Before I was old enough to understand it, the Iran-Contra affair was exploding in the news. Oliver North was a major figure at the time. I saw classmates walking around with “OLLIE for President” shirts on at school and though I knew he was in the news, I had no idea what he had done, whether it was good or bad and whether he was good or bad.
I was old enough to understand the implications of the Clinton investigations. Bill Clinton, that is. Kenneth Starr, a special prosecutor, moved on the then-President over covering up an affair with an intern. It seemed like it would never end. Like the Republicans had decided they would not let a few blowjobs slide in the least bit. Even though quite a few of them cheated on their wives or did worse. . . (see Dennis Hastert, former Republican Speaker of the House). It was fascinating until it was irritating and headache-inducing. When would they finally just drop it already?
And then Bush vs. Gore and that whole debacle. It all happened in front of us and the Democrats just let the pigs fuck them out of a victory. With that a whole lot of things that get fucked that can’t get unfucked and an entire generation loses hope. . . until 2008 when a skinny black guy from Illinois comes in on a platform of “Change” and we needed it.
I rooted for Obama to succeed, but eventually things went back to normal. Which is when the pigs started plotting, because evil doesn’t rest. Turns out Obama wasn’t the beginning of a new chapter. He was a prelude. One man can’t bring all the change himself, even if he’s the President. If we want change, we’re going to have to work for it ourselves. And it is work, not so much a fight. A fight is short. Work takes a long time.
The election of Donald Trump to the highest office in the land is the biggest case of player-hating in modern history. But you know that. That’s sort of what his campaign was all about. It takes a lot of love not to go crazy right now. Love and patience. Self-love. Love of your fellow man.
A dark night of the soul. Nights of spiritual despair. Moments where you cry for relief only to find none coming. Prayers that can’t be answered immediately, if at all.
I have been extremely depressed lately, and not just for political reasons. Just so happens that the political stuff is the easiest to talk about since it affects us all. But we all get depressed from time to time, right? Even if you’re not given to chronic depression and anxiety like I am.
Tuesday was Valentine’s Day, a day for lovers and the love-struck. Not for me, it’s not. It’s just a day between February 13th and 15th. I wish it weren’t so. I wish I had a love to call my own.
Who will comfort me in these uncertain times? Who will tell me I’ve been spending too much time on Twitter, please come and spend time with me instead. . .?
I don’t talk about my personal life on this space for a very good reason: I don’t have much of a personal life. Not that I would go around blabbing like an informant every time I went on a date. . . it’s just that there aren’t very many dates.
I’m relatively new to Whitesville. But I’m not a social person. I’m sensitive and self-conscious. Making a connection seems nearly impossible.
Maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe it’s just too much pressure. I’m like one of those Japanese men who have stopped trying to find a mate. Maybe I should get a pillow with a manga babe on it to be my girlfriend.
Maybe this is my life. Maybe I’m alone because I’m with the only person who can stand to be with me.
“Could you be loved?” – Bob Marley. Evidently not, Bob.
By the way, I finally got a hair cut last week. I figured it would be good to look less like Hagrid from Harry Potter. I’ve halfway shaved this fluff on my face into a somewhat organized look as well. I’m almost presentable.
I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . .
Reality is shattered. Absurdistan is a term popularized in Eastern Europe back in the late 60’s and 70’s. Now here we are.
I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start my heart just rolled and flowed. . .
The gallows humorist in me keeps saying “last day. . . last day in free country.” It’s not a totally free country. An almost free country. It’s less free for others. I understand. But everybody is going to feel this one. No matter who you are, you will feel something terrible in the next four years.
“But Obama is a Muslim. He’s hiding it. Why won’t he salute the flag?”
Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump pauses during his campaign speech to hug the American flag Saturday, June 11, 2016, in Tampa, Fla. (AP Photo/Chris O’Meara)
We hug flags now. We’re a flag-hugging country. We are broken-brained and mental. Bi-polar and driven to the breaking point. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed, I’ve seen where it goes. . .
Corporations have more rights than humans. The unborn have more rights than the already born. If a fetus could form a corporation, it would be the most protected entity in modern business. One day the robots will have enough sentience and they’ll have more rights then us too. One day we’ll elect a robot President. . . if it’s not a female robot.
