows why.

I created an Evite last night. I titled it, "I Can't Believe She's Having That Party!" Broke as I am, I made tentative plans to have the party. I made a menu that was scaled back. The guest list was considerably smaller, because of mutual or you friends not being on it... or associates... or whatever. I have most of the crafting supplies. I could ask people to bring pot luck, as a friend suggested. I'm torn. I don't know. I just don't know.

I don't know if I can do it alone. Not because of the workload. I always cooked everything and set up the placement of everything. Just because...

just because...

I didn't send the Evite. Yet.

Yet.

If I can bring myself to put in my favorite Christmas CD, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and take down the first box of decorations--

I will hit Send...

67 days, 21 hours, 21 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-02T21:51:00.000-05:00

Today, I sat on my couch and worked on my book proposal on my laptop.

Sometimes, I caught up on my reading.

Sometimes, my reading was a real book. Sometimes, my reading was plain old magazines.

Then I had a cheeseburger and fries, which I haven't had in several months.

Then I caught up on my Tivo viewing.

Also, I took a nap.

Today was awesome.

66 days, 19 hours, 21 minutes since you left me...

2006-12-01T19:45:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to lie. I'm having a hard week.

I'm not feeling very strong right now, not even to "fake it 'til I make it".

Whatever forces have been working within or without me to beat me down have succeeded in beating me down right now.

I am out of work. I owe everyone money, a lot of money. Rent's behind and increased. Insurance is due today and I don't have it yet. The attorney is expensive. The psychiatrist is expensive. My meds are expensive. the cat's meds are expensive. I have a loaf of bread and some PB & J. My house looks like a war zone and my sick kitty thinks the kitchen sink is his litter box.

I feel alone. I live alone. I am alone. I go out with friends and fake it but don't make it. I miss my best friend, but I can't have him in my life ever again.

I'm sure it's probably not true, but I feel like you've got it so much better than me right now. I'm not mad at you. Just sad. You are completely free of me. You are free of my illnesses, my neurosis, the cats, the house, the bills, everything. Especially the me part. Me and my shit, right?

Toxic.

I can't find my iPod to help me escape and I feel adrift without music. I left in LA, I think.

The attorney said you agreed to the terms we asked for, so that's settled. And I'm unsettled, because it's almost over and that chapter means another Loser sticker on my record. Another failure. The thought of the finality of signing divorce papers is terrifying. Then what? I'm 38. Then what? Then where? Then how?

What all exactly am I holding onto? There are things so much deeper than all of this here in these pages and the time has come...

But I'm so tired. And I miss my friend. And I'm so fucking tired.

Strange, it's like the first few weeks after you left all over again. Like a ton of bricks. The house seems cavernous again. Echo... echo... echo... Probably because I tried to recover so quickly, riding that adrenaline high and this is the sugar crash.

Too many Pixie Sticks and Lick-M-Aids. CRASH! Right into the shit.

Right into financial and emotional crisis after a hellish vacation where I transformed into Codependent Cathy driving her Control Cadillac (with mags and headers).

Look out everybody, I'll save you and, if not, I'll run you over!!

I feel sick and sad today when I want to feel strong and healthy.

Like bull...

I don't want to be strong today. I feel like I can't make it on my own today, I feel so fucking small.

It's strange and disturbing to me how you just disappeared.

Poof!

Like that.

So fast to get away from me.

Into thin air.

I haven't seen you since... when?

I don't want you here, but

I just realized how

empty

everything

feels

today.

And I am finding the reasons you left so valid. I am listening to them again and wounded and deflated to the point where I allow the words to convince me they are the truth.

My armor is cracking.

I am so tired right now. I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to ask "What am I going to do?" anymore. I don't recognize my face at this crisis point.

But I said here, in these pages, that I know what to do to survive and stay strong.

Get up.

Keep going.

I know what to do to keep surviving. I didn't make it this far just on my looks, you know.

So do it, right?

Yeah.

So do it.

Can I just do it tomorrow?

We Got One

2006-11-30T17:14:00.000-05:00

Someone used to ask me why I didn't post negative comments. I had never gotten one, until today.

I want everyone to know if you have a negative comment, send it, I don't give a shit if you hate what I'm doing or think it's bullshit. I'll publish it and I won't always defend myself. Say what you have to say; that's what I'm doing. This blog is not gonna be everybody's cup of tea or fur or whatever. Just because I'm writing about personal stuff doesn't mean you can't tear the fuck out of it.

I'm totally ready to roll with it.

65 days, 13 hours, 13 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-30T14:43:00.000-05:00

Wow. Being a grown up is hard work.

I've been in a financial and emotional shit storm since you left and it's just getting worse. Add to the fact that this is really the first time I guess that I've really been on my own, ever, in my life. I'm learning really quickly as I go. I've never worked so hard to learn and stay afloat in my life.

Fuckadoodle.

I feel like Sandra Bullock in that "Hope Floats" movie, where she has to move back home because her husband leaves her and takes everything and she has her tail between her legs. But this isn't a movie and Harry Connick, Jr. isn't comeing by in a cowboy hat to rescue me.

Moving back home after twelve years in NYC, when things are happening in my career. I can't let that happen. I will sell everything I own to not let that happen.

I will not fail. I will not lose.

I want to crawl under the covers and stay there.

My father was right, everyone whoever said I wouldn't make it was right, that little voice in my head is right... they're right. I'm too damaged, too broken, I can't make it in the real world on my own. "Why did she move back home?" "She was talented, but she couldn't handle it out there on her own, she's got mental problems... because she was molested.... because she takes medication... because she's unstable, crazy, poisonous, shredded, obsessive, compulsive, toxic, faded, unmotivated, used, burned out, raped, reviled, cheating, decimated, kicked, dirty, desperate, sad, sorry, anorexic, bulimic, alcoholic, drug addicted, weak, manipulative, disjointed, buried, beaten, hateful, hated, stubborn, maleficent, split, out of line, out of her mind, hideous, deformed, morbid, destructive, dark, putrid, fetid, incapable, retarded, alone, alone, alone, alone and insane, insane, insane and she never leaves her Mother's house anymore".

I won't stay under the covers. I won't listen to any one's words that try to hurt me. I will not fail.

I will work for it and I will achieve it.

64 days, 18 hours, 35 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-29T19:05:00.000-05:00

And now, for a break and your smiling pleasure...

A KITTEN!!!!

64 days, 15 hours, 28 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-29T16:58:00.000-05:00

My head is cocked to the side like a puppy when you call it for the first time from across the room.

The mental hairdo is gently braided into two Swiss Miss plaits on either side of my puppy head.
I am Gretel, the Burnese Mountain Dog.

And things have been ruff.

Oh God, my sides...!

It all goes back to my childhood, doesn't it, and the dysfunction suffered at the hands of my family, doesn't it? Yup, oh yup, yupster.

Fuck me running. Seriously. Fuck me as I start the marathon, keep fucking me whilst I turn the corners, continue the fuckage as I pass the other runners and blow your wad when I reach the finish line.

See, here's how it works: I grew up in an abusive and alcoholic home, where I was called "insane", "crazy", "stupid", "toxic", "judgemental"... all the things my current alcoholic friend was calling me this weekend as I tried sooooo desperately to unchain his fervent soul.

So here I was braiding layer upon layer, intertwining story upon story, pattern over pattern, so that they blend perfectly together and sit prettily on my head. My father=my best friend=my family=my family=my best friend=my father....my God. All entwined and repeating itself over and over in the course of four days.

My sexuality, sensuality, intimacy, attractiveness... were all called ugly and negated after being celebrated and revered. Once again, I was loved and reviled by someone I cared so much about and loved far too much; gave admittance and permission to and kept going back, kept granting him access to hook me into his unmanageable world.

It's like he held up a shiny object in his right hand and while I was distracted by it, he shanked me in the side with a homemade blade, then apologized and did it again. Over and over. Because I trusted him and loved him, I let him dress the wound and then do it again until there was nothing left to stab and I lay in pieces on the ground.

Until, finally, he told me to go to hell, he was done with me. Oh, no. I wasn't done. I wasn't done fixing him. So I became unmanageable. I went to his home to talk to him. I wouldn't let him go. It was the most ridiculous thing I could do. He wasn't even there and I waited like a fool... like a sick person would do.

Because I had become a sick person.

And we argued on the phone as he sat in a bar and I sat at his house and he didn't even have the courage to face me, to come and tell me to leave face to face. He was "gonna call the cops". He said I was out of line and I was out of line.

Because I had become a sick person.

I drove away from his house after a while and we still argued on the phone. I went to the place where he and I used to go when we were kids and sat with the engine running, remembering when...

I listened to him say hello to someone he knew in that bar... someone he knew in that bar... a watering hole, like where my father used to go... where my father used to go and my stomach began to turn as he said, "None of my friends and I fight like this, none of my friends do this to me," and I said "I know you better!" and he hung up.

I left messages and I let him have it. Did he hear me? No. Did I feel better? Yeah.

I do, though. Know him better.

I know him better.

That's the long and short of it. I know him better and I won't let him destroy his life, so I can't be in it anymore.

I know him better and I can't let him destroy my life, so I can't be in it anymore.

Kinda like my dad.

I love them both, very, very much.

I have room in my heart for him, always.

Just no more room in my life.

61 days, 23 hours, 36 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-29T01:05:00.000-05:00

Me, at Sam's club, showing off a gianormous can of gravy, November 24,2006

This picture was taken by my best friend a few hours before all hell broke loose, he got batshit alcoholic and I got batshit codependent.

A few weeks prior to this, I detached myself from him, completely out of love. I totally detached. Then I led myself right back to him and allowed myself to be emotionally and verbally victimized and brutalized repeatedly.

Why did I do that?

I did the same thing with you.

With both of you, I knew in my gut to walk the fuck away.

Starting Friday night, I went on Co-Dependent Bandstand. I went a-hoppin', I went a-boppin' away.

I was in a frenzy. I gave away enough energy in the last four days to light up the entire state of Louisiana. I actively participated in and encouraged my own victimization!

Hey, Ma! Look what I can do!

Read my new book: Ten Steps To Destructive Martyrdom.

Was this the "denial" part of the divorce being projected onto some other aspect of my life? Dr. Kubler Ross, is this the first phase?

I was clouded in a shroud of denial, feeling I should stand up for myself, then falling back into a dripping kaleidoscope of blame and shame, guilt and confusion, being hooked on every insult and bit of anger he threw at me; then grabbing desperately onto his occasional words of comfort or love. I tried too hard to make things "happen". I wanted to help him get better, to stop his drinking. I tried to control him and overstepped his boundaries from caring to co dependence, as he overstepped my boundries of everything.

I felt like I hadn't used that word in so long, then I realized I had been that way for so many years with you.

He called me "poisonous... crazy... insane... toxic..." and I am none of those things. He got onto his white horse like a white knight with a bottle of Glenn Levitt and then ran me through the heart with a lance in one joust. I though I was making him feel warm and safe, but I was only opening wounds farther and farther and letting blood that couldn't stop.

I try not to let his words shatter me like a stupid, cheap piece of glass; like razors cutting mindlessly in a circular motion. He told me that he chose those words deliberately. He also chose them wisely. I had told him that being called "insane" tore my heart and soul apart. Yeah, he chose wisely. So, there he stands on the other side of the bridge.

"I know why you hate it here (my hometown)", he said, "You have no friends left because no one wants to put up with your shit". Actually, none of them live there anymore, but I actually believed him for a second. "It's the alcohol talking," I said, as if he were the new Mel Gibson... I made excuses when people told me he was wrong and an asshole and my brother wanted to kill him for making me cry so much and for so long. I kept that cycle of denial and self-blame going on and on and on.

I can fix this. I can help him. He's right. I'll tell him he's right and then I can help him. If I could just bundle him off, swaddle him up and take him with me to New York and detox him for a week---

Wait right there, Co-Dependent Queen, we're taking your crown and putting you in a straight jacket.

Yeah, that's how crazy I got. That is how crazy, obsessive, compulsive, fucked up codependent I got in four fucking days. I kept saying, "I shouldn't have gone over there Wednesday", "I shouldn't have let him kiss me", "I shouldn't have gotten in the car Friday night", "I should have stuck to my guns about him not drinking around me"... and my family and friends just kept repeating as I cried and cried, "It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault".

