Friday, December 31, 2010

A Look Forward

Dear Diary:

You know what is coming, so here it is....

Dear Self,

Hey you, yes you. I am taking a different route with this letter this year. I am not going to tell you everything that you accomplished. Oh no, I don't want to spoil any surprises that might come along the way. Neither do I want to create expectations in your head that when you look back on 2011 you will feel discouraged or you will trying to force yourself to recognize things that are not really there. But I will point out a couple of general things that you managed to pull off without getting into specifics.

Sure, 2010 was shit year, but 2011 was better. It wasn't extremely better, but it was no worse than the previous one. If anything, it was your year in the sense that you focused completely on you, and no, it wasn't selfish. For years now you have given off this vibe that you ultimately do not care what other people think of you, and hell you have even flat out said it, yet you seemingly have gone out of your way to impress them or give them a good opinion of yourself. It was a walking contradiction really. By focusing on you, and getting your mind and body right, all the other extemporaneous bullshit in life really will not amount to much. Now, I am not going to tell you the specifics of how you did it, but know that somewhere along the journey, something just clicked. I just hope you realize it when it comes. But if you don't, don't worry. It will set in.

The one thing I will tell you that you definitely did accomplish was quitting tobacco. You kept your word to yourself and did not touch the stuff after the stroke of midnight ringing in the New Year. So kudos to that.

Now sure, 2010 didn't end on the highest of notes, and you did not get that SUV that you wanted. You still drove the car your ex-wife helped pick out, but you recognized that the reason you still drive it has nothing to do with anything other than making a quick, and albeit wrong, decision when you were going through your divorce and you thought you needed to have THAT vehicle because it was the only one you could afford. But, once you recognized that, things seemed to work out just fine. Are you driving something new right now? Eh, maybe, maybe not. But is it really that important? The answer is no.

And try to do me a favor? Please take a real vacation. You need one.

Sincerely,

Yourself

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

2010, A Year In Review

Dear Diary:

It is once again time to reflect upon another passing year. It is once again a time to be thankful that my younger brother has less hair than I do, and to be thankful that I did not get another gray hair, not a one, even though I definitely had the stress in my life to have a head chock full of them by now. And well, since doing this same exercise last year was successful and downright easy, I thought I would take the same approach by commenting on the letter I wrote to myself almost exactly one year ago today. Comments are in bold italics. And here we go....again...


Hey You, Again:

So, had fun in 2009 didn't you? Yeah, I know you did. Maybe even a little bit too much fun in some people's eyes, but, don't let their opinions of you form the way you identify yourself. Um not so much really.

If you think 2009 was a good year (and I know you do because I am you), then get ready, and hold on to your britches, because 2010 is going to be even better.Um, again, not so much really.

Around early February, you will once again be a homeowner. You will also no longer be in debt. Well, a mortgage is a debt, but it is a good type of debt to have. And look at your house! I must say, you did an excellent job putting it together. Don't you remember what it looked like back in June? Well, if you didn't, let me remind you: it was a shit hole. Remember that kitchen, and how it was so dated? Now look at it - stainless steel everything! Yeah, I know you were frustrated that it didn't get finished as fast as you wanted it, and I know your back hurt like a bastard from all the painting, but you did a fantastic job, and when you go to sell the place (which I wouldn't because the rent you can get or the building will always be more than the mortgage), you will make a nice little profit. Ok, this one panned out just like it was intended to pan out. The house is great, and it was definitely a lot o work, and I am still tinkering with it here and there. And that kitchen, it's spectacular, if I do say so myself. And I love working in it. Truly, I do.

How do you like that brand new SUV you got? Yeah, I know you thought about it for a while, and it was a difficult decision to go out and buy a brand new vehicle when the one you had worked fine, and was a solid car. But, you didn't pick out that old car as much as you picked it out with your ex-wife. It never really said "me" when you were driving it, and that shiny new black SUV with the sunroof surely reflects your personality. So I am glad you finally dumped that last vestige of your marriage. Besides, you won't EVER have to have to shovel your way out of anything with 4-wheel drive! Well, I don't have a 4-wheel drive, BUT, stay tuned, I still have two more days...

And you FINALLY quit dipping. I know it was tough. I know this because you couldn't do it in 2009, but you did it. All the money you saved you put toward a vacation fund, and you finally made it to Hawaii. Not only did you make it to Hawaii, you flew first class, you fucking bad ass. The very long weekend you took in Hawaii was fantastic, and you loved every minute of it. Oh, and do you remember what you did there? I hope you do, because I am not going to tell you! So I managed to quit dipping for all of a month before I just said fuck it. I was under a shit ton of stress and picked it up again. But as God as my witness, I will not touch the stuff starting the stroke of midnight, January 1, 2011. As far as Hawaii, yeah, that didn't pan out either. I was just too damn busy to take a real vacation, and the only time I took off was long weekends to work on my house.