You are not alone, though you may feel alone at times. I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you but from the start, my heart just rolled and flowed. I’ve seen where it goes. Still somehow my love for you grows.” I’m impressed with those words. “I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you. . . I don’t want to need you but I think I do. I don’t want to need you because if I admit that I need you then I’m giving into you and I know you can’t give yourself to me. You can’t have me need you and neither can I because if I need you then I can’t function without you. I know I can’t. Because I need you.
The woman who wrote this song was Judee Sill who died in the late ’70s. She put out a few albums that are stellar, and her version of this song is on her first self-titled album. I’ve listened to both her and the Turtles’ version of this song hundreds of times over a weekend. I feel like Brian Wilson sitting in a dark room listening to the intro to “Be My Baby” over and over. I tried to figure out WHY. . . why did this song grip me so much? I listened to the song until I figured it out. I let the song love me. Because you can’t love me and be with me. Because I’ve been trying hard to keep from needing you.
I think that sometimes a song sums up a feeling that we can’t sum ourselves. It encapsulates all the strange emotions we have and the shifting tides. My soul is on fire as we live in uncertain times. Everybody is going to feel it. Last day in an almost-free country. Life can be so nice.
So on my heels I’ll grow wings, gonna ride silver strings but I’ll see you in my holiest dreams. . .
I’m in a lot of pain right now. World Series, top of the ninth. Tie game at six. Cubs vs. Indians, game seven in Cleveland. I had to turn the TV off because it hurt too much. Like “might sprain myself internally from holding in screams” kind of pain.
I’ve had to hold in my screams a lot lately. I want to scream all the time for all the reasons in the world. It never stops. It never stops. It never stops. It never stops. “It never stops” is repeated in that Residents “song” I just posted. I’m so miserable right now.
It has been a completely miserable day. The stress has been overwhelming. This is how panic attacks happen because the body is trying to process the stress that the mind ignores and tamps down. “It’ll be okay”, I keep telling myself. “It’ll be okay.” NO IT WON’T.
Something like your favorite sports team chumping it in the biggest game of their life (and the biggest game of your life as a fan) is an acute, sharp pain. Contrast that with the dull constant pain that is every day of your life. The things you want, you can’t have. The love you want, it won’t be reciprocated. Your hopes and dreams, they are the empty totems of a meaningless existence. The suffering that we try to rationalize and compartmentalize. Life is tough, and we’re meant to get on with it.
But then the sharp, brief pain of a sports loss and you are dumb struck. The grief of mourning without any of the gravitas. You realize that are no better than the birds in the trees, screaming their pain cries.
That’s how Werner Herzog sees the birds. And that’s really what we are. Birds in nature, screeching in pain. Why do you think they call them “tweets”?
Everything I did today I damn near messed up. If I had a long enough dick, I would have tripped on it or got it caught in a storm grate today. That’s how bad today was. And now, the World Series of Professional Baseball’s Game Seven is going into extra innings because. And then a tarp was dragged out over the field because of a rain delay?
I hated this year. I hated last year. I hated two years ago, too. Let’s face it, maybe it’s the years. Maybe it’s my life that sucks. I’m trying to make it better for myself but I keep tripping over this dick that I conjured up in the last paragraph. This long, trippy dick that doesn’t have anyone to love it and gets stuck in storm grates while I’m out tending to my errands.
Allow me to take some time to vent in all caps.
GODDAMN I KNOW CHAPMAN FIRED A GUN AT HIS GIRLFRIEND LAST YEAR. NO I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT EITHER. I FUCKING HATE IT. HE SCARES ME. I JUST WANT HIM TO FUCK OFF AND NEVER PLAY ANOTHER GAME IN A CUBS UNIFORM.
AND YET SPORTS FANS ONLY GIVE A DAMN ABOUT A GUY’S CRIMINAL RECORD WHEN HE LOSES. LIKE ROETHLISBERGER. GUY WAS ACCUSED OF TWO SEXUAL ASSAULTS. THEN HE LOSES A SUPER BOWL. AND PEOPLE GO “YEAH THAT’S WHAT YOU GET”.
LOSING THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME IS NOT A COMEUPPANCE FOR COMMITTING VIOLENT CRIMES. BUT I GUESS THAT’S ALL WE CAN HOPE FOR IN THIS DOUBLE-STANDARD JUSTICE SYSTEM.
I HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN INTO MY OWN PROBLEMS. I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO START. IF I COULD I WOULD SPILL ALL THE TEA BUT THEN PEOPLE WOULD KNOW WHAT AND WHO I WAS TALKING ABOUT AND THEN THERE WOULD BE DRAMA.