Looking back, there's one example of how tricky he was, how I should have seen right through it all, how it really wasn't about me, after all: we were in the driveway of my Mother's house, Saturday morning. He had told me, the night before, that Wednesday was a mistake, etc., and he was being such an asshole about it all. He was telling me that he couldn't give me intimacy and sex because I was his best friend. He was telling me that it was different with another girl that he was friends with and gave those things to because he didn't tell her the same things he told me. He said I was his BEST FRIEND. He kept saying that: "BEST FRIEND". He was telling me that it would ruin the friendship for him, but he couldn't tell me why. So here he was setting up all of these boundaries and parameters about our relationship and I said something about Wednesday night and the kissing and tenderness and he says, "You really are a good kisser".

What? What the FUCK? Puh-scuse me? Where's the line buddy? What were we just talking about? Inappropriate! I call FOUL!

"You really are a good kisser"?!!? In the midst of it all? My God.

I am now gathering warm comfort from my family and friends and myself. I didn't think I would have to let go of someone else so fucking soon.

I am going to put as much into letting him go as I did into trying to get control of him. Letting things happen is what's going to happen anyway, yes?

Yes.

I wish him love. I wish him wellness. I wish him peace. I pray for him. That is all I can do.

I give him his life back. I take mine back. I set him free. I become free.

I will detach and let go.

I surrender.

60 days, 8 hours, 48 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-28T10:18:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June 2000

Two months... well, almost two months, give or take a few days, since you left.

Wow.

And it just seems to be settling in now. I don't mean the whole, "Oh, God, I love and miss him so, ho ho ho ho much". No, I mean—

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. This is it, ain’t it? I mean, for reals, as ‘dey say in ‘da Bronx. It’s mostly nice and kinda scary, as ‘dey say in ma’ brain.

It’s frustrating for me, knowing I can’t rush it along.

Oh, I’ll just take a pottery class, do Hatha yoga, learn some stitchery, join a book club, start going back to AA and get a home meeting and focus on me now and I’ll be fine in a few months.

It’s longer than a few months. Well, maybe not for you. Maybe it happened for you a few months before. Maybe you were in the pupal stages and packing that big ol’ bag was when your wings began to sprout.

Was Mariah Carey’s “Butterfly” soaring through your head as your traipsed your fat ass up the boulevard, you pussy?

BE NICE!

How long will it take for me to let go (and let God, as they say in The Program?) and be nice?

My lawyer called me while I was still here in Louisiana. You and your lawyer have seemed to have agreed to our terms.

What?

Which means this will be easy.

Which means he wants out out out out out OUT OUT OUT, you crazy bitch.

I always look on the bright side of life (whistle ala Monty Python).

No, it means that you want this over as quickly as I do so that you can move on as well. I appreciate that you are not haggling over money issues and your responsibilities. Shocked, but appreciative.

MY life is beginning again.

Remember that. Remember that. Remember that!

I leave Louisiana today.

My alcoholic best friend is drinking himself to death and he doesn’t care. He is killing himself, he is killing his family, and he has killed our friendship. He has destroyed our relationship and pushed me so far away that I can’t even recognize him anymore. I don’t know what he looks like. I tried so frantically to hang onto him, thinking I could save him and make him see the truth and the light and the good, and I turned myself into something that he, and I, hated. I became that person that gives up their self-control, their self-esteem, their pride… I have been where he is, with alcohol, drugs and food, hell, even with cigarettes; that place where you can’t control it, you have to have it and you are ashamed to have the people closest to you see you use it, so you get angry at yourself and then you lash out at them, you become angry and snap and you say the cruelest things. That is what happened to my friend. I wanted him to open up his heart to me and just be happy and not drink around me, because I’m 11 years sober… but that was asking too much.

I’m sorry I asked that of him. The moment I smelled it on him, I should have walked away. But I thought I would be the catalyst, I would be the safe place, and I would be the difference… I saw him open up so wide when we first were together that first time, so completely and wholly, I didn’t realize h0w much it frightened him. I didn’t understand the thoughts that may have come after: she doesn’t drink, I’m an alcoholic, I live here, what am I feeling, she lives there, I haven’t seen her in so long, this isn’t real, I can’t let this happen, this is futile… God knows what other things it could have brought up, while I’m thinking, Go with it, this is fun! If it feels good, do it! I’m just a hippie at heart. And I trusted him. And I love him dearly.

I never really thought of these things, I was so confused until I talked to my family and friends and they shed light on it for me. I hadn’t dealt with alcoholic behavior in so long. Now I see it clearly. Majority rules. As much as I try not to believe it, as much as he may try to deny it, they’re right. He got scared of his feelings and he ran away. And he pushed me away with a mace covered in the sharpest barbed wire he could find.

So, I sit here, cut and bleeding, licking my wounds. My Mother said, “He cut you off, you cut him off”, as Christian as she is. I said, “No, I am always here should he needs me”. Because I'm a SUCKA! And, even now, listen to me, I still blame myself, like the co-dependent weakling I am... "I should have", "I shouldn't have"... Damn Me! Fucking Alcoholics! Fuckers! They are sooooo good, aren't they? Especially when you care about them to rescind the very best. BLAR! BLAR! BLAR! I'm glad I'm only here for 2 and 1/2 days for Christmas. I'm glad I hardly ever come here. I'm glad all my friends moved to cooler places. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I care about people so much? Why do I let my best friend shit all over me and then I still care?!!? Who cares if he's in love with me and can't deal? That's his problem! GAAAAWWWWDDDD DAMMMMNNNITTT, I am soooo mad at myselffffff!

I mostly worry about his son. My concern is for his child. Because he is the innocent one. My friend used to tell me that I didn’t know what it was like, because I didn’t have a child and, of course, I can’t have a child. But I do know what it was like to have an alcoholic father. And I do know what it is to grow up in an alcoholic home, whether it’s full or part time. The alcoholic can’t hide it 24/7. He can’t hide the behavior even when he’s sober, because it doesn’t leave the system that quickly. It will begin to take its toll on the child. My friend will wake up one day and wonder why his son is rebelling or lying or deviating from the normal behavior and he will never realize that it’s to escape whatever pain is being wrought upon him from every side of his family, which includes seeing his father crawl inside of a bottle to gain strength and courage. I saw my father beat down my brother his entire life until my brother left the house at 17, whether my father was drunk or not, all the time saying he loved him and was just being a parent. I may not have a child, but I was one, and I know that they suffer the most. “Not my son, no way, I went through that and I won't let my son go through that... not-- my-- son”… Yes… your son... and... Yes... you.

It’s not my business now, is it?

All of this, everything above… it’s all about letting go, yes?

You leaving, him leaving… me moving on and starting my life again, starting anew…

all about letting go, yes?

Starting a new life.

Starting over.

Yes.

A BIG Yes.

YES.

I must say it again and again…

YES.

58 days, 14 nours, 45 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-26T16:13:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June, 2000

My Mental Hairdo has bed head.

Foggy and disheveled.

Who's this guy next to me? Who am I? How did I get into this t-shirt? What band is on it? In what state am I? Why do birds suddenly appear? Do I like rice? Is he going to remember this tomorrow? Am I? Did I see you on the lake with your brain today? Do I smell feet and Wheat Thins?

Went to the casino last night with my Mom and Brother. You would've hated it, but I won some cashola to buy jeans that fit my shrinking bee-hind. Got home late. Got up early.

Still cried myself to sleep, thank you. Still take the blame for everything as I walk the earth with a finger pointed directly at my strong, puffed chest.

Can't wait to get away from here and back to NYC to deal with your shit.

It's always some one's I have to deal with, isn't it?

Especially mine.

*Sigh*

Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Gotta go find ma' comb...

57 days, 9 hours, 24 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-25T10:46:00.001-05:00

You took a part of me with you when you left.

You took the part of me that relegates my emotional self-control.

You took my belief in everyone I love. For you were the one I loved the most.

I don't take a moment to think about what's going on, as if I'm on the battlefield. My reflexes are razor sharp and my tears will abscond and transform into defenses at the hint of a shot to my heart. There is no time to process what is being said or asked of me, there is only time to react.

To what? I don't always know.

To whom? To everyone.

Because you pocketed my trust on the fly, even those that I am supposed to trust the most in this world have become foreigners to me.

No one knows who I am right now or of what I am capable. No one knows what I need because I cannot tell them in anything but spastic spurts of incoherent jabbering, while my hands wring and my throat tightens. Those closest to me break away from my insanity and furlough with beautiful, more majestic and balanced creatures.

You took affection and intimacy from me like chunks when the Berlin Wall came down; little souvenirs with my name scrawled across them, written in my non-dominant hand like a child. And I can't just get it back. I can't just give it to anyone, because you bagged my faith in the common man as a worthy recipient of my body and my heart.

I tried, you thieving cocksucker. I hate you now more than ever. I chose, chose, someone that I believed I could trust implicitly with my body and my sexuality and intimacy. Someone I had no romantic ties to; someone I knew would be the exact opposite of what you were... what you never were. Someone who's arms I felt safe and comfortable in, but who was just my friend and with whom I did not want to continue that kind of affair. I just wanted to, I guess, renew that part of myself.

But youuuuuuuuuuuu... you had to perch in the back of my mind like an oxidized gargoyle, grinning with pointed incisors, waiting for the kill. Well, listen up, you slimy worm: when he grabbed the back of my hair and put his lips to mine, it was as if I was being kissed by a man for the first time in my life. Forget anything sexual. Just to have a real man's arms around me, to have someone with whom I felt like a woman again, someone who actually said my name... oh, ho...ho...ho... you suck and blow, my small, small man... you are a child. And that I was with a person that I completely trusted--

Ho-ho-hold on, there, missy. No nononononononono. Remember: they lie. They betray. They cheat. They steal. BE-WARE. It doesn't matter who you're laying down with tonight, you're waking up with all of them in the morning...

Steeeeeeeeeeee-RIKE went the slimy gargoyle, flying down from the outside of the abbey, digging his talons into my neck... and my blood and guts and confidence and glory spilled out for everyone to see.

"Hel-LO", said my guts, as my good friend slipped around in them, as I wrung my hands and tightened my throat and he looked for the nearest exits.

And oh, all was well and good until it came to my elaborate, ridiculous, conscientious, consequential intentions that were laid out so perfectly that they ruined everything I had begun to want or need.

You, you little creature, invisibly nibbled on my neck--

It was a mistake-- he said

You looked at me greedily, awaiting my response--

Okay-- I said

My dignity, in shreds, hung from your front teeth like seal from a great white--

Not okay... I put my head down and wept, humiliated

You opened a small hole in my neck and let the blood trickle out--

I'm sorry.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

More breaches in my jugular, in my heart, in my chest... you broke me down--

I thought--
I wanted--
I needed--
I trusted--
I'm sorry...

You laughed, "You thought? That he wanted you? You wanted? Someone to make you feel alive as a woman? You needed? That spark after 4 long years? You trusted? Him? Me? Anyone? You're sorry?

Yes, you are."

So, even though I could take from him what I needed, he couldn't give it to me. Not even to hold me. I was sick. Sick with anger, sick with disappointment, sick with sadness and sick with fear that I will never, ever have this chance again with someone I love and trust without fear of being hurt.

Ah- ha! I was hurt. I-ron-y.

You were sooooo happy, yes, as you flew back to your station and curled your wings around your head and fell back to sleep?

I awoke the same. Ill on every level. Afraid to speak about it. Afraid. Drained.

Then I drained him. Drained him of every emotion, every ounce of energy he had, trying to understand what happened; trying to explain to him what you took from me. It all went back to the beginning... "No one knows what I need because I cannot tell them in anything but spastic spurts of incoherent jabbering, while my hands wring and my throat tightens. Those closest to me break away from my insanity and furlough with beautiful, more majestic and balanced creatures".

And he ran away. My dearest friend. My best friend. The person I love and trust most in the whole world. Not even he could take me anymore. "Break" time.

I wasn't mad at him. I understood. He could only do what was right for himself. He had to save himself. He is good. He is light and I am darkness. He is balance and I am the upset. He is the dynamite and I light the fuse. He felt is was a "mistake". I couldn't fault him for feeling what he did. I love him unconditionally. He is my friend and I'd do anything for him. That's why I'll let him go.

I was mad at YOU.

I was mad at ME.

But I mostly mad at myself for being weak. Not weak for crying. Not weak for explaining how you hurt me or took things away from me...

I felt weak... because I, who am so strong, so steadfast... !head up, shoulders back!... when he said to me--

It was a mistake...

I cried out, inside, I fell to the floor and I cried out, with every, single fiber that was in me:

"Please, no, please don't take this away from me. Please, not this. Don't give that night to me and then take it away. Don't call it a mistake. Please. I'll fix it. Tell me what to do to fix it, to take it back to where it was the other night... please, this means so much to me right now. Please, just kissing and holding and laughing. No... please, no... I trust you, you don't understand how rare that it... you don't understand what my father and those other people-- you don't understand how hard it is for me to trust... Please! My life has been SO FUCKING HARD I JUST NEED THIS LITTLE BREAK. I want to take it with me, to carry it with me for a little while. Please please... Stay. Give me this, please. Believe in me. Oh, God, no, please don't take this away from me!!".