Also, you got your ass back to the gym after a three month hiatus. Yes, I know you were busy with working on the house and life in general, and the fact that you completely fucked up your back at the end of 2009 didn't help matters any, but you made it back. You got into running, with the help of your trusty iPod, and you even ran a couple road races, so hats off to you. Now, that you are in good shape, do yourself a favor, and go get that back waxed! No woman really wants to fuck a gorilla, just sayin'. This didn't pan out as I had planned, but once Christmas ended I started a new diet with a vigor. My surgery in August really really really fucked with my body as well as my head, and I am sure I fought with a bout of depression somewhere during the recovery process. I did not get to run any road races, because the timing of everything just seemed to blow up in my face. And as far as the back, well, yeah, still hairy. I can't really help it. It's genetic.

Now, I will tell you this. There is a lot that happened to you in 2010 that words cannot describe, so I am not going to take the time to try to describe them, as some things are better left to wonder. But I will say that you did good kid. I tried my best, but I feel as though I fell short. If the things left to wonder where what the sound of having wisdom teeth pulled while being awake, my old me can take that wonder and shove it. No thank you on that one.

I'm proud of you.

Sincerely,

Yourself

The next letter to myself will be published before the beginning of 2011. Stay tuned....

Thursday, December 23, 2010

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

Dear Diary:

I finally bought a Christmas tree a few days ago. It is 8 feet tall. White lights, silver ornaments. Silver star on top. It looks like how a Christmas tree should look. And it is real, so it smells like how a Christmas tree should smell.

It also apparently comes crashing down when it is out of balance and shatters many of the silver glass ornaments that you have hanging on it while you are upstairs, causing a fairly sizable mess comprised of pine needles, broken glass, and water (because if you do not keep them watered they can dry and catch on fire, and well, that would just fucking suck).

Fake trees do not do this. Why? Because you put them together and they are balanced. They also have practically no weight to them. But an 8 foot tree is not exactly light. Furthermore, it is a tree, with an actual trunk, that isn't what one would exactly call perfectly shaped. Close, but not quite.

But I do have the tree I've always wanted. At least that is something.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Maybe Because....

Dear Diary:

"Maybe because you have the mouth of a sailor and most women don't want a man who uses the F word in regular conversation? Just a thought."
-Anonymous

I am guessing that this was in response to the question that was posed at the end of this.

Now, I really do get frustrated and annoyed when people comment on you anonymously, particularly when it is generally the anonymous comments that somehow have a hint of condescension and come across as judgmental of my character and worth. Well, that is my impression of them, and since they are directed towards me, then my interpretation of them is ultimately the one that matters.

But I have to say, everyone only knows what they know about me to the the extent that I tell you, Diary, what I want to tell you. The vast majority of people that read you do not actually KNOW me. They can think they do, but ultimately, they don't. They know what I want them to know. Nothing more.

So, to assume that when I am actually on a date or having a meaningful conversation with a woman I am interested in that I talk like, "fuck that muthafuckin bullshit, that shit fucking cocksucking bullshit that it is, I mean what the fuck, damn," is not only completely asinine but it really does say a lot more about who is commenting than about what they are commenting on. I mean seriously, think about it for a minute. Do you think saying something like, "damn I want to fuck your tits," would make a good first impression? Me either. That is why I don't say idiotic crap like that.

But also to deny the fact that there are instances when cussing like a sailor is completely appropriate is somewhat ignorant. Like I said, I do not write about every single situation that arises in my life. This is not a chronicle of my daily routine but rather a string of vignettes, offering brief glimpses of what it is like to be me, or what I am thinking about at a particular time. And I cuss like a sailor at times, and many times I do not. I do not hold business meetings dropping F-bombs like I get paid to do it. Why? BECAUSE I AM NOT A FUCKING MORON! But out with friends at a bar? Sure, why not. And that is how I view most of the people that read you. As friends. Comrades in arms. Or some shit like that.

So I guess that begs the question as to why I write in rather a, oh, how can I say this appropriately, um, colorful manner? Well, I write what is on my mind, in the form it is shaping in my head while I am thinking it.

But why do I talk to you the way I talk to you? Well, I really do not have anyone else to talk to. Yes, I know that sounds somewhat sad and pathetic, but such is the state of affairs my life is currently in. I am not seeing anyone at the moment, nor am I even casually dating. It is somewhat lonely and depressing when most of your friends are married, and the ones that are single are younger than you for the most part. I do not want to feel like that poor unlucky loser that is sitting in the corner quietly because he doesn't have anyone to talk to. But that is how I feel sometimes since well, I thought I truly had what I always dreamed of, and lost it all. Sure, I have accepted that, but sometimes, it still does sting when I have no warm embrace to come home to when I am having a bad day.

But Diary, since I created you, I can, and will, say what ever the FUCK is on my mind. I will say it how I want to say it, when I want to say it, and if I want to yell and scream and say it while walking around naked holding my big fucking dick, then I will.

Oh wait, let me rephrase that - my large and impressive penis. Because I don't want to offend my readers and all....