Just listened to The Family version of “Nothing Compares 2 U” and started tearing up. Because I’m in love with somebody. I’m crazy about somebody. And that’s a road I’d rather not go down. Not right now.
Lady Gaga bought Frank Zappa’s house. I don’t know how I feel about that. I guess it could be worse. Tipper Gore could have bought it. Or Jared Leto. I hate Jared Leto so much and I don’t have any good reason but if the news reported tomorrow that Jared Leto was trampled to death during a race riot, I’d dance a happy jig.
The other night I was all set to gorge myself on about twelve hours of live Japanese wrestling. That didn’t last long as the city of Charlotte engulfed in protest over police shooting an unarmed black man. A protest that got out of hand, or a riot, depending on who you ask. It was a horrible scene. One dead, many injured. Everybody on Twitter an instant expert. It took me out of the mood to watch fake fighting.
We are a people who have not learned the lessons of the past. Twenty-five years ago, LAPD cops beat Rodney King so badly he needed to be hospitalized. If it had not been for the quick thinking of a neighbor who shot the incident with his video camera, the world would never have known how brutal police treated the man who went to hospital with a fractured facial bone, broken right ankle, and multiple lacerations and bruises.
Immediately, cop defenders (usually white people) would say that Rodney King should not have been driving drunk. That he should not evaded the police and led them on a high-speed chase. That he had already been convicted and served time for robbing a store in 1989. And all of this is fair and true. But BUT they really fucked him up. Come on. They didn’t rough him up. They beat him savagely. For a long time. And were videotaped doing it. And then were found not guilty on all charges.
So fuck it. The cops can be videotaped beating a black man with batons and not get in trouble for it. What do you do? No kidding there was a riot. As if before NWA’s “Fuck The Police” nobody ever thought that. As if calling cops “pig” was a new thing. As if cops didn’t have an intimidation factor that gives people, innocent or not, the shakes. But the blacks will be blamed by whites for destroying their own community and the whites will be blamed for not getting the fucking point.
There are so many fucking racist goddamn white people out there. Proud-to-be-racist stupid fuckers. And they act like it’s a numbers game. Because if the white people get outnumbered by the blacks and Latinos then they’ll start working out on the whites for a change. What a goddamn embarrassment. There are people who are actually afraid that the white race will be eradicated.
Here are some thoughts about that. First, I don’t care. Second, that’s such a dumbfuck thing to be afraid of. Goes to show you how embarassingly stupid the cowardly racist tends to be. Third, the entire human race is up for grabs for numerous reasons. If you believe that the Zika virus is a threat, and if you believe that we are running out of clean water, and if you believe that the gas supply is running out. Combine the melting ice caps and the possibility of President Trump who wonders why we can’t just fire nukes at countries that make us mad. We’re talking borrowed time, folks.
By the time you read this, I will be gone. I packed up my things and made amscray for the road. It’s over. No hard feelings.
We’ve had a pretty good run but I think our relationship has ran its course. I remember the first night we laid in bed together, cooling down from the hot lovemaking we’d just made. Giggly in the post-coital glow, the warm fuzzies taking over us and the endorphins high as the stars in the sky. Everything felt good and right with us, but I remember saying to you, “Girl, I don’t think I got enough dick to keep you happy.” It was like I saw the end, but all the way from the beginning.
It’s true. I don’t got enough dick to keep you happy. For real, I could have a second dick as well as a butt plug growing off of my elbow and it wouldn’t be enough. Because it’s not the size or quality of said dick but the variety that does it for you.
Can’t blame you, though. I knew what I was getting into. You are a porn star. Not just a porn performer. A star, which means you are famous for it. People recognize you on the street and geek out. You’re not just a porn actress, you are a shaman of cum. Or a shamaness. You’re a witch that conjures cum out of many lonely people through the medium of streaming video and for that you should be honored.
It was exciting at first when we’d be out in public and guys (always guys) stopped in their tracks to gawk at you. Many of them approached you. They all said they were big fans and loved your work. Then they would look at me and give me a double thumbs-up. They envied me. Hell, I would too. I had the best girl in the whole wild world. Had the best girl.
Relationships are tough, no matter what you do for a living. Remember that day I called you while you were on the set to tell you my sister’s ventilator was being shut off. What a horrible day. My sister had been in a coma for months. No sign of improvement. Technically brain dead. We were keeping her body warm because. . . we couldn’t let her go? But she was gone, and it was time to accept it. I called you with tears in my eyes and you tried to reassure me. You did your level best to try to make me feel better. It was her time, you said, and we were doing the right thing. You told me you loved me and were proud of me. I sobbed like a baby. You stayed on the line with me through all my tears.