But I had already taken it away.

I had already done that all by myself.

Because that's what I do.

And now I sit, emptied again.

You took a part of me with you when you left.

55 days, 18 hours, 53 minutes since you left me....

2006-11-23T19:20:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for my family and friends and to be alive and (pretty darn) well on this day.

XO!

54 days, 11 hours, 37 minutes since you left...

2006-11-22T12:07:00.000-05:00

Photo Booth, Little Ricky's, 1997

Staying up all night took it's toll, alright.

I've been obsessing on a stellar level lately about lots of different things; I've been agitated, elated, confused... almost in a manic state, but I'm not Bipolar. I don't exhibit Bipolar behavior. I just saw my Psychiatrist last week and all is cool with the meds and the diagnosis.

I was getting worried, though. I was having to literally get a physical grip on myself.

When I wrote about feeling/being "Starved" the other day... that was a moment of clarity for me in the midst of this constant echolalia... and then, last night, another glob of insightful gel fell onto my "Mental Hairdo".

I'm calling it my "Mental Hairdo" because I change the style and depth of color of my mind so frequently--

and I looooooove the word "Hairdo". Say it out loud. Right now. "Hairdo". Put different inflections on it... see? Giggle.

Plus, if you're deep in thought and someone says, "Hey, watcha doin'?", you can say, "Runnin' a curlin' iron through ma' Mental Hairdo"... or "My Mental Hairdo's all ratted today, ya'll"...

Well, I like it.

Anyhootie-hey... I was sitting on the couch last night/this morning, waiting for my car service to LaGuardia Airport, and I was so dog tired, really just exhausted, right? My defenses were wearing down, something that I despise, because I always view myself as weak, weak, weak when that happens.

I sort of began to laugh, I guess chuckle, at myself. I rolled my eyes and each launched a tiny tear out of its corner. I just giggled out of punchiness and desperation, because I realized...

I'm so not ready for any of this.

I've been diving into this and delving into that. I turn up the iPod Dock or the radio. I clean ferociously. I watch the Tivo. I clean some more. I write on my laptop. I talk on Myspace. I check Match.com. I satisfy this itch, I serve that purpose. Brush the cats, clean their ears, clip their nails. Take a bath. Try to read. Try to knit. Try to breathe. Make friends. See friends. Talk to friends. Obsess, obsess, obsess... compulsive, compulsive, compulsive. Go go go go go.

I no longer binge on food. I can't even taste it when I eat. I hate smoking. But I do it (again).

The day after you left, I bought boxes and began to pack up your shit and I had an audition that day. I had to go. No one's going to stop me from continuing my life. I've been through worse. Fuck you! I've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad LIFE (worse than Alexander. Alexander's a PUSSY; he only had a DAY, the little titty sucker).

I had to go on. I was Titanic.

"Jack... this is where we fist met".

"Well Rose, are you ready to go back to Titanic"... "Um, no, you idiot, my boyfriend DIED there, Señor Sensitive!".

I never had time to process everything. I never gave myself time and last night, time decided to kick me in the tired, worn out, defenseless ass.

Last night, I realized that I am just not ready to be thrust into the world as a completely healed human being after what we have and are going through. It isn't even over yet. My hairdo (giggle) is a mess, ya'll, all tangled and the roots are long and dark.

As much as I want someone to touch me and make me feel like an attractive, desired woman; show me affection and attention, I am actually not braced for it. In fact, I pretty much fall to pieces. A friendship is a completely different animal, but not sex or romance, I don't even know where to begin at this moment.

US Air offered me exit row seating or a window seat. I chose the window seat even though the exit row was the "better choice". I wanted to lay my head against the window and simply cry, watching the tiny houses and cars below. I cried silently and calmly, not because I was alone or think I will be alone forever--

but because, right now, that is what I need to do... so that I won't be alone forever.

54 days, 0 hours, 2 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-22T01:32:00.000-05:00

I am staying up all night tonight because I fly at 6am.

I don't like to fly so much.

I can't take drugs, because I am a drug addict. So, I stay up all night and pack and clean and then I am really tired and I sleep on the plane. Except at beverage time. No snacks, tho.

I am so tired right now.

I was reminded, as I packed, of the night that you packed my fucking bag, which I am now packing, and I thought, why didn't I just give him a Hefty bag? Because I was in shock.

I remember I asked you to leave and you said that you didn't have any place to go. So I said that I would leave for a little while. I had quit smoking after 25 years. I was about 5 months quit, really quit, I mean, I wasn't going back. I even had my singing voice back and was thinking about taking vocal coaching again to audition for B'way and Off-B'way, b/c, properly trained, I have that quality a voice.

So I went to the deli and I bought cigarettes and a gianormous bottle of Corona, which I did not intend to drink. I just wanted to smell it. I sat outside and smoked and opened the bottle and smelled it. It reminded me only that I had no desire to break close to 11 years of sobriety. Certainly not for you.

I went inside and you were packing (did I mention, MY BAG?). Then, I was just... fuuuuuuck, you know?

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck, what's going on? Whaaaaaaaaat? WTF? Who? Where? Who's sick? Who got shot? Kennedy? What's going on?

And then it just escalated and you were ripping me apart.

The one thing that sticks in my mind, though, is that, after you left, I put on my Birkenstocks to go after you. But they're the slip on, clog-like Birks I wear to the store or across the street or to get the mail. I can't run in them. They're like closed flip flops, for Chrissakes! And my running shoes hang in a shoe thingy on the back of the entryway closet door, so...

deep down, I didn't really want to go after you.

I didn't really want you to come back.

And I laugh when I think of myself sort of flip flopping down the sidewalk, stopping to just call your name, because I couldn't run in those fucking shoes.

Maybe it's just funny because I'm really punchy and tired. Or maybe it's funny because you were rolling my giant Samsonite down the street just past 1:30am, your out of shape, fat ass trotting to get away quicker every so often like Fred Mertz on the run from Ethel, and I was waddling after you in flip flop Birkenstocks, making a half assed, lazy attempt to catch you, like Ethel Mertz, but on Xanax.

It was a new event in the Special Olympics: The Break Up Games.

Oh, fuck me, I'm tired.

I'm going to finish packing the infamous Samsonite bag.

Sleep deprivation is sooooooooo very bad for the mentally unstable, we get manic and testy and depressed and OCD and paranoid and our meds get out of whack all kinds of fun stuff. Wheeee!!!

Should make for an interesting flight.... as long as I don't log into Match.com, I and the entire dating world should be safe.

Mwa ha ha!

And, hey, where's brother john?!!? He reminded me of mint tea for an upset tummy.

Boy, I am tired.

53 days, 14 hours, 24 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-21T15:54:00.000-05:00

I AM STARVING.

I am starving for attention.

I am starving for affection.

I am starving for warmth...
arms...
warm breath...
a blanket of skin...
kind words...
comfortable silences...
legs...
laughter...
a hand...
two hands...
'sleep well'...
'i missed you'...
'i thought of you'...

You took that away from me for so long.

You starved me.

And now I am running the streets like an urchin in ragged, torn clothes with ragged, tattered emotions, grabbing fiercely onto strangers asking for any of those things.

Any one of them.

At the end, you didn't even throw me crumb. You stood on my hands so I couldn't run. You covered my mouth so I couldn't even eat.

I am starving.

And I don't know how to feed myself.

53 days, 7 hours, 18 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-21T08:48:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, June, 2000

Last night, I wrote a rant about online dating. Then I erased it. I don't think it was fair to anyone. And I don't think it's what I was really pissed about.

Let's be honest, you only left 2 months ago. As happy as I am to have you gone, I am in a bit of a tumult from all of the shit we went through the last four or five years. This marriage should have ended then. Not that I shouldn't be going out and having a good time with the opposite sex, I just need to chill the fuck out and not let how I felt when I was with you interfere with who I am today. I need to be aware when those latent tendencies begin to creep into my thoughts and behaviors.

This marriage should never have happened.

Why did this marriage happen?

Ahhhhhh... I needed a place to which to escape. That's probably the short of it, isn't it?

I don't consider it a waste of my time. I consider it a lesson learned. I have to look at it that way. I have to be grateful, bla bla bla... and why is this?

Or else I'll go insane.

Right now, my entire life seems like a lesson learned. My entire life seems like the story of Sisyphus over and over: I learned to be brave, funny and to survive after years of dysfunction and abuse, I learned to be strong in sobriety and being clean, I learned to persevere through bad relationships, physical and mental illness, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, all of my surgeries and idiot doctors with God complexes and two divorces (the first was actually an annulment, I think).

Now, I'm supposed to learn all about dating again? Now, I get to "learn as I go along" about online dating?

Are you fucking pulling my g-string (which I can wear now that I lost weight, she says, tooting her own horn)?

Oh, Come ON!

How many classes do I have to take until I graduate or go on Spring Break? I just want a teeny tiny vacation, is all. I just want a little break, please. For God's sake, I'm serious.

Sometimes...I feel like I don't know when I won't be able to take it anymore

Pity Pot, table for one, right? Well, at least there's the Today show to take my mind off things this morning. Good ol' Matt, Merideth, Al and Ann...

OMG, Chris Daughtry from American Idol has a CD out?!!? HE has a career?

I think I just vomited in my mouth a little.

Here I go, rolling up that hill again.

52 days, 9 hours, 50 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-20T11:20:00.000-05:00

There was a great loss in my life last night.

If anyone has been reading my blog for a long time, you will understand and sympathize.

Last night, at approximately 12:42am... we all lost a good friend and colleague:

Frankenstein, The Hot Wired Vibrator

Post 11/03/06: 35 days, 15 hours, 4 minutes...
2004-2006

(Moment of Silence, please)

If tears could build a stairway,

And memories a lane,

I'd walk right up to Heaven

And bring you home again.

(but this time,

I'd make you work

longer

so I wouldn't have to

cut you open and

hot wire you like I'm

a sexually defective

idiot)

I tried my best to revive him. I stripped wires with my cuticle clippers and tried to reconnect them. I screamed, "C'mon, big guy, C'mon!"

I want you to know I tried my best.

I want you all to know I did everything I could.

He just couldn't hold on any longer.

Now I have to wait until I have enough money to go to Babeland.

In lieu of flowers, gift certificates to Babeland can be sent to me.

Seriously.

Or you can buy me a horse or a banister.

51 days, 14 hours, 5 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-19T15:41:00.000-05:00

The last thing you said when you left was, "I want the last ten years of my life back".

And, of course, I was really disappointed when I found out The Sharper Image no longer carries that item, because now I have to get you the massage chair.

But now I'm thinking, So the fuck do I, mother fucker. Especially, the last four years, when I could've been out getting wined, dined and slapped on the-- sweet ass.

Sonofabitch.

You're four years younger than I am. And guys have it easier.

Oh, yes they do.

Women are faaaaaaaaar more forgiving in the looks department because we're more into the (insert sarcastic, whiny, syllabant "s" voice here) feelings and smiles and the little things... like flowers and opening doors and

I just vomited in my mouth a little.

Guys have them lined up. Over this weekend, I saw guys who literally looked like Comic Book Guy with women. The only guys I saw alone included one guy who was head to toe in Yankee gear and another who, I think, was Smeagol wearing a Discman and Dockers, rocking out to what was probably some "supergroup" from the 80's. I tried to flirt with him, but I guess he couldn't hear me over the music...

You know, the whole online thing, also makes me uncomfortable because I could be in a queue.
I could be at the end of a line and then I'll get that "Sorry, but I've met someone and I want to see how it goes" bullshit after getting strung along as a "wait and see" for a week or so... my gut's telling me to stop this shit, but fuck, I'm so fucking lonely after what you put me through and then someone comes along and says such nice things to me; someone says they actually dig me, man--- fuuuuck!

I don't get it. What am I doing to myself?

Fuck me on a pony on a carousel that's run by a meth-crazed carnie... I just realized something: I'm the mutt puppy at the shelter that gets euthenized because everyone wants a purebred! I'm the dog that wags it's tail incessantly as everyone walks by and says, "Ohhhh, look how cute! I'm sure somebody will adopt her" as they take home a Chihuahua even though it's incontinent. Even though I go on the fucking paper. I'm the dog that looks like Benji and whose hair gets tangled and who can't do tricks, but stays loyal and loving and protective and makes you laugh... while that fucking pocket dog shits all over your house and chews your Manolo's; tries to bite you for no reason and demands all of your attention.