Friday, December 10, 2010

Just Some Random Bullshit

Dear Diary:

Pita chips are delicious. Pita chips with spinach dip are divine. Pita chips and hummus are God's gift to snack food. (Did I actually just say something was divine? Give me a minute while I find my balls please)

The gas company apparently says they overcharged me by about $200 dollars, so I haven't had to pay the gas bill in a little while. This is good considering I am cranking up the heat because I hate, wait, hate is such a strong word, so let me rephrase this, I FUCKING HATE HATE HATE (that's better) the cold. I do not like to be cold. I do not like to have a cold nose. I do not like cold feet. And I do not like cold hands, especially when I have to take a piss.

The roommate is gone this weekend. He had a wedding to go to. In Hawaii. Motherfucker better bring me back some chocolate covered macadamia nuts or his rent is going up. Those little bastards are tasty.

I FUCKING HATE HATE HATE the cold but love snow. That is somewhat of an irony isn't it? And we got flurries for all of thirty seconds this morning. I am not happy about this. If it is cold, I expect white shit falling from the sky, and I am not really talking about the stuff that comes out pigeons. If it was snowing, it would make sense for it being cold. But no it is just that bone chilling windy cold that makes me want set myself on fire just to stay warm.

I am going to be spending a large portion of this weekend making Christmas cookies. Yeah, you heard me right. I even made a fairly sizable grocery list for all the baking I plan on doing. I think I will need somewhere in the neighborhood of five pounds of butter, ten pounds of flour, six pounds of chocolate, and, well, you can get the picture. I have not though figured out how I am going to accomplish all of the baking as far as time goes. There are only so many hours in a day, and some of this stuff will probably take a while. I will be making brownies that call for a pound of butter and two pounds of chocolate as well. That and clam chowder, or lobster bisque. I haven't decided on that yet.

Which, when I got to thinking of all of this, had me wondering. I mean, I can eat pussy and bake. Why the fuck am I single?

Monday, December 6, 2010

'Tis The Season.......Blah Blah Blah Blah...

Dear Diary:

I painted. I painted that crown molding and baseboard that I have been meaning to paint for oh, about a year I guess.

I moved furniture. I moved my couch, which is too fucking big for my house, to another part of my fairly small living room. I need to buy a smaller couch, but for some reason they are a bitch to find. It faces the fireplace now. I need to buy a mantle. Or hang some art, probably something metal that can handle the heat.

There are chairs in front of the window now, which can easily be moved. Not like the couch that was there previously. I can put a Christmas tree there. In fact, I think I will.

I think at some point everyone who celebrates Christmas wants to have a place where they can put their tree in front of their window so that when the lights are turned on one can see it from outside. It feels welcoming, I guess. It's really hard to explain it, or at least I can't fucking explain it, but it's true. Why? Because I said so.

I always wanted one of those gigantic Christmas trees. The ones that are 12 feet high and go right up to the ceiling. I have no idea why I want one, but at some point I do. But I have never had the space for it. I still don't have the space for it. Now while my ceilings are high enough, the actual size of the room is not big enough to handle a tree of this caliber. Not unless I want to have my entire living room occupied by a big fucking tree.

But I do have the space now to put it in front of the window. With white lights and silver ornaments. And it will be a real tree. It will not be one of those fake ass plastic pieces of shit that are apparently all the rage these days. Who buys those? Fucking communists, that's who. And people who hate Santa. Do you think Santa has a fake Christmas tree? Fuck no he doesn't.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Traffic

Dear Diary:

I seem to have an ability to understand things.  When they are explained, I can find the reason and rationale behind them.  However, there are two things on this planet that I simply cannot for the life of me understand: women, and traffic.

Now, since I have a penis, the odds of me ever being able to understand women are somewhere between none and never in a million fucking years.  But traffic?  Come on now.  It makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever.

Ok ok.  Yeah, I get the general principle behind traffic - there are too many vehicles on a road and the road hits capacity.  But it would appear that any rational person could simply find ways to alleviate traffic.  But, that never seems to be the case.  Let's take my trip back from NH yesterday.

Right around Exit 8 on the NJ Turnpike, lanes merge.  Seems simple right?  Why can't people slow to a moderate speed and easily merge, like a zipper?  One in, one out, repeat.  Seems simple right?  But no.  It NEVER fucking happens like that.  So, there I was, sitting at a dead stop on the NJ Turnpike.  And that is just unacceptable.

So, I got off the Turnpike and took a state highway south and picked up 295.  Sure, it was out of the way, but at least I was moving forward.  And I think that is what I hate about traffic.  I hate being in a car at a standstill.  If I wanted something that barely moved, I would be in a horse and buggy. Or I would fuck my ex-wife.  But I digress.

So, I finally got out of NJ, and things were moving smoothly until hitting 95 in Maryland, and it was a fucking parking lot.  So, I got off the highway again.  All I have to say is thank the good Lord that I had GPS.  I was on roads that I have never in my life driven on.  At least I was introduced to Mumford & Sons by the local radio stations while driving.