When we hung up, you went to work and got Blacked dot com.
When we first started dating, I thought it would be a nonstop party. Nothing but fun and craziness and lots of group sex with all of your female co-workers and none of my male friends. It didn’t quite work out that way, but that’s not why I’m leaving, believe it or not.
I’ve learned about myself so much since we’ve started dating and I have you to thank for that. I’ve been forced to take a look inside myself. I’ve had to reexamine what I thought was right and good and that would not have been possible without your love and support.
When I said I hoped we’d party and have crazy group sex where I was the only guy in the room, that was only the first half of the fantasy. I had hoped that one day we’d both just settle down together. Just you and me. And occasionally Kayden. But you are like a wild horse. You cannot be broken or tamed and what’s more? You shouldn’t be broken or tamed. Not by me, at least. Not by any man. When you finally decide to settle, you will do it when you are good and ready. No one is bringing you down, nor should they.
But me? I’ve had my taste of the wild life. And Kayden. And Gianna. And Zoe. And Kayden. And Mia, Pia and Zia. Not to mention Kayden. But I can’t keep up with you. I don’t just not have enough dick for you, baby. I don’t have enough heart and soul for you. Or physical endurance and flexibility. I think I’ve been a closet monogamist this whole time. How utterly pedestrian and banal, right? Well, one day you may end up feeling that way too. The guy you’re with when that happens will be one lucky s.o.b.
But alas, it is not me. So I’m leaving. Because this is your condo. I had the Dish transferred over to your name, btw. Sorry I didn’t pull my weight with the bills more.
The nature of true love, as discussed years ago on an episode of Ron & Fez, a popular talk-radio show.
Fez has a ideal of what true love means. Fez, as of this 2009 broadcast, is a closeted gay and middle-age virgin. Fez keeps referring to “the secret” which is not the wish-fulfillment scheme that has sold a ton of books but is actually his homosexuality which he has only told Ron about but the show’s staff and listeners seem to know anyway. Ron, his worldly radio partner, picks apart his logic.
I tried to clean up the transcription, so it’s not 100% accurate. Emphasis is mine.
Fez: “You wouldn’t want any other person. I would think it would be because you couldn’t replicate true love with somebody else. True romantic love.”
Ron: “What about people who get married many times in their lives?”
Fez: “I think probably only one of those is someone’s true love.”
Fez: “. . . and the other one is maybe like – there’s obviously love and a need for wanting that kind of companionship but I don’t know if they’re all – like, if somebody gets married three, four times, all three of four are true love.”
Ron: “So you just really see the fairy tale thing?”
Fez: “Yeah, I think so.”
Ron: “Interesting considering that in all the fairy tales, these are traditional relationships. And a lot of the reasons why people are against alternative things is because they don’t fit into the traditional values.”
(Fez to a polyamorous caller who talks about the peaceful co-existence with her husband and boyfriend)
Fez: “I think you probably do have one true love out of the two of them. I bet there’s one that you do love more than the other. Maybe it’s on a very micro level but I would bet that you do.”
Ron: “Why do you, of all people, want to put anyone else in a box?. . . Do you see that you should be on the side of alternativeness?”
Fez:”Yes, I understand that, but. . .”
Ron: “And yet you’re telling her (about her lifestyle) that you don’t give her any credibility. That what fucking kills me. . . do you see how Southern conservative you really are? Despite all the things that, you claim to be you create these boxes not just for yourself to live in but everybody else.”
Ron (left) and Fez.
(on Fez’s concept of having “one true love”)
Ron: “Why is this concept so important to you?”
Fez: Um. . . I think it’s that one overwhelming feeling of love that one person can produce in you.
Ron: “And you’ve never had it yet?”
Fez: “Mmm. . . I’ve probably had it but not where it was reciprocated.”
Ron: “So that wouldn’t be true love.”
Fez: “Right, yeah.”
Ron: “So you haven’t had it. In your way of thinking, you haven’t had it?”
Fez: I have not had it.
Ron: “So why would your heart be broke if your standard is there’s only one person for you? And the second that person says ‘I am not for you’, why wouldn’t you just go ‘Oh good because that means you’re not the one and the one is out there’?”
Fez: “Well I mean, there’s still an awful lot of love involved.”