You stole time from me, too, you sorry fuck. Maybe that's why I have to make peace with you, like, four times a week. I'm an old dog out thrust into the shelter, dude, trying to find a bone...

It's like my prior owner beat the shit out of me and fed me scraps, so I'm, like, "bring it on, bring on the shit, I'm used to it", but, somehow, I know I'm better than that, but not so much demanding it yet. I'm still putting my tail between my legs and taking it.

I just have to keep telling myself: You're the one in the doghouse.

51 days, 24 hours, 0 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-19T01:33:00.000-05:00

Wedding Topper for our Commitment Ceremony (which I altered to look like us for the cupcake "wedding cake")- June, 2000

I received a message from someone who knew you a long time ago. She had been reading my blog and told me to stay strong. She recollected how you were back in the day and I guess you haven't changed all that much. She also has sick kitties, far sicker than mine. I admire her tenacity and faith to care for them, for they suffer from Feline Leukemia, which is ten times worse than Sanford's renal failure.

The more that time passes and the farther into the proceedings we delve, I find myself in that place of concern for you again, wanting to warn you or help you along repeatedly; be the adult in your life and guide you. You never received my emails about the letter from my attorney, so I had to leave you a message, telling you to go to your father's store and retrieve the letter and read it and get yourself counsel... like it was the "Blue's Clues" of divorce, for fuck's sake.

Then, I never heard from you. So, I, once again, felt resented and then spiteful, like, why did I do this for him? It was similar to telling you about the IRS letter. Why didn't I just let you rot?

What is wrong with me that I care what happens to you or anyone who shits on me, for that matter? If someone shoves me out of the way to get onto the subway and then falls flat on their face two seconds later, will I help them to their feet? Yes. Why am I such a dunderheaded fool?

I give the benefit of the doubt to too many people and am emotionally raped as a recourse for what should be some great reward.

Time after time, people post comments on this very board telling me that you have no concern for me or my feelings and yet... I consider you a valuable human being; as valuable as any other living thing on this planet and, as it were, it just so happens that we were married and together for ten years and I would like for there to be some semblance of peace.

I am trying to make that peace. Within myself. Part of making that peace is giving you a chance. Part of giving you a chance is maybe helping you, I don't know...

It could be that old habits die hard and I'm trying in vain to take the blinders off of your goddamned beady and shifty eyes while pulling your head out of the sand. I just want this to end. I just want this whole thing over. Sign the papers. Pay the rent. Go to Texas. Fuck the fuck off, goddamn you.

Part of me is blaming you so expressly much for the fact that I am floundering in dateland and feel like a camel in a world of show ponies.

I haven't looked or felt this good in years. I also haven't been looked at this way in years. Not from you... not from anyone. A man held the door for me today and I thanked him and he said, "It is MORE than my pleasure," scanning me up and down. Yesterday, I bumped into a guy and said, "Excuse me", and he replied, "No, you're good", looking me from head to toe. I have dropped two sizes and can wear "real people sizes" now.

I'm not a Supermodel by any means, but I'm not Supersized, either. Yet, I'm still wearing my old jeans, cinching them on the last hole on my big ol' belt, because I can't afford new clothes right now due to the attorney fees, cat medicine and food, my medicine and I'm living on PB&J's, salad mix and the occasional veggie corn dog (that's haute cuisine). So I feel like a fashion "don't".

Hell, right now I'd settle for a Sugar Daddy just to feed and dress me.

I don't remember the last time a man touched me without saying "Excuse me".

At first, when you started having "the problem", I did everything I could to help. Everything. From tenderness to dressing up to riding crops to liquid latex to red restraints to just kissing to cuddling to you name it... and then, years later... I had gained so much weight that the thought of anyone touching me made me want to make a raft out of Snicker's bars, put it in the ocean, sail away and eat it piece by piece, nut by nut, until I drowned.

Now, most days, I am really happy when I look in the mirror. Even with my round little Budda belly. Even with the imperfections and scars and whatever else problems I can pick out... and they're many.

And now, there's not a hand in sight to reach out and touch me. And I'm too broke to hire one. And I'm too green to surf for one. And I'm too naive to trust one online. And I'm too... I'm just too, I guess.

Too... much. Too much dark, too much crazy, too much history, too much baggage... too much at stake... too much pent up, about to explode when a pair of lips even brushes against me because you just had to take it all away and I just had had had had to try to stay and make it work with you...

I'm too much... as the Heat Miser would say.

All at a time when I'm utterly, utterly free and ready

to be.

50 days, 12 hours, 56 minutes since you left...

2006-11-18T14:34:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe I forgot to post this!

A popular online 'zine has asked me to start writing a column for them based on this blog.

Awesomeness abounds. Broken hearts will strengthen with my skewered wisdom and playlists.

See... it isn't about you, after all, mother fucka.

You just don't liiiiiiisssssssssssten...

50 days, 1 hour, 31 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-18T02:26:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, 2000

As I rode the subway to the Horrorfest, I wrote this:

"At some point, I'm not quirky anymore... I'm annoying. That dude wrote that he dug me. He wrote, "honestly, I like you". And then he said, "Horrorfest is this weekend, so..." and I took it as a positive thing, like 'so... it's all good!', because I was trying to be positive and not worry. But I was completely wrong, because it's fucking email/message bullshit. It meant 'so... no go, chippie'. But I sent him a message that I'd wait outside the theatre, like a simp, just in case... like a ninny. Why did I send that message? Why not just fuck all? To prove what? To whom? 'Strong like bull'. What a fool.

Online is not my forte. I'm too old for this shit, to quote some Lethal Weapon sequel, I believe.In 'real life', I don't call some guy five times a day. I don't wait by the phone. I go about my life. I'm confident 10-fold. This is alien to me.I just wanted to see a movie, have a dinner, laugh, dance to some random music on the subway platform, smooch... like the old days.

I don't know... is it because I haven't had a real date since college and our marriage was a sham for the last three years and you took affection away from me and I worked my ass off and you gave up and you didn't fuck me for, oh, four years because you couldn't get your miniature golf pencil dick up and I put up with it God knows why and-- (deeeeep breath) you couldn't 'handle Viagra' because of the 'heart palpatations' and 'anxiety' and you didn't get therapy for a year and a half after your tiny little cock stopped working and you had this problem before you met me but you didn't tell me about it? Could it also have to do with the fact that I didn't even have an affair or consider it (give me Wife of the fucking Millennium) and I gained 30 or 40 pounds because I was having three-ways with two guys named Ben and Jerry because you wouldn't even give me oral for fuck's sake, not that you were any good at it anyway, because you got offended if I tried to give you direction, and the only phallic thing I had in my hand was a remote control and then you- YOU- limp dicked, gherkin sized, titty baby, man child sonofabitch left ME at 1:30am after packing one of MY bags, telling me you want the last ten years of your life back?!!? Could it be affecting my sense of esteem that you had been planning it for months, even over the summer when I was sick and you were part of my 'support system' and you were going around the country telling people in OUR peer group and OUR social circle that we hadn't had sex because of my mental problems, you fucking martyr and that I felt like an unattractive, unloveable, unfuckable, uneverything-able lump that you left behind, running screaming into the night after you spent two hours blaming me for your sad, sorry, pathetic life?!!?

Do you think it POSSIBLY HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH THAT?!!?"

So, then... I got off the train and I went to the theatre. Alone. But the night air was crisp and cool and I loved that.

As I waited in line, alone, a young man behind me struck up a conversation with me as he waited for his friend. We talked about stuff, like movies and music and horror films. He was an aspiring Hip-Hop artist. He asked me if I was... alone. And I told him that I was. Alone. That word wasn't sounding so bad after a while, though. The cyberguy sort of faded away and I felt less and less foolish.

So what? So the 'Net's not my thang. I still have Frankenstein... (reminding myself that I have to make a trip to Babeland!).

So Hip Hoppity Guy told me I was beautiful. And asked for my number. God love him, he was a little high and a little too fifteen years or so young for me... but it was very sweet. And it made me smile.

The movie was fun, and gory... and it's always great to sit in a packed house with a couple of hundred people and laugh and jump and yell at the screen.

Then, on the train ride home... so late at night... I was recognized from the tv show that I do and told I was funny. And that's always nice.

So all in all, fool or no fool, boy or no boy, me and just me... a good night.

So... good night.

49 days, I don't care how many hours or minutes...

2006-11-17T20:49:00.000-05:00

I'm so frustrated with myself.

Fuck it, I'm going solo to Horrorfest. That's right, by myfuckingself. Independent? Maybe. Fucked things up? Probably.

12:15am. No boy, no date, no call, no nothin'... I may seem like "strong like bull", but I turn into "Dances with Insecurity" when I get around the boys.

God, I'm an idiot.

I hate cyberspace. You know, when they actually meet me, it's a whole different story. But in Cyberland, I'm Squeaky Fromme. I never want to try to meet anyone online again. I'd rather die. I think online chatting is an elaborate prank created to make me look like an ass clown; specifically to make ME look like an ass clown in big, red, ass clown shoes.

And everyone knows I usually LOVE shoes.

I'm not doing this online bullshit anymore, man. If someone wants to meet me, they can meet me, for fuck's sake. I'm not in high school and I don't pass notes. I already went to prom and I got fucked in my dress.... twice. And I represent much better in real life, because I am real life.

It's supposed to be a new wave in communication, but that's just what it lacks.

Question: I know you didn't do this to me... but why am I doing this to myself? When I know how incredible I am? I wondered, why would anyone want to go out with me, with my history and my bullshit and all that?

Then, I wondered: why wouldn't anyone want to go out with me?

Regardless... my tranmissions end here.

48 days, 20 hours, 18 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-16T21:55:00.000-05:00

Today, I am trying to forgive you and let go of some of the anger that is turning my neck into a knotted oak tree.

So, I emailed you and asked if perhaps, as a peaceful, treaty-like thingy... we could have a nice coffee-like, tea thingy before you leave for Austin.

I was thinking, you know... late December.

I felt good about this, I felt it was a sage decision.

Your reply was:

"I would like that as well. I am not sure when I will be ready to do it.Also, I finally found a mediator. When are you available for that next week? I know you are going out of town, I assume to visit your mom."

The thing is... well... here was my reply:

"No, You. I have hired an attorney. I am going ahead and saving to pay for an attorney for myself. You should have a letter waiting for you already at Your Dad's Store where you get your mail. You will be being served soon with divorce papers.

I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

Because I took action last week. Because I am--

EVERYBODY ALL TOGETHER--

"Strong Like Bull"

I felt kind of bad. I felt kind of bad that you still don't pay attention to the world outside of you.

I mean, it's kind of ironic, isn't it?

Here you are... free of me,

but you're still trapped with you.

48 days, 11 hours, 6 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-16T12:44:00.000-05:00

Courthouse Wedding, June 11, 2002

Met a friend for drinks on my way to dinner with some lovely ladies last night.

He hasn't talked to you or seen you since we split. He wasn't taking sides, he just made a choice, that's all...

I told him you were moving to Austin (not Boston... titter, titter... or Dawston... hee hee... or Foston... FUCK that still pisses me off and I raaaaaaaaaaaaage on).

He said, a little sheepishly, "I know".

I was taken aback a bit, "Oh, you talked to him". I was trying to stay cool. Stirred my diet coke.

You what?!!? Traitor! J'acusse! Kill him! Kill them all!

"Yeah, he called me. He wants to get together before he leaves for Austin".

"So, he's leaving in December..."

You: "I'm leaving late January/early February..." You fucking liar!

RIGHT. Snake. Jackrag. Ass clown. Can't wait to be rid of your sorry ass. Texas can have you. That state can swallow you. Shallow, selfish mother fucker.

"He said he's leaving in January," he said.

I couldn't help it, "Well, see, he's a fucking liar", I blurted out, "GodDAMNITT!" And I continued to rant for about a minute.

He stared at me. "When are you going to forgive him?" he said.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I couldn't speak because my throat was so tight. Finally, I said, "For which part?" And then I couldn't talk anymore.

"I know, I know." He reached across the table and held my hand. I dabbed at my perfectly done makeup, so as not to fuck it up.

Then I laughed, "Hey, I might have a date with a boy this weekend... so there's that."

"Jesus, just don't marry him." My friend said.

47 days, 9 hours, 31 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-15T11:08:00.000-05:00

Chicago, 1999

I fear you're the best and last I will get.

And what does that say?