And I imagine someone out there there are people who would think riding out the traffic is better because it generally always picks up.  I say bullshit to that.  Fuck traffic.  I would rather remove my spleen with a wooden spoon than sit at a dead stop on the interstate.  If I wanted to be in a parking lot, I would go to a drive-in.

I'm just glad the dozen lobsters I brought back (cooked and cooled, not alive) made it back, still chilled.  Because if they spoiled, I probably would have set my car on fire.  Or maybe I would have done something less drastic, like caused a car accident by throwing bags of shit at oncoming vehicles.

Cause then traffic would make sense.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Wouldn't It Be Nice?

Dear Diary:

First of all, it is about 67 degrees here in the nation's capital the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. And while I am not one to complain, this makes absofuckinglutely no sense whatsoever. It is someone strange to walk outside and see the leaves changing color and falling everywhere, and yet it's, dare I say, warm out. I really hope this means we get a shit ton of snow this year. Otherwise I am going to be sadly disappointed.

But I digress...

Have you ever reached the point where you are just sick and tired of pretty much anything you can fucking think of? Nothing seems remotely anything other than shit at this point. Hence me telling you to to fuck off yesterday.

It is at this point that I know I need to get away.

It would be nice to go sit on some tropical beach, in complete solitude (like no one else on the beach, not even a toned, tan, and topless woman), with a beach chair and a bucket of cold Corona. Yes, those fuckers do taste better with your feet in the sand. I could just sit back, read, relax, and listen to the sound of the waves gently breaking upon the white sand beach. That would be heaven.

But I am not going to heaven, I am going to New Hampshire.

Now, don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with New Hampshire. New England is my home. But right now, I wish New Hampshire was about 1500 miles further south than it is. The beach I will see will be violent, with the cold Atlantic ocean crashing upon a rocky shore. It will not be warm out. It will be fucking cold I imagine.

But, I am going to be with family. This is the first time I have been to New England since early last year. I haven't seen my mom in about a year and a half (yeah, I know, I am a horrible fucking son), so it will be nice to be able to spend the holiday with her. And I have to say, there is just something about spending Thanksgiving in New England that is somewhat different than spending it anywhere else. Maybe it's the Pilgrim shit, I don't know, but it's definitely a different feeling.

And another good thing about New England is.......lobster. Lobster is about $14 a pound in this area, but in New Hampshire, it is about $5.30 a pounds at the moment. This means I will bring back, oh, maybe about a dozen lobsters from my trip.

Why? 'Cuz that's how I roll muthafucka

Monday, November 22, 2010

Ahem

Dear Diary:

Fuck you

Sincerely,

Me

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Why I Like Not Dating

Dear Diary:

I am loving the whole not dating thing at the moment. I am loving the whole not even worrying about dating at the moment. In fact, I think I like it so much because...

-I don't have to worry about making a good first impression.

-I can get back to a routine of working, working out, writing, and doing my own thing.

-Dating is hazardous to the waistline. I don't have to worry about that at all.

-No more wondering, "Why?"

-I can spend more time with friends.

-I can spend more time focusing on myself, and not worrying about what someone else is thinking.

-Less fucking pressure.

-I am saving a shit ton of money. Enough in fact that I may go car shopping, or SUV shopping rather.

-I can also focus more time on something that I have always wanted to do: brew my own beer.

-I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to be lazy, I can be lazy. If I want to work on my house, I can work on my house. If I want to work on my health, I can work on my health. I don't have to explain my actions to anyone. I don't have to tell any stories. I do not have to feel embarrassed if I choose to relax on a weekend as opposed to going out all the time and doing a shit ton of activities.

Sure, it can be lonely. But feeling lonely sometimes is better than feeling worthless.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Lexicon

Dear Diary:

I am not a fan of the word "date" these days. I mean, the word itself has so many different meanings. It could mean a particular month, day, and year when some event happened or will happen, or it could mean the day of the month. It could mean and inscription that shows the time, or time and place, of something written, cast, or delivered, or it can mean the time to which any event or thing belongs. It could mean a duration, or an appointment for a particular time. It can mean an engagement for an entertainer to perform, as well as the years of someone's birth and subsequent death. Not only can it mean a social appointment, engagement, or occasion arranged beforehand with another person, but it can mean the person with whom the aforementioned appointment, engagement, or occasion was made. And these are just definitions of the word used as a noun.

So basically, "date" is just too fucking complicated.

And because it is too complicated, I think we need to ban the use of the word in certain scenarios, specifically when it is used to describe a social appointment, engagement or occasion arrange beforehand with another person, as well as when defining the person with whom the aforementioned appointment, engagement, or occasion was made. I mean, there has got to be a better fucking word than "date" in the entirety of the English language that can be used to describe both of these, correct? Or do we have to create a new word, or even two?

How about "boondang"? I personally like the sound of it. "Hey man, sorry, can't hang tonight, got a boondang with that girl I told you about."