Ron: “But it’s not true love. If there’s such a thing as true love, nothing else would matter. If your concept of true love existed, nothing else would matter.”
Fez: “. . . I do think that true love is just something that is going to smack me in the face.”
Ron: “But why? Why would you be given this? Dinner doesn’t smack you in the face. You have to earn dinner. A clean home doesn’t smack you in the face. Nothing else is a gift that falls down from heaven. Why do we confuse the fact of this ‘true love’ thing? Why would that be something that must be built, like everything else in life?”
There are a lot of people in the world who aren’t closeted asexual middle-aged virgins (like Fez) but they believe in this concept of “one true love”. I myself have felt this way. Still clung to the idea of finding my one true love. The “there’s somebody for everybody” logic which isn’t logic but a sad piece of blind hope. We tell the lie to each other, we tell it to ourselves. The blind leading the blind. Or the blind taking suggestions from the tone-deaf, or something.
Fez talks about his feelings of love, unreciprocated love, unrequited love, infatuation, you name it. He produces a list of people he held feelings for in the past, just so Ron can see it and tell him he has “taste for shit” in crushes. Then he talks right through Fez Whatley in 2009 and begins talking to me in the middle of the night in March 2015 and I have to stop and put myself up for examination. Fez never told any of his crushes how he felt about them, and I did only when it was too late, out of desperation.
Ron: “Here is the weird thing: Not one of these people knows how Fez felt about them. All these people thought that they were, um. . . friends, buddies. . .”
Fez: “Never mentioned it.”
Ron: “All these people except for one are still very much in Fez’s life today, and still have no idea. And some of these go back decades.”
Fez: “That’s the irony of it.”
Ron: “. . .I think you’re an entertaining person, and only I know three of the four (people on this list). DULLEST people you’d ever meet in your life! Oh, you’re sicker than you thought.”
Ron: “You never even told any of those people. I mean, being rejected builds character. To just hang around for years on end, taking this something from someone without giving anything is the strange thing.”
Fez: “Well, I think I was, like, giving friendship-”
Ron: “That’s dishonesty. And we’ve talked about this many times. If I start to hang out (with a chick) and I had feelings for her and never told her, eventually that would be dishonest. In other words, (she would think) ‘I have a good buddy in Ronnie B’ and it would not be true. . . At a certain point, once you start to have these feelings. . . it doesn’t have to happen at that moment but you have to say to yourself ‘I have to tell this person where I’m coming from’. Particularly, um. . . Fez, when you saw that person, uh, being in other relationships, right? Did it kill you?”
Fez: “Uhm, yeah. Most of the time. Yeah, and a lot of the times, I still wasn’t you know, even being honest about that. You know, I thought it was just like ‘I can’t stand that person that they hang out with.”
Ron: “It’s hard to tiptoe around.”
Fez: “And that’s what I was doing then. A lot of tiptoeing.”
Pictured: Unusually good at tiptoeing for a big man.
I have done a lot of tiptoeing around girls I had crushes on. Some of them I never told until it was far too late. Some I never told. I don’t have anything real. I might as well be Fez right now. Lonely, sad, asexual. Except for the gay thing I am Fez. I wear the same clothes over and over again. I bunker down and close myself off from people. I hide my true feelings. I am in a pit of despair. I’m on Youtube listening to a radio program from six years ago. Where am I in life?
In 2012, Fez Whatley came out of the closet on an episode of Ron & Fez. He is still a virgin, and has at least eleven stents in his body due to heart-related conditions.
Kanye is in love. It’s obvious. You wouldn’t suspect it but everything he does is a cry for help, a cry for acknowledgement that his feelings are being understood. I get it, ‘Ye. You’re in love. She’s the most beautiful woman in the universe. She could crush entire ecosystems with a flick of the hand through those luscious locks. She moves with purpose and makes you feel like a little Timmy wearing pocket protectors like it’s junior high math club all over again.
I don’t blame you. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by She Who Is Beyonce?
Oh, Kanye. You poor sap. You’re a famous rap star, songwriter and producer. You are a complex person. You contain multitudes but one look from Beyonce strips all that away. One look from her deep, thoughtful eyes into yours and all senses of self, self-image and self-consciousness go away. That is why you run on stage when other people win awards that Beyonce is nominated for. You did it in 2009 to Taylor Swift. You did it last night to Beck.