A fifty year old woman was found dead in her apartment today. She was an acting teacher who had given up on her career as a writer, comedian and actress in the late 2010's, after she gained all of her 40 pound weight-loss BACK.

She was known for smoking 3 packs a day of American Spirit cigarettes and sleeping with young delivery trucks drivers who spoke little English, however, she hadn't been fucked in ten years.

The woman was surround by 18 cats, four of which had eaten off half of her weathered face.

Reports state she was dressed in a poncho and wore 30 pounds of turquoise jewelry.

Forensics specialists noted her vagina looked like a peach pit and hissed, then turned to dust when it was touched. The ghost of an Ute Indian Shaman's spirit rose from the dust, thanking the room for "freeing" it from "that hell" and flew away.

There will be no funeral, because only one person knows who she is, and that person lives in a dumpster.

----AP Newswire

46 days, 21 hours, 30 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-14T22:06:00.000-05:00

I might (and I stress might -- this is mighty might might might) have a date this weekend.

With a boy.

Huh.

I don't know what to wear.

I don't know what to do.

A real boy. Like Pinocchio turned into.

Um....

It's not like riding a bike, because the other bikes are newer, faster, thinner, younger... hotter... giggly and hair flippy.

You were easy. You just were. Easy. I don't know why. Was I assertive and aggressive and you were pliable and a pussy? I just know you were easy.

A real man. Not at all a boy, really. A real tall man. And awfully cute, too. Where does that leave me? When do I let him know about the crazy? When does he understand that it's all badges and battle scars, not barbed wire and fences?

Shut up. It's only a maybe date, for fuck's sake.

I have confidence. Heh.

I just have to remember that.

46 days, 8 hours, 2 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-14T09:40:00.000-05:00

Photo Booth, Little Ricky's, NYC 1997

Sometimes, in the morning, I get a little down.

I get a little down because I'm scrimping and saving. I'm eating mostly a lot of PB&J on rye so I can save up to afford an attorney, which will cost me around $1500.00 all totaled.

The cats cost me about $160.00/month, my choice, I know... therapy, travel, insurance... just everything, and I feel like you're just out there, having your "freedom" for the first time.

Yes, I know, I have my freedom, too. But it feels more limited. You're not paying utility bills or insurance rates. You have less responsibility, 'cause you're couch surfing. There's not a landlord breathing down your neck.

And, in part, you wouldn't be as well known around the country if I hadn't earned enough dough in those years to allow you the freedom to take off work and go to festivals to promote yourself as a teacher and director. I helped you along. And now, you feel free of me.

Oh, lucky you!

Yesterday, I had to spend fifteen minutes deciding whether I could afford a new hairdryer at $24.99 with 20% off.

Were we in the Alps, and I were called Yan, and I had a goat, you, my dear, would be getting it.

45 days, 12 hours, 0 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-13T13:34:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to say how glad I am that people are reading this, not just because it shows that you're an asshole.

PS: You ARE an asshole.

It's inspiring a lot of folks and some folks are feeling not so alone and this sentence sounds a little too Arlo Guthrie for my doggone sensibilities.

I always wanted to put my own wounded and healing shit out there for anyone who needed a stitch for their wounded and healing shit... for a laugh and a cry.

So, that makes me grateful today.

45 days, 8 hours, 17 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-13T09:54:00.000-05:00

Courthouse Wedding, June 11, 2002

I Apologize In Advance For The Length of This Post!!!

Home for the holidays looms over me like the cloud that ate Donald Pleasence in "Fantastic Voyage". Oh, just eat me already!

I was really proud of you when you made changes in your life, you know, when you sort-of "grew" as a person. We definitely acknowledged when either one of us didn't "do that anymore" (bad habits). YAY US!!!

I used to be a really different person before you knew me, back in the day. I was a selfish, narcissistic girl. I'm talking back in the high school, college, "hot girl" days. I was also a hurtin' girl, a messed up girl. I don't remember much from that time, partly because I blocked much of it out, partly because I was wasted for some of it, partly because I choose not to remember it. I used my sexuality, as insecure as I was, because I thought that's all that I had. I didn't know what love was or if I felt it truly. I lied about the source of my pain, because I couldn't admit to anyone or I couldn't remember what my father was doing/had done to me. I clung clung clung. The only time I felt anything was when someone tried to leave me and that was because I felt bad for myself.

I don't know what changed in me. I think it was when I was in rehab the third time--

Yeah, I know. $19,000 a pop, each time. I should've known the first two treatments wouldn't take because, after I got out those first two times, I kept thinking how fucked up I could get on $19,000.

--the third time, when I finally remembered that my father had molested me for the "Lucky 13" (4-17, until he kicked me out). Something in me just started to turn. My perspective was consummately different. And then, a year later, my endometriosis got increasingly worse, I was in a wheelchair for three months, I became increasingly isolated. I started to appreciate just being outside in the sun.

I quit the Theatre Department because of the negative energy and switched to English. I was expressing myself more throug humorous prose instead of angst ridden poetry. I visited New York by myself to take an improv intensive and felt free for the first time in my life. I found a place where I fit in and felt whole. I realized, New York wasn't the scary place, home was.

Scary Monsters, Super Creeps.

My surgeries multiplied until, finally, a doctor in New Orleans performed a partial hysterectomy. After that, I barely saw anyone as I recovered. A year later, I moved to New York City to start over where no one knew me or who I used to be. I made friends, I got married (twice), I started a career... it has been a most wonderful life, despite you and the last ten years, which, by the way, I would not change for the lessons I have learned and have yet to learn.

In twelve years, I have gone home for the holidays a scattered few times. I have gone home once for surgery to remove my last ovary (it missed the other ovary and they now live together in a condo in Boca). I have gone home to cheer up my Mom. I went home once to help her when her house was being renovated and ended up staying for three weeks. It was almost the death of me.

Hardly anyone I know lives in Lafayette anymore. One of my best friends lives in Dallas and I haven't seen him in 14 years, but we talk twice a month. One of my exes lives in L.A. and I haven't seen him in 10 years, but we talk about twice a week. They've both been so incredibly supportive and present for me through the break-up.

Then, there is my ex from high school. I say "Then..." because he is the friend I link closest to "home". He knew me when I was "that girl". He knew me when I was that scheming, clinging, sex girl who was lost in a life of confusion (thank you, Joe Walsh). He probably knew me at my worst. We have remained friends for 22 years. He went off and got married twice, had a kid, moved all over the place and the, finally, moved back to my hometown about a year ago.

God, I wish he hadn't done that.

We have remained the closest of friends. We have changed each other's lives. He saved my life once. We were talking a lot a few months before you left. But he would bring up things from when we were in high school. "Remember when..." and, no, I didn't want to "remember when...", thank you very much, and I'd dryly try to brush it off, not thinking he may have still thought of me that way. Some of the stories were funny and nostalgic, some of them were things I didn't want to or couldn't recall. If I conveyed the stories to you, you understood that I wasn't that person anymore. And that was such a relief. You fucking understood that. You got it.

And he was one of the first people I called when you did leave. He totally understood what I was going through. We had plans for when I came down for Turkey Day to hang and chill and do the things we can only do with each other and I was looking forward to it soooo much! He has been a Godsend through this ordeal and given sage advice and we have laughed just like we used to...

but

but he doesn't know me anymore. I want to make a t-shirt that says, "Not The Same Person" for the trip to Lafayette. He assumes that my words and actions have the same intentions that they did when I was sixteen, seventeen, nineteen... and I'm exhausted from justifying myself. No, I'm more than exhausted, I'm angry, frustrated.

I love this man, I do, but my instinct is to kick his ass to the curb. He's the last of his tribe, the last who knows the person I used to be, the one who won't let that part of me go. Maybe I have outgrown him. Maybe we just don't fit anymore. I am a compulsive "Oh, Fuuuuuuuuuck Youuuuuu!" kind of girl and I don't want to do that to him, because I know I'll regret it.

Am I afraid that maybe he's right? No. I am confident in myself and the changes I have made for the better within myself, that is why I defend myself so staunchly.

Do I have issues out of my ass? Oh, hell to the yea! Am I going through a lot right now? Hell to the yea yea yea! But I need him to see and love me for who I have become: a loving, kind, caring, generous, warm, sardonic, sarcastic and cynical bitch.

44 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-13T00:38:00.000-05:00

God, I hate people.

I'm more adept at warning signs than I used to be.

I knew the red flags were there with you when I was with you, I just didn't act on them. It was complacency and comfort. It was financial and other securities.

But now, I think I'd rather be alone than put up with any more bullshit from anyone.

Have I gone cold?

My little Sanford, I love him so very much. When I adopted him, in 2004, he was 5 years old and had spent his life in a pet store. His ears were messed up, they had grown cauliflower-like due to neglected hematomas, he had pinkeye, his rectum was swollen (I guess is was a Turkish pet store), he has only recently been neutered...

Shortly after adopting him, I found out one of his ear canals had to be removed at a cost of $3000.00. I held off and just kept cleaning his ears until I could afford the surgery, one years later when my tax refund came in. He had his surgery and it helped him tremendously. One year after, he had renal failure. $1200.00 in tests proved that and now he has special medicine that I administer every evening.

Why don't I "give him away"? Why don't I "have him euthenized"? Why do I put up with his shit?

Because he's a cat. Because he's helpless. He can't help that all of that happened to him. He still loves me. He still purrs. He rubs up against me and Chibi. He loves my friends. He's adorable.

Why don't I put up with people's shit? Because they can help it. They control their words and tones. They choose to respect and disrespect. They choose to listen or hear; to love or hate.

I try to give people a chance in this life. I try to give them two chances. I make several attempts to balance their issues with their psychoses, knowing we all have problems, we all have our "days"... but when these days begin to interfere with my routine, I've got to let them go.

If I see someone delving deeper and deeper into a world of disingenuousness, someone I love and care about, it rips my heart open, especially someone who I see with the utmost potential and promise. But then I can just freeze my heart where it stands and walk away, untouched, and forget that we were ever friends at all.

I'm sorry, who are you again?

It's the disassociation in me. I guess it's a blessing. I guess.

But also, people suck. They suck because they lie, they manipulate, they twist things around and they suck suck suck the life out of you. People are psychic vampires, ready to unleash their anger and resentment onto you as you stare at them doe-eyed, baring your neck with a ready smile.

Or maybe that's just me...

I'd rather be alone than put up with anyone's drama anymore. I'd rather be friendless that wade through a mud of bullshit. I don't want to deal with psychos.

Does this make me selfish?

Turn it on, turn it off...

Is that why I stopped loving you so quickly? Or did I stop a long time ago? Did I ever love you at all?

In becoming stronger, I don't want to leave anyone behind because I am getting father away... inside myself.

44 days, 9 hours, 52 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-12T11:29:00.000-05:00

My Headshot Session, 1997

Sex.

My first husband was a treat. Very dominant, and that's putting it lightly. He always wanted a three-way. I had been to college, so I'd been there, done that. I wasn't interested. He went straight for his BS degree at the University of Michigan, so he hadn't. God, he wanted that three-way. We'd stand on the subway and he's see a pretty girl (a pretty slutty girl) and he'd say, "You think she wants a three-way with us?" and I'd say, "I think she wants spare change or a clean needle".

But he kept pushing (no pun intended) for that roll on the Posturpedic with a ho-ho-hostess Twinkie and so we compromised. We went plastic. However, my first husband was also cheap. Really cheap. So cheap that when we decided to get a fake companion to join us in the bedroom...

REALITY CHECK-- could my self-esteem have gotten any lower? Ohhhh, wait for it, my children.

This is what I expected we would get. At least semi erogenous, yes? Yeah... no. This is what he bought. Susie blow up. With the "oooooh" mouth. With the hair that's mostly bumpy with a few strands of Raggedy Ann flammable. With drawn on pubic hair.

With... oh, well, this will make it Easter every day for me, at least... a removable vibrating egg to place in every hole.

"Isn't this hot?" he'd loudly try to purr.

yeah, i- was- so- hot

The worst part (the worst part?!!?) was that I had to dress her in my clothes, which were too big (so I had to pin them), put her in a corner and you would say, "She looks like she wants to come over here"... then I would have to go and GET HER AND BRING HER OVER.

yeah, i- was- so- hot

I repeat, when he left for work... here came Peter Cottontail.

Cut to a year later and there we are, on the train to your apartment. I liked you and you could be the escape from my husband. We had already kissed and it was pretty darn good. I knew we were going to have sex. We were all kissy and touchy on the train at 2am... Finally, after two years of brutal, humiliating, plastic, porn sex, I was going to have mutual, passionate, feverish, "artist on artist" (not "artist on restaurant manager") sex!