Now, you may be wondering how in holy fuck all did I come up with this particular new word. Well, I will tell you. Or better yet, let me paint you a mental picture.

You meet someone at a bar, first date, and you are nervous, so you order a drink, and drinks have what in them? BOOZE

You are talking, and having a nice discussion. You both seem interested in what each other is saying. What do the two of you create? A BOND

The afternoon/evening goes very well, the alcohol is flowing, and the conversation is stellar, and everything is firing on all cylinders. So, what do you two do? BANG (ok, obviously this doesn't happen EVERY time, but it does happen time to time, and to say it doesn't is a flat out lie)

So, now take those three words, and mash them together, and you have boondang (shut up, yes you fucking do, cause I said you do, now just go with it).

Now, the word can also be used to describe the person you have a boondang with. "Hey Jack, this is my boondang Sara." Or, "Amy, I can't wait until you meet my boondang Brian." Or, "Can I bring a boondang to the wedding or do I have to fly solo and end up getting drunk and saying inappropriate things on camera? Cause you know that will happen if I fly solo."

I like this word. It sounds a hell of a lot more badass than "date" does. It's got attitude. It's got balls. And in this day and age, when something old isn't working, what do you do? You repackage it, but without actually changing the fundamentals of it, you know, like Republicans. It's just all about marketing.

I think this calls for a movement.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Well, That Is That

Dear Diary:

I have decided to go ahead and cancel the subscription I had to the online dating service that I was using (and yes, it was a legitimate one, I am just not saying which one it was because they don't fucking pay me to promote them). The fact is, I am just burned out when it comes to dating.

Ok, let me rephrase that.

I am burned out putting myself out there and getting shot the fuck down. The icing on the cake was when I mentioned to one woman that I was divorced, and that match became closed within a few hours. Forget about the fact that she knows as much about me as she does the secrets of the universe in ancient Sanskrit. And I am so over sending out messages without a response. I mean, a negative response is better than no response. At least it acknowledges that I am a human being. But sending something into the vast universe of nothingness? No fucking thank you. I'm done, over and out.

That, and well, going months multiple months without a damn date from there is well, just a waste of money if you ask me. I'd rather save that money and buy something I want, like a nice stainless steel roasting pan (wait, did I actually say that?). Because the yearly subscription costs about as much as an All-Clad stainless steel roasting pan, and if I am buying a roasting pan (ok, come on, you and I both know I will fairly soon) then I am buying the one that I want.

On a more positive note, I went a full week cold turkey, nicotine free. And I feel fine. No more urges to strangle someone or club a baby seal. I am rather calm actually. This is good.

Oh, not to mention I had a really good Hefewiezen last night.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Would You Date Me?

Dear Diary:

(Ok, before getting into anything I imagine that you have noticed that I am writing a bit more. This is true, and this also has to do with the fact that I cannot work out at the moment and need to take my mind off that, as well as the fact that I have quit nicotine cold turkey and need to take my mind off that. So, it is either write, or cook an elaborate meal. And I do not have anyone to cook for, so you are stuck reading this pointless bullshit.)

Everyone so often one begins to wonder if there is something wrong with them that somehow makes them undatable. I'm beginning to think that some of the ends of relationships coincide with seasons. I mean, I have never really heard of couples splitting when the weather was fantastic. Have you heard of a couple breaking up on a beach? No, but you have heard them get engaged on one.

Which kinda, sorta, in a round about way, brings me to me. Am I datable? I honestly do not know the answer to this anymore. At one point I thought I was, but looking at the basic facts seems to pain another picture.

I have not been out on a date since, ummmm, what, August? I've had women I used to date come back around and say they are interested and then spend a day with me on a "non-date" and then I haven't heard from them. If you want to imagine how big of a blow to the ego that is, imagine a building, exploding, falling into a sinkhole, then getting hit by a forest fire, and add a tsunami for good measure.

I've gotten the whole "you're great, but I am not ready to date," line. I've been the recipient of the brush-off, of the no-response response. I've put myself out there, even when I was not comfortable at all. And even when dating was going well, I had one ghost show up and completely obliterate my reality and my confidence.

Listen, I'm 32, chubby and hairy. I'm introverted by nature. I'm a dreamer. I like making my partner smile. I'm shy and self-conscious. I can cook. I don't outwardly show excitement, but that doesn't mean I am uninterested. I've been told I am funny, in a deranged and self-deprecating sort of way. I have nice eyes. I don't do drugs. I don't smoke, or use any tobacco products. I do know how to throw down a few drinks. I don't have any psycho ex lovers stalking me (that I know of).

Would you date me?

Or do I already know the answer?

Monday, November 1, 2010

Mail Call

Dear Diary:

Alright folks, I am a bit bored and unable to focus on anything other than the fact that my mouth is sore and I am having nicotine withdrawals (the nicotine withdrawals are good though since I am quitting).

That being said, ask me some questions, would ya? You can either email me directly by going to my blogger profile, or leave them as a comment.

Now get crackin'. Let's see what you come up with.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Chocolate Anyone?