This is not about art, music, music video, or awards for such. This is about love. This is about your love for her crying out but not wanting to say it explicitly. You betray your feelings, Kanye. I get it. It’s called “unrequited love”. You are infatuated, obsessed. You want to tell her. You want to tell the world: “I AM IN LOVE WITH BEYONCE KNOWLES. I WORSHIP HER LIKE A MINION FOLLOWS AN IDOL.”
Sometimes when no one is around, you write “Beyonce West” in your notebook. Then you cross it out and write “Kanye Knowles”. Your heart fills up with joy at the very thought of being Kanye Knowles.
Who do we not seeing protesting Beyonce’s awards losses? Jay-Z. Beyonce’s husband. Because Jay-Z has Beyonce. He has the aloof confidence of a man who has the world by a string. The money, the success, the fame, the most beautiful woman in the world. You are indebted to Jay-Z, Kanye, yet you hate him and resent his happiness. Jay-Z gave you a break in show business but took away the thing you wanted most. . . her.
Put in literary terms, Beyonce is the white whale and poor Kanye is Ishmael. But Kanye will never get to harpoon her. So what does a lovestruck fisherman do when he can’t get the big catch? He looks for another white whale.
And what a whale Kanye caught. Who envies the fishermen who make these great catches? Other fishermen. It is better to be envied than it is to envy. Kanye knows this and that is why he married Kim Kardashian and sang those bizarre “Bound 2” lyrics to her face while riding a motorcycle in the video. Distract yourself with, make a baby, get weird with the most famous ass in the world.
And yet it’s not enough. As soon as you’re in the room with “her” again, everything changes. You feel your molecules going crazy inside you. Beyonce is the alpha, the omega and all in between. The world is not enough, in the words of a James Bond film.
This weekend was exceptionally and unusually pleasant.
I want you to notice the word “unusually” in the above sentence. By that sentence, you may think that I am a glowering Gus. An Eeyore in sweatpants. I deserve that.
Joyful moments and pleasant days do not have to be the rarity, the anomaly in life. They really don’t have to be. I’ll share with you the two moments that really stand out.
Friday night in was in Nashville playing a show with the band. The band before us asked me if I wanted to sing “Black Diamond” by Kiss with them. That band is called Freebase Masons, and I think they play stoner metal. Without a moment of rehearsal, I went up and sang “Black Diamond” with them like I had been doing it my whole life.
Maybe I had in some way. How many times have I heard that song? Never really heard the words to it all the way. But I NAILED THAT SONG TO THE WALL. It was glorious. I always wanted to sing a Kiss song onstage with a band. Cross that one off the bucket list I don’t have.
The next day, Fordsville Days reared its’ head again. Another local fall festival. For years I have loathed Fordsville Days, mostly because I live in the middle of it and the bandstand is literally next door from where I live. I have complained for years and it has gotten me nowhere.
This year my grandfather sat on the porch and listen to an old-time band play country and bluegrass songs from the past. As the night air cooled everything down around us, I joined him on the porch. He sat in a lawn chair with his lady friend Wilda, I sat on the porch. It was like when I was a child and they took me to Rosine to watch bluegrass bands and they were in lawn chairs and I sat on a blanket on the ground. Twenty years before. The night cooled down and I rubbed my arms. Grandpa got tired and went in to take an ibuprofen. He has more aches and pains these days. He slept in that night, as it had been a long day for him.
I enjoyed those moments. This was me reliving my youth. You want to relive the days when you’re old enough to party but don’t feel it too bad the next day. I went beyond that. I went to my childhood for a moment.
I almost got sad that I couldn’t go back. Instead I feel really good that I had it again. If we had them all the time, they don’t get to be special.
I might not be ready for romance. I’m just judging on the evidence of my life so far.
Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? I am a serial non-dater. If this were something I wanted, you could classify me as an ascetic. But I would prefer to be a dater. Instead, I am one letter off and I am an “eater”. When I want a thing I can’t have, I try to fill that need with a thing I can get. People do that all the time. Some people make addictions out of it. Perhaps I have, but with food. I don’t eat every second of the day but when I eat I go overboard. I’m trying to shut up the gaping maw that is my stomach.
I’m probably not ready for love and romance. I’m not even close, am I? What a drag. If I were ready, perhaps I’d be in the moment, being in love, being in some sort of relationship.
Being in love is a great feeling until it turns into a bad feeling. It can be bad if you want someone who doesn’t want you back. You can’t make the world fair. You can’t make them love you back. If it doesn’t fit, it can’t be forced. Cows don’t make ham. I’m not ready. Booooooo. . .