The Main Thing To Note

Three years ago, I cheated on my then-girlfriend, Kate. The circumstances had been spectacularly typical: a struggling long distance relationship, a copious amount of alcohol, and an overly-flirtatious party guest. I guess perhaps the only other aspect worth noting was that the night happened to be the Friday the 13th of that October.

But the main thing to note is that it happened.

That Sunday, Kate had caught a ride with a classmate of hers from the University of Arizona to come up to Phoenix. She had planned this ahead of time so that she could spend the day with her family.

The weekend before, I had promised that I would drive her back to Tucson that night. Kate had called my apartment at about 9:00 pm to let me know that she was ready to leave.

I had gone to pick her up.

She later told me that she had known the moment she had answered the door and seen my face that something was very, very, wrong.

We had been driving almost an hour. She had been in a bubbly mood, talking and laughing about her family and friends at school. I had been making only one-word responses and the occasional grunt. As we approached a rest-stop, her mood suddenly became serious. �Pull over when we get there.� I nodded, avoiding her eyes. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

And there, in the antiseptic, orange, glow of the rest-stop lights, I told her everything.

She bore the news as well as I had expected her to.

After she had returned to the car, where I was still sitting and staring morosely at nothing, we resumed our journey.

She had asked me a lot of questions. Most of them began with �Why?� I don�t remember what I told her. Then she asked why I had waited so long to tell her. I had said, �I don�t know.�

I had been lying.

I knew why I hadn't wanted to tell her.

There are times when you know all the way down to the bottom of your heart that the next words out of your mouth are going to change everything forever. Inside, you get an inkling of the stark, bitter, loneliness a god might feel when there is no one else to blame in all of existence.

The reason I hadn�t told Kate right away is because I had wanted to extend the last few moments left on this Earth in which she didn�t utterly despise me. It was an empty indulgence, of course. A petty, self-delusional, and perverse indulgence.

Because delaying the truth, believing that you can buy yourself time before speaking those relationship-altering words is an illusion.

You can�t buy yourself time before you say them.

You started saying them the moment you chose your course of action.

And you will continue your soliloquy.

Hopefully, when you decide to stop, that person is still even willing to listen.

There's an art to many things.

One of these is the ability to disguise hours of horrendously agonized over hours into a seemingly spur-of-the-moment, off the top of your head account of your day.

It's just something to be aware of.

Because either way, in most communication mediums, you won't be able to tell the difference.

Myself, I find myself mesmerized by the soliloqouys of various characters that I encounter. I imagine their minds functioning like intricate Swiss watches, delicate gears whirring furiously to display their thoughts.

Then I think about how long some of my half-page posts have taken, and I balk.

There's nothing like working on something...anything, really, and not being completely happy with the finished product. It's frustrating, to say the least.

But it's better than nothing.

* * * * *

Methinks has been doing this really nice light-shining-in-the-darkness thing lately. Originally, I was of the opinion that the purpose of my blog was to communicate with the people I actually physically interact with on a somewhat daily basis in my life. But Lo! and Behold!, people that I essentially only know as strings of letters and occasional pictures become three-dimensional beings that I value and appreciate.

How do they do it? How does anyone do it?

* * * * *

Joey M. is quite drunk, and he is ready to go home. Lamentably, that means I must go as well, since I brought him here and feel it is my duty to bring him back. It's a principle I picked up from my old job as a guide through the levels of Hell. Funny, I can't even remember how many there were now. I'm sure you can see why I was fired.

He just asked, "What? What are you looking at me for?"

I almost yelled, "Inspiration! Meaning! Truth!"

But perhaps these things are not to be found in Joseph M., at least, not at the moment.

Bleck, I must be off.

No rest for the wicked, I suppose.

Vision...blurry...Lungs...trying to... claw their way out of body...

I'm less enthusiastic about the Alaskan fishing job. I remembered that when I get cold I curl up into a whimpering ball (very much like when I was hit in the groin by an errant volleyball earlier tonight.)

It was my friend's hand that lobbed it, but it was God's hand that guided it to it's target.

Wait, I'm not a Fatalist.

But on the other hand, I don't like the idea of all the events in existence innocently setting up the exact necessary conditions to rack me.

But on the other hand, I'd feel very important.

But on the other hand, it wouldn't be a good kind of important. It would be like "We keep little Timmy locked in the basement and the social worker is coming so it's IMPORTANT that he isn't discovered."

Muscle68 had an interesting ex-girlfriend story, so I thought I'd share as well:

Last night, Kate called me up to ask if I would do her a "huge favor." I don't say "Yes" right away when people ask me for a favor. (That's how you end up spending Prom night cleaning the giant panda bear cage.)

Essentially, she wanted me to rub honey all over her so that she could then roll around in money.

She would get to keep whatever stuck to her, and I would get half. It sounded reasonable enough. But I was still suspicious, and pressed her for more information.

I gleaned that I would essentially have to give a speech about why we deserved the chance to participate in "Money for the Honey." Not that unreasonable, either. I have been known to do a bit of "talking" back in my day. Surely I could convince a bunch of drunks that I/she was worthy. I was grabbin' my little plastic honey container that looks like a bear out of the cupboard and about to get my coat when...

"Oh, one more thing..."

We would have to pretend to be a couple.

"Back you go, honey bear."

Instead, I went to go hang out with Annie, who was in town for the holiday season.

I think I made the right choice.

�You�re miserable, edgy, and tired. You�re in the perfect mood [for writing.]�

-Spider Jerusalem

I can�t really say that I�m any of those things, (perhaps tired,) but I am definitely aware that those conditions may be on the horizon. In the past 24 hours I have been confronted with more options regarding my next step �in my great/nonexistent plan.�

Hmm. I don�t really like typing on a standard keyboard. I much prefer my laptop to type on. The keys on my laptop required a more delicate touch. I clunk away at this dirty hunk of plastic in front of me and resent that other hands have touched it, that other ideas have been wrested from them.

There was more to my little laptop than just a keyboard that demanded finesse and that damn touch-mouse-pad thing that I don�t know how many times I�ve brushed against and inadvertently erased entire paragraphs of text.

My laptop�s appeal lay in how I would work with it.

Perhaps you recall the attempt to launch an internet access service that would function through your television. A sleek, wireless, keyboard would allow you to essentially what you are doing right now: meander through the gobs of information.

Internet television did not catch on. While I�m not sure of the quality of the internet service provided and how that may have contributed, I�m sure it wasn�t the greatest factor in the failure equation of this product. People sit at a computer, up close, personal, face practically against the glass.

People watch television sitting further away, slouched, reclining, practically apathetic.

And people are conditioned very easily.

The majority of my writing was done under very exact conditions:

1. The time had to be at least 3 am.
2. I should have just emerged, still dripping, from the shower, wrapped in my fluffy, yellow towel and wearing my glasses instead of my contact lenses.
3. I had to feel left completely alone.

I would have to feel that it was just the two of us, my laptop and I. I would huddle over it the way a transient huddles over a blazing trash barrel in a snow-drowned alley.

I haven�t written anything on my laptop in a while.

I have a couple of options right now: Work as a deep-sea fisherman in Alaska for about three months�.
Or

Try to get a job as a teaching assistant for a local high school�s Special Education department.

There are pros and cons to both positions. I�m still debating.

Been feeling a bit isolated. Now that I don�t live so closely to my friends, I�ve been becoming a bit more solitary. Not that I�m surprised. At this point, my levels of interaction and withdrawal have become predictably cyclical.

Hmm�now that I think about it, the spastic posting may be another sign of withdrawal.

I hear Alaska is nice this time of year.