Dear Diary:

Houston, we have a problem.

This is my first Halloween in my house. A few weeks ago, I was being told by my friend and his wife that I would be swarmed with kids looking for candy. I was told that even if I had the lights off, I would have kids banging on my door demanding treats. I was told they blew through eight bags of candy last year.

So, this year I was going to be prepared.

Oh yeah, yesterday I bought ten, yes ten, bags of candy. And since I remember being a kid and going out on Halloween and getting cheap ass shit candy, I was not going to let that happen to my neighborhood children, oh no. I was not going to have disappointed children leave my house, fuck that bullshit. I bought Kit Kat, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Crunch, M&Ms, and Twix. Chocolate baby, it's where it's at.

But, of course this was going to happen. Of course barely anyone was going to show up at my house, and leave a man who is now without nicotine with a big fucking bowl of chocolate goodness. Of course this man would also just have his wisdom teeth taken out.

I mean for fucks sake, if you want to torture this fat man any more please just remove my testicles. In fact, have a squirrel do it. Because the only other thing that could make me feel more on edge would be to have a squirrel chomping at my ball sack.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this candy? I can't eat it. I am not dating anyone so I can't give it to the her that does not exist.

Oh hey, I have an idea ladies of the DC metro area!

Tits for Twix!

(this message brought to you by pain meds, nic fits, caffeine and frustration)

Fuckin' Really?

Dear Diary:

Really?

Seriously?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Ok, so, obviously (if it isn't fucking obvious to you wake the fuck up) I am annoyed. Secondly, I am nicotine free and have nothing to take the edge off. Thirdly, my roommate has been a close friend of mine since we were in high school, but fourthly, at this point, I want to throw him and his shit out on the fucking street.

Because he has NO FUCKING CONCEPT OF WHAT IT MEANS TO PICK UP AFTER HIMSELF.

I am not a god damn maid.

As far as a few examples, he has NOT FUCKING ONCE cleaned the bathroom. He has not once wiped down the counter when he leaves water on it except when I tell him (um, it's a brand new granite counter top, and if he ruins it, I will break his hand), and, just for shits and giggles, when a dog he was babysitting apparently PISSED ON MY STAINLESS STEEL TABLE, he let is sit there.

How do I know he let it sit there? Because as I was eating a bowl of mashed squash I look over and notice that the floor has a water spot on it right on the leg, and then I move closer, and it is yellow. And dry.

I mean seriously? You are 32 fucking years old. If I have to tell you to pick up anything after yourself again, I will be telling you with my fucking boot on your throat, literally.

Fuck that bullshit. This is my god damn house, and if you want to treat it like a fucking joke, then find somewhere else to live. I get by fine without you pitching in money. But you are unemployed, and have been for a fucking year.

Don't forget I am doing this because you are a friend. If you take advantage of me I will kick the shit out of you.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Quitting Time

Dear Diary:

I REALLY WANT SOME FUCKING NICOTINE.

Not only is my mouth fucking hurting, but I cannot take the edge off with a dip, so, I am a bit annoyed.

But on the bright side, I will finally be able to give up that disgusting habit, even if at this very moment, I would love pop a dip in.

Now, for those who have never had an addiction to nicotine, I say first, don't judge. Going cold turkey is difficult. It is oftentimes more mental than physical, but I can feel my body having some type of reaction to having no nicotine in my system for almost 48 hours.

Furthermore, I am fucking staring at a can of dip right now. It is less than ten inches away from my hand. But, I know that if I put a dip in, it will only be temporary gratification and I risk causing seriously painful side effects to the wisdom tooth sockets that still need to heal. So, considering I am not a fucking fan of the dentist, not to mention the fact that I continue to hear the sound (oh that terrible fucking sound of the tooth being separated from the bone!) playing in my head, I am not even risking it, not even for thirty seconds.

But if you see me on the street, please try to refrain from pissing me off. I just may sever your head from your body for shits and giggles.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Fuck, My Mouth

Dear Diary:

Well, I am thankful today is over. The root canal went off without a hitch, and I am now sitting here with faint tastes of blood in my mouth as a result of having two wisdom teeth removed.

Oh, and I am hopped up on Vicodin. And part of my face is still numb. And I feel like someone punched me in the mouth, with a Volvo.

The root canal was the easy part. In fact, this is my second root canal, and they are really nothing spectacular. I think when people think of them as oh so painful, it's because of a preconceived notion of what it entails. But it's nothing more than drill, kill, and fill. They drill a hole, kill the nerve, hollow out the root, and fill it with plastic, then cap it. Forty minutes tops. I've taken shits longer than that.

Now as far as the wisdom teeth go, I will say this: I will never, I repeat FUCKING NEVER EVER FUCKING NEVER get wisdom teeth removed again without being put under. I didn't have a choice this time, but I have two wisdom teeth left and when those fuckers are coming out, it's nap time for this guy.