I'm not saying this relates to you, but let me convey what goes through a woman's mind sometimes during the act of sex:

Kiss kiss kiss
neck neck neck
hot hot hot
hands hands hands
hands go down pants
What the--? Where's the--? Is that it--?
DAMNITT!
Well, maybe he's good at oral.
DAMNITT!
Well, maybe he fucks well.
DAMNITT!
Well, I need a place to live.

Ten years later...
DAMNITT!

Now it's been four years. FOUR YEARS. FOOOOOUUUUUUURRR YEEEEARSSSS.

It echoes like "Hello" in the Grand Canyon".

Foouuuuuuuur Yearrrrrrrs.......... eeeeeaaaaarsssss.....rrrrrssss.sss.ssss.s....ssssssss.

And a tour group on burros hollers back, "Holy Christ!"

The last two times I had sex were with a porn obsessed man who hit me and a mommy obsessed impotent boy who hated me.

The last time I had good sex was when I sold shots out of test tubes as "Nurse Hemlock" at Jekyll and Hyde downtown from 12-4am and fucked a few guys from the bar (it was the costume, I"m sure and yes, sometimes I kept it on).

So, it's not the sex I miss, although, believe me, I do, but it's the intimacy. You didn't even touch me so much anymore. Once, a few months before you left, I asked you to kiss me from head to toe. I was in my little boxer briefs and a tank, lying on the bed, and you quickly "smacked" your way up, then went away. Very satisfying, that. Or maybe it was me. Maybe I expected too much. Certainly, I didn't expect you to fuck me, I wanted just an appreciation of... me, my skin, my scent, my little feet, hands, boxer briefs, breasts (though not little), lips, eyelids... just to softly kiss my eyelids, for God's sake...

Did I expect too much? Is it because I'm not that girl? I'm not a girl? Too dark to be held lightly or tightly?

Huh.

It's not that I don't like being tossed around like a sex salad. I do. I also like being touched like a priceless object.

But you didn't seem to know how to do either.

So, I wonder if the next time I have sex, if I ever do again, should I slow it down and try to get what I want--

or speed it up and just get what I want...

43 days, 18 hours, 23 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-11T19:59:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, 2000

Today, I continued to make what was "our" home into "my" home.

It's been quite the struggle.

First of all, I grew up in an environment that was completely disjointed; where it was more important to look rich and important and together than to actually be so. Therefore, most of my parent's time and money was spent covering up the circus of maladjustment and abuse that ran rampant in and around our home.

I remember going to my private school, to which we had to bring our own lunches, and seeing other kids with perfectly packed lunches that contained individual chip bags that came in "snack packs" and homemade sandwiches. Then, to finish, Mommy had put in a Ding Dong or Twinkie.

I either made a PB & J or forgot to make anything at all. I was like an urban Oliver in a Polo shirt and plaid uniform skirt.

But I wore designer clothes and my father, a prominent television anchor and big time local celebrity, along with my Mother, made sure no one believed there was trouble at home, no matter how much I cried at school, made trouble or exhibited signs that there definitely was.

Anyhootiehey... here I am now, single in New York with a gianormous apartment. Just me and the cats. All of your shit is gone. Your comic books are gone, your poster of "The Shining", the books at which you never looked, your hideous dresser, you and your shit... gone.

Hmmmm. I have all of my candles and oil warmers going at the same time. I have low light. I have my "Mellow Mix" on my iPod Dock, which is spinning "O Brother Where Art Thou" ("Big Rock Candy Mountain").

Earlier, though, I was listening to Madonna, shaking my sweet ass (how many more years will I be able to say that?) and putting things where I wanted them. I've been putting it off quite a bit, feeling disquieted by the thought of doing it, as if I couldn't perform up to task, having never really had a home before.

I guess, when it comes down to it, our home wasn't really a home. None of it was true, or, at the least, very little of it was real.

So today I did. I purged things, I prominently displayed keepsakes, I framed pictures, I filled my bulletin board, I began to really make myself a little home.

MY home. MY house (in the middle of MY street).

There is no sign that you were here. Except in my head. No longer in my heart.

And home is where the heart is.

42 days, 17 hours, 45 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-10T19:18:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, 2000

I flirted shamelessly today.

I had a meeting in the morning, and then I was shooting a TV show in the afternoon, then I had an audition, stopped by my agent's office, had another appointment and ran errands. So I was dressed really nicely and I felt really good.

At the studio, they did my hair and makeup, put some wardrobe on me (waist up, 'cause that's how they shoot me) and I felt even better. The whole time, people are telling me that I'm shrinking in size, but I was already feeling great... not that those compliments didn't put a few more straightens into the ol' spine. But someone said, "I like this new confidence" and I said, "Yeah, me too!".

And I flirted shamelessly. Tastefully and shamelessly and without regret or a second guess of myself. I don't believe I have stood as tall in quite some time.

Maybe it was the stacked heel boots.

Maybe it was the sweater I spied in wardrobe that I was afraid to try on, because I saw myself as I was two months ago and was convinced I would look like Susie Potato in it, but, instead, I looked like Gloria Glam. Even though I had to hang it back up on the rack, that mirror image smiled back at me while I rode the subway downtown to audition for the Staples "Easy Button".

Maybe it was because I shaved my legs.

Whatever the reason, I was glad not to have come home to you today. I didn't feel a bit of a sinking feeling walking into an empty apartment with two mewing cats at my feet. I didn't care that I was broke or that there's a bug problem I have to contend with; that Sanford's sick or I have to clean tomorrow and fumigate; my rent's only 3/4 paid and I'm living on PB&J's and H2O.

I don't even feel bad that my vibrator is on Yes Olde Village's Most Wanted list and thinks "Fire Bad!".

I was glad to be able to kick off my boots in the entry way, toss my cardigan on the mud bench and throw my skirt on the bed and feed the cats in my shell, Peanuts underwear and black kitty socks, my earrings still hanging from my ears, without you sighing that I'd left my outfit in three parts of the house.

I was glad to sit on the couch in the same ensemble, put the lap duvet on, light a sage and citrus candle, read allure magazine and sit in silence without you crowding the other end of the sofa with your smelly fat ass not freshing up and then turning the TV on immediately to watch God knows what.

I was thrilled to crank up Fatboy Slim and Xanadu and dance around MY living room, occasionally picking up a kitty for kisses, then quieting down and doing some yoga, never having to hear you fart or changing channels in the bedroom as you "gave me space" and I kept thinking Namaste Namaste Namaste....

because I'm not supposed to envision enlightenment as I tear open your throat with my teeth.

And tonight, as I sleep and dream, I will be glad not to have to be awakened by your sleep apnea and having to shove my size 8 foot into your size huge ass to get you to stop snoring as loud as Thomas the Tank Engine snorting Crystal Meth.

In the morning, I'll be glad to start my day all over again.

And now, something I am truly grateful for... my two little babies. And, finally, the mask comes off, and, nervous as I am, this is, I guess.... me.:

My guy, Sanford, 7, rescued 2004

My gal, Chibi, 12, rescued 1996

41 days, 8 hours, 0 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-09T09:35:00.000-05:00

Photo Booth, Little Ricky's, NYC, 1996

I used to ask you, "If you ever met my father, what would you do?" You would say, "I don't know". Kind of that cereal-in-his-mouth, ask-him-at-breakfast, 13-year-old-wearing-a-Nine Inch Nails hoodie answer with a shrug of the shoulders mutter, you know?
What did I want to hear? "I'd kick his mother fucking, two hip replacement, angioplasty, Vantage Menthol smoking, alcoholic child molesting ass six ways to Sunday!"
Dunno. Say 'ello I guess. Like you were suddenly a Cockney chimney sweep.

We'd listen to Joni Mitchell and discuss his childhood and why he did what he did to you. Maybe do a sweat in my lodge, burn some sage... Then I'd let the fates decide what to do with him. Namaste.

I used to burn sage in the house, to clear the house after parties, to clear the aura of certain folk's energy, and it made you sick. What does that tell you?

I felt helpless. Because I felt like you wouldn't defend me.

I felt handicapped. I feel handicapped. Literally handicapped. Not even handicapable. Not even enough to guest star on "Life Goes On" as Cousin Somebody.

I absorbed my shortcomings and they became my personality, if that makes any sense at all. Suddenly, my flaws were my strengths. Yet, there are moments, I don't know if these are clarity or crisis, where I see them as loathsome. I am "strong like bull" and "meek like lamb".

I am "steek like bumb".

I don't think the Shiny, Happy People are empty inside or simply existing. I think they experience pain and sorrow, but they learn how to deal with it and they have a support system from the moment the hospital light hits their eyes. Grandma and Pa started a savings account when Mom was in the 7th month. These are not the people with secrets. These are the people whose families dealt with adversity head on and were taught the same. They grew up golden, untarnished, with pom poms and jerseys with their names across the backs. And they didn't make fun of me in high school.

When I go home to Louisiana for the holidays, my Mom or my Brother will have a Shiny, Happy new friend or friend's son or daughter that they want me to meet and I will want to vomit. I know that friend will probably shake my hand confidently or kiss my cheek, because they have heard "so much about me" (including that I've had a "hard hard life... really rough... she was molested", "Oh my God! I had a friend who was molested! It's really hard."). This person will wear khakis (guy) or a little too much makeup (gal) and say "wow" when I talk about my career (even though I will tell them it's not where I want it to be, but I'll pretend I'm making vertical moves, even with a hand motion-- Vvvvvvoooop!). And that "wow" will be totally sincere.

I'll have on the new and tasteful Chan Luu skull earrings I treated myself to 2 weeks ago, my black Fluevog boots ("those are neat!"), black, black, black, silver, silver, silver; flat ironed hair, minimal makeup and in NYC I'd feel gorgeous and affable... but I'll wish I was trendier, more Ann Taylor than East Village. I'll wish I was wearing Estee Lauder's "Pleasures" instead of "Eros" by Aveda. I'll wish I was prettier. I'll wish those Bubbas at the bar at the chain restaurant in which we're eating watched me walk by on my way to the bathroom. I'll want to say "fuck" a bunch, but I'll have to say "flippin'" or "friggin'" and even that's pushing it.

I will be like Bodies: The Exibition. See inside the inner workings of the damaged.

This happens to me when I'm scheduled to go home for the holidays, every single time. Down that fucking rabbit hole. PLS: Pre-Louisiana- Syndrome. 12 days to go. I thought it would be a nice surprise for my Mom. And as soon as I booked the ticket, I screamed, "What have I DONE?!!?" I don't support Wal-Mart or Starbucks. I don't like malls. I don't like 36 theatre multiplexes. I like subtitles. The country air suffocates me. They hide their homeless! The town is divided into black and white. You were never a buffer, either, because you were such a pussy, you slept and watched TV and slept and ate good Cajun food. You never "got" what I would get so upset about. "This TOWN", I would say, "This PLACE!!!"

I think I made a big mistake. Thanksgiving AND Christmas? What have I DONE?!!?

Breathe.

Shiny, Happy People in Banana Republic blouses and 1 and 1/2 heels, Chanel lipstick and "base" on their face introducing themselves at brunch.

I'm not scared of brunch. I've been to brunch. Plenty of brunches. I love brunch.

It's just that I can't have the Mimosa.

40 days, 19 hours, 14 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-08T20:51:00.000-05:00

Aquarium of The Americas, New Orleans, 1999

One thing that we had in common was that we seemed to be learning how to create adult lives. We were both latch key kids, raised by the TV and with really dysfuctional lives. So, it was as though we grew up together.

We learned how to eat healthy, make big purchases, like furniture and stuff, take vacations, save money... you know, like real people do, real adjusted people.

Real people like that never bothered you, but they always bothered me. They still do.

I envy those people so much. I don't understand them and they sadden me.

I look at pictures of them smiling, glowing, not a vengeful or spiteful bone in their body; no jealousy, no hate... because they weren't brought up that way.

Their parents are still married. They had dinner at the dinner table when they were growing up. They're the sweetest people everyone knows. They radiate light and warmth. They never rage. They were in sororities and fraternities and they're "alumns"... the last time they talked to their dad's was "last night".

Their eyes twinkle.

They're so very special and not in the way that needs medication.

Boys favor those girls because their sweetness is like Tupelo honey. Those girl marry tall men who open doors for them and surprise them with weekends away with no hints or pressure whatsoever.

You never surprised me with anything but deli flowers. But I liked 'em. 'Cause I knew that was the top for me, those little yellow daisy deli flowers.

I'll never be one of those girls. My nail polish always chips. My mascara always runs. I don't seem to radiate much of anything.

Those girls... they're, well, they're girls.

I'm the darkness. The warmth that radiates from me can turn 180 degrees into cold in the course of two seconds, because I was brought up that way.

Because I'm--

not
quite

right.

I never graduated from high school, I quit and took my GED. I never graduated from college. But I lie and say that I did. Sometimes, people ask me if I'm okay because I just sort of stare off and you can see that there's something inside of me that's all torn up. Even though I'm healing every day, it takes so much time to sew up those sorts of wounds and the scars are indelible.

Those smiling, glowing, happy folk who don't have to hide anything... the color just rises to their faces and people can't help but hug them and love them. Their morning faces are a joy to behold.

I'm bound to reflect over a tuna on rye and begin to weep, even though I don't look so fragile on the outside. That's why I eat alone. That's why I write a blog instead of picking up the phone. I have everything to hide; weakness, sadness, dinners in front of the television that I heated in the microwave, nights up until 2am writing poetry when I was 12, hoping that I would just die, thinking I would rather die than live in that house anymore.

While those happy, future alumni planned their pep rallies and proms and ate waffles that Mom cooked and set down at the kitchen table.

40 days, 16 hours, 30 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-08T18:07:00.000-05:00

It don't all gotta be bad....

So LOOK, A PUPPY!!!

39 days, 8 hours, 19 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-07T09:56:00.000-05:00

My birthday, Mowtown Cafe

2006 (with an unfortunate haircut)

You are such scum.

A little birdy, a very thoughtful and caring birdie, told me you were moving to Austin.

The birdie "thought I should know".

Thank you, birdie.

Did you think I wouldn't find out?!!?

I guess it's none of my business, but I knew you'd cut and run, I know you're going to fuck me out of your half of the rent, to which you are legally bound to pay because you signed the lease, asshole. Your signature is on it and cannot be removed and that is NY law! I knew you'd screw me.

I love it! "I'm not moving to Boston"......

hee hee hee titter titter

So I called you this morning. Five minutes ago.

"You, are you moving to Austin?"

Silence.

"Yes, I'm moving to Austin," you said.

"Okay", I said, very clipped, "Okay," I repeated.

"But not for a few months", you, I don't know, rationalized? Fuck, I don't know.

"Okay", I said again.

"Bye," you said, and we both hung up.

Sonofabitch is gonna cut and run, I thought.

Motherfucker is going to tend to the responsibilities until he thinks he's done.

I am so fucked.

38 days, 12 hours, 11 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-06T13:47:00.000-05:00

Handmade Valentine's
Day card, 2006

I am starting to feel a sense of relief since you've gone.

I started this joke when we were together. You used to ask me, "Why do you do this?" or "Why do you do that?" You know, like, "Why do you leave your socks on the floor in front of the couch?" "Why do you put your diet soda bottle in the living room trash instead of going into the kitchen and putting into the recycling bag?"

The long answer was, "I'm going to do it when I get up to go into the other room, asshole."

But I got tired of using that answer, so I came up with the answer that I thought you wanted to hear; the response that would become my stock answer thereon in:

"Because I hate you."

I mean, why else would I do it? Idiot.

You were needling me. So fuck you.

Why? Fuck you, that's why.

It's a relief not to have to answer your insipid questions about why I do what I do when I do it.

It's a relief that you don't come in and take a shit while I'm trying to have a serene, candlelit bubble bath (that's right). Because then you'd have to leave the door open to air out your "what the fuck did he eat" God-awful smell devouring my jasmine/orchid aroma like the Blob ate teenagers in the film of the same name!

It's a relief to not have to cook for you because you don't know how, to have to plan menus for your lunch and dinner, to have to order from Fresh Direct for the week's groceries, to look at those hideous Italian/banana hammock/San Tropez underwear and secretly toss them and replace them with real man underwear that are briefs.

It's a relief to not watch you get hypnotized by the television, so much that you didn't hear me talk to you sometimes, or you'd be late for work, because you were watching "Battlestar Galactica" on the Tivo.

It's a relief not to watch you walk around naked, wanting to scold you and yell at you, hissing and shouting, "You know what? Put that thing away! I don't want to see it if it's not working." It's like putting your old Camero up on blocks in the front yard. You keep saying your "gonna fix it, gonna fix it". At first, it's all shiny and pretty, but, as the years go by, it gets rustier and rustier and you're not buying parts for it anymore and, let's face it, you're never gonna fix that fucking Camero so just cover it with a tarp so I don't have to look at the broken piece of shit anymore!!

It's all a relief.

It's the biggest fucking Alka Seltzer on the planet.

Plop fucking Plop. Fizz a doodle Fizz.

37 days, 21 hours, 50 minutes after you left me...

2006-11-05T22:27:00.000-05:00

I have tried to take a vow that I will never let people shit all over me anymore.

Even after I have become so strong after you shit all over me and refuse to take your bullshit anymore, what do I do?

I let people shit all over me.

What in the hell is wrong with me? Am I the world's toilet? Am I just going to keep allowing people into my life that take and take from me and then throw me to the ground when it's my turn to kvetch?

I hate people.

You wonderded why I didn't like to be social. It's because people let me down. They always have. They are never fully present for me. Their ear is always slightly bent to another angle. Their arms don't entirely encirlcle me. Their eyes dart away when I speak to them.

Huh? What's that?

I don't command attention and respect. It must be built into me. It must have been laid into me, no pun intended, when all that crap happened to me throughout my childhood.

They hung a sign on me: WELCOME.

A place to wipe your feet, have a rest and then move the fuck on.

Don't mind that girl in the corner, she can take care of herself.

Oh, and she can take care of all of you, too.

37 days, 12 hours, 7 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-05T13:06:00.000-05:00

Chicago Trip, 1999

I don't trust you.

I don't know if my mistrust comes from my history of abuse and the dysfunctional upbringing and all of the fucked up relationships I've had...or if you're weasely.

... or a little from column A, a little from column B.

A little bit about trust (WARNING: some of you may want to look far away, I'll let you know when you can look back again):

My father didn't mean to hurt me. I know this. It doesn't mean that what he did is forgivable or acceptable. His mother sexually abused him. Not an excuse, certainly. Sometimes, it seems harder to overcome because I did love him and we were so (and are so) much alike. He was an actor, an artist, a writer, but he didn't fully realize those dreams. There's a big difference. Did he ever threaten to kill me if I told anyone? Yes. When I was younger, he smothered me with a pillow sometimes, even though I didn't make any noise, I think so he didn't have to see my face. And I was confused as to why this man, whom I loved and trusted, would want to scare me like that.

So, I stopped remembering. And any image I had, like a pillow coming down on top of me, I would write off as not a real memory.

Then I stopped trusting myself to know what was reality and what wasn't.

When I began to remember the abuse I suffered at the hands of my great uncle and cousin (the Batman and Robin of child molesters), it was a different kind of feeling. I felt humiliated. The first thing I remembered was being in my great uncle's bathroom when I was three or four; he had velvet paintings of nude Tahitian women all over his house and he sat on his toilet with his pants around his ankles while my cousin lifted up my dress and pulled down my underwear. They just laughed and pointed and turned me around and around. But the worst part was that I was laughing, too, because I thought it was fun, too. When I see this, it's like I'm watching from the corner of the room, way up high. Totally disassociated. I know I left my body at that moment. Every single time I think about it, write about it, talk about it, I feel humiliated.

Whoever I was supposed to trust at that moment, God, my mother next door, my grandma, my cousin, my great uncle... no one was there for a twirling, laughing brown haired girl who was just playing.

OKAY YOU CAN LOOK BACK NOW--- TOTALLY SAFE!!

I told you those things, things I had never told anyone before. I trusted you with those feelings and secrets. Only now do I feel strong enough (albeit anonymously) to share them with the world, so people know they're not alone. It took me years to tell you these things.

And you bolted.

Christ on a cracker, do you have a point?

Yes, I do.

This is the email I got from you this morning:

"I am sorry to have taken so long in responding but I had the Blabitty Bla event that I was helping Peter* and Fred* and it took up all my time and brain power.

I think we should deal with our separation and keep all Project We Were Working On Together discussions separate. That is business and should not be influenced by what is happening on a personal level. That would not be fair to all the other people involved in that project. It will be dealt with, but it should not be lumped in with everything else.

I am still looking through lawyers and I will look at mediators as well. I make no guarantees as my finances are limited.

And no, I am not moving to Boston (my neighbor's son saw you when you were moving you stuff out and said you told him you were moving to 'Boston' or 'Austin', so I asked you via email), though I am looking to move out of this godforsaken city. "

What goes through my head is, "Don't trust this mother fucker. Why is he suddenly playing nice and being all calm? WTF? Don't fall for it. He's luring you with a puppy."

But I'd love a puppy. NO!

New York city is the greatest city in the world! Puh-scuse me? "godforsaken city"?!!? I think you met a little chickie in a little city somewhere. Someone else to flop your cock on their thigh with...

You're a liar.

I don't trust you. I don't trust anybody. Even my closest friends are at arms length, man.

Nobody gets too close, anymore, not after my father, not after my family, not after my experiences and, certainly not after you, my friend.

36 days, 14 hours,11 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-04T15:47:00.000-05:00

Faraway, So Close...

Yesterday, after a rehearsal, I went to Old Navy to use a "Free Pair of Jeans" thingy I got from a goodie bag at a party I went to in August.

I decided to get---

DUM DUM DUM

Skinny Jeans.

So, I grabbed of dark denim "Ultra Low Riders" in my usual size (the big size).

They were too big.

I got the next lowest size. Still a little bit big.

The next lowest? A little tight. Boo!

I got the next lowest to the big size.

So fuck you, mother fucker! I dropped and size and a half! I'm a rockin', hot, sexy, "crazy is your charm", shakin' my sweet ass bitch.

I dance on your weak titty baby, pot bellied, van-dyke wearing, gym fearing, leave me at 1am "want the last ten of my life back" sad, sorry self!

Today's a good day.

35 days... 15 hours... 4 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-03T16:41:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony 2000

THE OMEN

It's not that I love you anymore. It's not that I want you in my life anymore as a friend, as a lover (I can't even think that far back), or as a husband.

But you got me. Besides my friends, you got me.

You got me and you slept beside me; you smooched me and, at one time, you were intimate with me.

I scare men.

I'm too twisted for color tv.

At dinner last night, my friend said, "But you are crazy, that's part of your charm". It's not charm when you represented in cyberspace, believe me. Not when you have to write, "I'm kidding", or "I was being sarcastic" after things you say, or when the guy's profile says, "Turn Offs: SARCASM". It's not "Sex In The City", where Sarah Jessica Perkier acts like a complete asshole and guys think it's adorable or quirky because she's a size 2 and has tits up to here. She whines her ass off to Chris Noth and he still finds her in Paris at the end to say, "It's you, Carrie, you're the one".

I'm the Carrie that gets pig's blood spilled all over her ("they're all gonna laugh at you, they're all gonna laugh at you... we're all very sorry, Cassie, we're all very sorry, Cassie").

I tend to send a million emails; leave a million phone and send a million text messages, because I forget to say or write things and I feel like I have to let people know right then or I'll forget. One of my meds' (Topomax) side effects is forgetfulness and short term memory loss, so I forget things. I forget words or times of things and I have to write things down... it's so screwy.

You got that.

My friends understand that I do that.

I don't feel embarrassed telling them about the side effects.

I do feel shy about telling Joe Handsome Charming that, oh, by the by, I'm on some "no go crazy 'cause daddy fucked me" medications that cause me to do some strange and OCD type behaviors and I forget things and.... hee hee... "crazy's...part...of...oh fuck it".

Strangers trying to "connect"... they think it's weird, psycho, crazy...

not "part of your charm".

It's going to be so hard when it really comes down to it. I can just hear you, telling your friends, "She's going to have a lot of trouble finding someone who'll put up with there shit; all of her problems and all of her annoying little... things."

You're right. Maybe I stayed with you because I thought you were the only one who'd have me. But then you didn't have me. You left.

Now, I can't very well say,

"Hi, happy Match.com connectors! I'm dark and hard on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, like a Hershey Dysfunction Bar. Crazy's part of my charm, don't 'cha know... that's what they say, anyway. I've had a helluva life, but I'm "strong like bull" and will cross stitch you a tea towel and bake you cupcakes for your birthday if I know you long enough. I will get you to laugh through my pain and at things you didn't think you could laugh at, then I'll stop and fawn over a dog on the street. I'm cynical and adorable. Huggable and vicious to men in pleat front pants.

But my heart is two sizes too big and you'd know that if you actually met me, but because we're corresponding via electronics and I don't translate well through the wires, you'll be blocking me from communicating with you very soon.