I felt like I was being pulled in different directions, and the sound, oh for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, that sound, the pop, of bone and tooth separating is something I hope to never, I repeat FUCKING NEVER EVER FUCKING NEVER, hear again. And that is what I told the gentleman who did the procedure. He did in fact describe it very well and the procedure happened just as he said it would, and asked me if it went as he said it would, and I agreed that it did, but that sound, holy fuck all I don't ever want to hear that sound again.

And now I can't eat anything except yogurt and ice cream tonight. And tomorrow I get to move up to mashed potatoes (which I made with a garlic and shallot butter) and squash, or mac' and cheese.

One thing I cannot do is spit. And I also cannot dip. So I guess this little recovery period will get me off my nicotine addiction. But I wish I didn't have to hear the fucking sound for it to happen.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

My Smile

Dear Diary:

I've been told I have a nice smile. That is when I smile these days. Which isn't often at the moment since I seemed to be bogged down in bullshit.

What I do know about my smile is that, well, after today, it is one expensive fucking smile.

Yes, I need dental work. How much you ask? How does getting a root canal sound to you? Oh, sounds like fun? Well then, how does having wisdom teeth removed an hour after the root canal sound to you? Like one big fucking party right?

On top of that, I need two crowns.

What? What is that sound? Oh, it is my bank account getting raped by a elephant, without any lube.

So I get to spend what should be a nice weekend recovering from having teeth pulled. I hope the people at the gym won't mind me spitting up blood on occasion, because I am sure that will happen at some point.

I just hope my brand new sheets don't get ruined. Because after all this, yeah, I am concerned about blood stains on the pillows. I mean, how would I explain that too all the women I bring back to my house?

Oh wait, there are none. Carry on.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Dating in DC, A Year (kinda) in Review

Dear Diary:

I have been seriously dating in the District a little over a year. When I say seriously dating I mean seriously putting myself out there, not relationship bullshit like, "sorry you buxom blond bimbo with DSLs from heaven, I have a girlfriend."

If there is one thing I have learned over the past year or so (give or take a couple months because I have been dealing with other shit thank you very much) it's that dating in this city, for lack of a better word, sucks.

It fucking sucks. Seriously. Dating in this city can suck a fart out of my ass, after eating Mexican. That is how jaded I am as I write this.

What I can't fathom for the fucking life of me is that with all the educated people in this area, it is chock full of fucking self-absorbed idiots. Oddly enough, I can picture women reading who happen to live in my area nodding their head in agreement. It does cut both ways, and I am sure that I have been thought of in the aforementioned group of morons at one time or another (I'm not awesome enough to be self-absorbed, unless you count the fact I blog about shit), but for fuck's sake, make it stop.

One thing I have respect for is at least being honest with someone when you don't want to see them anymore. But that bullshit where you just stop talking to them or communicating in any form in hopes they will take a hint is pathetic.

And ladies, for the love of all that is good and holy, please deal with whatever issues you may have before going out with me. I am not your former boyfriend who fucked you over, so don't run away from me and use him as an excuse. And for the LOVE OF GOD, do not get sloppy drunk on a date and flash the cab driver and then sit on the curb and pull your panties aside for everyone to see. You think it's seductive, I think it's indecent exposure.

And fellas, don't be a fucking douche, because honestly, I do not want to hear about how big of an asshole you were when I am on a date with a woman who thought you would be better off shoveling shit at a carnival.

And when you are having a date with someone, at least have the common fucking courtesy to look them in the eye when you talk, even if you are doing nothing but thinking about your exit strategy. If I can fake it until I make it out of there, so can you.

Yet, somehow, and I have no fucking clue how this is even still possible at this point, I remain optimistic. There has got to be ONE, at least ONE, normal, fun loving, intelligent, compassionate, caring, sweet, kind, lively, seductive, secure, confident, inquisitive, curious, attractive woman in the greater metropolitan area who likes to eat red meat, seafood, drink beer, and who would like to get to know me, date me, and at some point have intense, passionate, sweaty, mind-altering sex, with ME.

Eh, maybe I just need to be put down and put out of my misery. I think a nice shotgun blast to the back of the head ought to do it, or maybe even having my intestines pulled out of my ass until I bleed to death. Lord knows it would probably be less painful than me beating my head against a brick wall like I have done for what seems like a fucking eternity at this point.

So, who want's to go out?

Friday, October 15, 2010

I'm No Expert

Dear Diary:

Oftentimes, particularly in the blogosphere (did I even spell that right?) surrounding blogs about relationships or the destruction of relationships, we find little reassurances that everything is going to be fine in the end. Also, one may start writing on a subject, and others will pick up on it and provide their own take, but the gist of it is that people will recover, get stronger, be ok, and so on and so forth. And while this is true, and I harbor no ill feelings towards those across the world that write such things, and agree with what they are saying, there is another side of the story that often goes untold. And, I am no expert, but this is what I know:

Divorce fucking sucks - I mean really, do you think I actually want to be able to write about being divorced? Seriously? Do you think that I enjoyed going through utter and complete emotional hell? Fuck no I didn't. The Big D can suck MY big D, (but yes, I am a better person for having gone through it. Interesting contradiction isn't it?).