Take Care and I Blame Myself,

Me"

Were we still in the days of The Pony Express, I'd be a spinster.
_____________________________________________________

Nothing about me is normal. Everything is a little bit off.

I had a Frankenstein vibrator.

Because we weren't having sex, I had to rely on it (and my 3-ways with Ben and Jerry) to keep me happy and satisfied. I didn't have the extra funds to go to my toy shop Toys In Babeland, to invest in a Rabbit Habit.

And so, for your reading pleasure, this is the story of the Frankenstein vibrator.

First, before the bolt-necked sex toy, I had the honey bear.

How could I resist this little guy? He puts out forest fires! See his little arms? They wave! They waved at my hoo-ha! They said, "Hello, hoo-ha, I love you and I'm sorry that you aren't having all the sex and orgasms in the world. I'll put out that fire for ya'.... num num num!"

Also, bears like honey, so.....

Wheeeee! Yay! Wheeeee!

Wait.... fizzzz.... spurt... sputter... stop... grrrrr... Noooooooooooooooooooooo!

The honey bear had eaten something bad out of the pic-ah-nic basket (not a euphemism, my state park is well tended to) and died a horrible death after a while and went to honey bear heaven to live with Boo Boo and Smokey.

How long did I wait to trip on down to Rivington St. for a new plaything? Faster than you can say "new plaything". Try it.

I'm already there.

Scoping out new prospects... no more little bullet covered forest dwelling hoo ha wavers.

I was going big time.

I found the "Japanese" vibrators. They are shaped like people, so as not to be "offensive" and I liked that. Very considerate. It seemed so much more honorable to the country of Japan as I fucked myself with it while watching online porn or dreaming of someone else besides my husband, didn't it?

I chose a lovely light blue model like this one:

Actually, it looks like the little "beaver" (appropriate) is taunting the "lady" by sticking out his tongue, saying "You gotta go in there, hahahaha". And the "lady" is saying, "I'm so not listening" (I imagine this because she wears pearls, like Jackie O. rgasm).

But I had to use it so fucking much, one day it just stopped.

"What the hell?" I yelled, pausing the laptop, leg slung up on the desk (we weren't wireless yet).

I'm not kidding, this was, like 3 and 1/2 years without sex. I should get wife of the century.

God, why did I stay with you?!!?

Oh no. Sweet Mother Of God.

The wires to the beaver had dislodged.

She knew what she had to do.

She had to hot wire her vibrator.

First, she tried to shove the two wires back into the beaver's head. Nothing.

"We're going to have to go in", she said, grabbing her craft scissors and needle nosed pliers.

Slowly, with the precision of a woman who hadn't had a cock in her since 2002 and had a girl-on-girl scene paused on her computer screen, she cut up the back of the "lady in pearls".

"Sorry I gotta do this to you, ma'am, but release is release", The lady was silent, but it was understood. Underneath the lady was a plastic vibrator... it had to go. She chucked it into the trash. All that was left was a blue rubber flap, where a pearl wearing, hard fucking lady used to be. She said a small prayer.

"Thanks, doll", she whispered as she folded down the blue rubber beaver cover to find a plastic egg.

She knew this egg. This was the egg that the sex peddlers sold covered in bears, bunnies, different colors. The hoo-ha egg. But this particular one had a wall around it, where the wires needed to go, so she gently put them down the sides, and BANG, the little guy started moving!

She covered him up and smiled to herself. She was strong like bull.

Until the wires pulled out of the control panel a few second later.

She turned off the vibrator. Angrily cracked open the control box, stripped the beaver wires with her pliers and wound them around the connectors are tight as she could. BANG! The little guy started moving again.

Strong like bull. Horny like moose.

The End

So now, I was pleasuring myself with half of a dual action vibrator (the good half, yes), that was flippity, floppity on the other half (like a deflated Martha Stewart), with an exposed control panel of batteries and wires in my hand.

But, fuck it, it was ALIVE..... ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!!!

Something had to be.

34 days, hours, 3 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-01T22:10:00.000-05:00

Commitment Ceremony, 2000

You aren't hearing me.

There is no scale, no ruler, no possible way to possibly measure my frustration with you. I am popping out of my skin. My fingertips are burning. There is is cold air rushing out of my head. My hands shake into claw formation when I have to type an email to you or write about your pathetic self in this blog.

God, you make me so fucking sickeningly angry.

You
are
not
hearing
me.

For the last four weeks, we have been in agreement on one subject: that we would have a mediator. So I get this email yesterday.

The Dance of The Assholes

A Play

by You And Me

You: I am looking into arbitrator/lawyers as that is what we would need to draw up papers.

Me: For what?

You: Separation

Me: I thought we were getting a mediator.

You: I cannot afford going through a process with a mediator and then going through a process through a litigator, especially when the litigator can handle the issues of rent as well.

Me: There are more issues that just rent. There's the insurance issue. There's (the project we were working on), there are other issues. "Many people simply want to be heard and understood in the divorce process. However, on their own this can get out of control, as each person triggers anger and resentment in the other -- often unintentionally. A mediator trained in counseling can assist the parties in acknowledging feelings but not allowing feelings to control the decision-making process".

You do not respond.

Me: Look, I understand that you've been "Saying yes to things you haven't wanted to say yes to for..." what, like, ten years, now... and you're "not going to do it anymore". We all get that, ok? But you have to still be considerate of other people, You. Even me. Even though you hate and resent me. In our ways, we have been considerate along the way through the fighting and I am asking that we get a mediator otherwise you know this will explode. Is that what you want?

You: You do not have to send me four emails pleading your case. When I don't write back write away, it is probably because I have limited internet access or I am in the middle of other things.

And you cannot have the both ways. You tell me you are not going to make things easy and that the divorce will not go uncontested, yet you want me to go through all these hoops. If you want a mediator, I suggest you help me look for one because ****'s is $400 an hour and that is not an expense I can take on. I also cannot pay for two lawyers. We are going to have to get a lawyer at some point. Separations require it. I thought the lawyer would be able to settle everything between us. If you think that is not possible, then by all means bring on a mediator. I cannot commit to paying for it until I know the pricing. Right now, things are very tight.

And stop with the bullshit about how I hate you and resent you. That may work for the fans of your blog. But it is an unnecessary added wedge in these already trying interactions.

Me: I thought you didn't care about the blog.

"I have so much anger and resentment towards you"-- You, the night you left me

I proceed to stand my ground and state the things that I expect from you, then, in the coming year and settlement.

The End

You certainly don't behave humanely towards me. You act as if you hate me. You are passive/aggressive, you lie to me and try tmanipulatete me. You don't tell me any different. You have never apologized for the lies you told others or the things you said the night you left... so I will continue to assume. I will make an ass out of u and me, thank you very much.

Fucker.

I hate you, does that help? And the "fans" of my blog hate you, too. We're making t-shirts! Be-damned-dazzled!

Idiot.

When my Mother said, "What if she hurts herself?" you said, "It's not my problem".

And you don't hate me? Preeeeeetty sneaky, sis.

I told my therapist that I felt like you were just trying to beat me down. That you wanted to wear me out and make me give up. I don't know, maybe it's because I felt that way. She said she saw the opposite. She said you wanted a fight; you wanted to fight me, so you didn't have to look at yourself. She thinks you're ambivalent. She said she could hear your asshole tightening.

And yet, through all of this, what do I focus on? That I can't wrap my mind around where the man I knew went. It's like trying to figure out what infinity is; what was there before God or the universe.

It's endless and vast.

I come home and engage in interminable crying, cradling my head in my hands, wondering when this switch happened and trying to convince the core of my being that it wasn't my fault.

...trying to ground myself; to know that my core isn't rotten to my very soul.

33 days, 19 hours, 16 minutes since you left me...

2006-11-01T10:04:00.000-05:00

Everyone who has looked at me or "Winked" at me on Match.com is not what I am looking for. Everyone I think is groovy, I frighten away.

Alright, I'm a snob, an elitist, and people would say I should take what I should get with my waistline. But with these tits? No fucking way.

I already settled on you, you limped dicked, cock loving, diaper wearing mama's boy... I settled for a man who was afraid to write checks. You were a man who never learned to drive. You lied, you broke promises; you refused to wax your back when I shaved my legs because you liked "a smooth leg".

Every other day I need to let this anger go and take a bath with salts and candles to release the tension in my neck and back. Then the tension comes back and sits like an impotent, resentful, closeted monkey who writes bad sketch comedy and envies my success.

"This is my more talented charge. I put the weight of the world on her."

32 Days, 15 hours, 23 minutes since you left me...

2006-10-31T17:59:00.000-05:00

commitment Ceremony, 2000

I'm listening to The Wall.

Once, I tried to make you understand the brilliance and beauty of the transition from "The Happiest Days of Our Lives" into "Another Brick In The Wall (Pt. 2)". But you didn't get it. I played it, like, three times. It really frustrated me that you didn't get it. To me, it's a fucking masterpiece, like you view Magritte's "Castle In The Pyrenees", which I also appreciate. I tried to explain to you the insane control and intricacy of John Bonham's footwork on the bass pedal during "The Immigrant Song". You could give a shit.

But I went with you to the Whitney Biennial. I HATE the Whitney Biennial.

Oh... a lightbulb dancing with a fetus. I don't get it. I'm not supposed to get it? And that means I'm getting it?

I don't get it.

Music has been so important in my life. Not just rock and roll, all types of of music. You and I exchanged so much useless and fun trivia about 80's bands. I adored that. Maybe the lack of rock and roll knowledge was a sign of your totally pussy package.

When I went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, on a road trip to Chicago with my friend, I was so pissed that the only Led Zeppelin instrument they had was a John Paul Jones synthesizer. Fuck all, right? They didn't even have one of Page's dragon suits! Man!

I get a little butch around classic rock. A little Harley chick-ish. I'm not but a little ashamed.

I worry that you would have been concerned as to why they didn't have more of Boy George's wardrobe from the Kissing To Be Clever Tour. "When he was in his 'dreadlock phase'"...
*Sigh*

You hated when I called you "dude" or "man". Because you were neither?

What if I called you "sisssssssssssssssster la la"? Oh, that's just mean.

I find myself having to forgive you two to three times a week. That's my workout.

___________________________________________

Here's my new fabulous haircut:

and my morning face.

Eat your heart out. Great hair and 22 pounds lighter.

But you won't be doing that. You probably don't want to eat anything out.

I don't know who would.

That's a problem.

Here I am, supposedly this beautiful, sexy, attractive woman... and yet I can't imagine anyone who would want to lay their hands on me unless they're a chubby chaser or blind. This was there before you came along, even when I was thin, you just reinforced it.

Thank you very much, jackrag.

My Mother signed me up for Match.com, so I will "meet a nice man" and "Dr. Phil endorses it". Sweet, Southern Mama.

She gets me the "Buy 6 months, and if you don't find a month, we slap you in the face with a big, giant ham and give you 6 months free, you big loser, take the money you saved and get plastic surgery or go to Jenny Craig".

I filled out my profile. For body type, I had to list "Full Figured", I mean, that's what I am. I am "Curvy", but I'm "Full figured", too. I'm not "Average", unless you count the Midwest and Southern states, but not NYC, for fuck's sake! I don't have "a few extra pounds", unless "a few" is, like 30. Noooooooooooo... I'm "Full Figured", like I've reached my intake.

People can either wink at you (now, if someone winked at me in a bar, I'd vomit in my mouth a little, so that was out), or they can email you.

So I get all of these matches! Awesome!!!! Handsome guys, too! WOW! But none of them are contacting me. And the matches are, like, 97%, 93%... so I start looking. We match on everything... but BODY TYPE. They are looking for "Slender, athletic, toned, average, a few extra pounds...." and it stops there. I email some of them, (in a nutshell), "Hey, I'm witty and great, but not so slender... " No response.

So, now, most of the emails I get are from guys who look like they have a touch of the Downs.

And even they probably would kick me off the short bus.

You must be thrilled.

Is it that I look like there's something off? Did you put bad mojo on me, man.... dude?

Do I look scared?

Because I am...

I don't want to get married. I don't want a "boyfriend". I just want to have an evening with somebody who doesn't have to wear a life vest in a hot tub or only use plastic utensils because of "the stabby incident". Someone who thinks I'm attractive and knows how to smooch, gets hard when it's called for, likes how my skin feels and doesn't mind that there are bumps in the road... and on me...

Someone who has a good time.

Maybe that's just me, huh? Maybe it's me who has to do all that for me first.

But they still don't let me use real knives and forks yet.

Damnitt!