Divorce costs money - It costs a lot of fucking money. Do you think that I still want to be paying off credit card bills that I accumulated not only paying for my lawyer because I blew through my savings with legal bills even though I have been legally divorced for almost 2 years but replacing stuff like dishes that I was left without? If you do, you are smoking crack. Divorce costs money. Do you really want to shell out upwards of $20,000 dollars (if you are lucky) so that you can have the pleasure of being emotionally destroyed? Of course you don't. But, you better believe those legal bills add up, and they add up fast.

Divorce will completely fuck with your head - Oh you think you will be fine as you are going through it? You think that you are happy going through it? You think that you are actually smiling going through it? Bull fucking shit on that one. Being fine is the long term goal. Being happy is the long term goal. But if you think you will not feel pain and heartache going through the actual process of divorce, you are kidding yourself. Some part of you will feel like a complete failure. And this will creep up and moments you were not expecting.

This is what I know from my own personal experience. Each relationship and each divorce is different. But in the end......

You'll be fine.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

As She...

Dear Diary:

For She is always busy. And She isn't that responsive, nor is She receptive. So I put the ball in her court.

Yet I can take a hint.

(I should have written this weeks ago, but I have been a little busy. Fucking sue me)

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Fire and Smoke

Dear Diary:

And then there was fire.......

And not just any fire, but MY fire. The fire I have been waiting for roughly 21 months.



That's right baby, daddy has a grill! And not just any grill. A five burner gas grill with side burner. The grill the size of a small automobile. The grill that I have been waiting for for what seemed like a fucking eternity.

And I do not want to hear that it is October and grilling season is over. Fuck that noise. Grilling season is never over. If you have meat and you have fire, then put on a sweatshirt if you have to. I know I will.

This is the first gas grill I have owned. I decided not to go all out and buy the $800 Weber that I have been drooling over for the last year since well, A) I haven't won the lottery, and B) one does not go all out on their first grill. If I want that mack daddy stainless steel motherfucker with the rotisserie spit that gives me a chubby when I look at it, then well, I will get it, but not right now.

Right now, I am perfectly happy with the grill I have. Not only did it not cost me an arm and a leg, but it does the job, and can grill a shit ton of meat (yes, shit ton is an actual measurement of weight, because I said so). For instance, what you see is a dozen drumsticks and eight turkey burgers. What you don't see is the marinated flank steak that went on right after. Not to mention the fact I am going to load that fucker with kabobs tomorrow.

But...but...but...Divorced Guy, where oh where did you put such a beautiful grill?

Right on my big fucking DECK.

(get your mind out of the gutter)

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Guide Me Home

Dear Diary:

I'm 32 years old, and for a while now I feel as though I don't fit in anywhere. I don't really belong to any group of people, and my social circle is somewhat small to tell you the truth.

My childhood was what one could call a nomadic existence, moving about every three years while my dad worked his way up in his chosen field. It wasn't easy to make friends, and it wasn't easy to keep lasting relationships with those whom I did consider friends because as soon as I felt comfortable, I was uprooted again.

It wasn't until high school that I really fit in anywhere, and oddly enough, my best friends and I were somewhat outsiders, yet since we each ran in different circles, we were outsiders that were on the inside with everyone. Those friends I consider brothers, and we still keep in touch regularly. But I haven't lived in Texas for about fifteen years now.

Anyway, I don't really feel like I fit anywhere, and I really don't have any direction in my life. I have no fucking clue what I want to do, and I have no clue what I am doing.

My daily existence consists of a monotonous routine, and while it takes up just about every waking hour I have, I wouldn't call it particularly invigorating, or happy. It's downright boring. Some would even call it sad.

So I stroll through life aimlessly, with no real direction or sense of purpose. When I was waking up next to someone every morning, I felt purpose, meaning, direction. Not so much anymore.

And while I have a house, it is more of a project these days. Working on the deck, seeding the dirt patch that constituted my front "yard" and working on things here and there. It isn't a home. If home is where the heart is, then I am homeless.

I want to be home.

"Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones..."

TURN ON THE FUCKING LIGHT!

Monday, September 20, 2010

TheDivorcedGuy 2.0, V. 2.1

Dear Diary:

Five months ago I stepped on a scale and weighed 264 pounds. During the month of August, I was in a cast and could not exercise, and that, coupled with being in an absolute funk and emotionally eating and drinking, put me back to to 264 pounds.

Over the last month, I have felt my clothes getting tighter, and there are some shirts that I cannot even wear at the moment. This bothers me. What bothers me more though was that I could not find any motivation whatsoever, nor could I find inspiration to do what I know I needed to do. I chose a life of convenience, which included not moving much, and eating what was available as opposed to what was healthy. Food is fuel. Sure, some of the shit tastes mighty good, but it is just fuel.

Then today, when I was thinking about working out, but also thinking about how bad my back was fucking killing me after doing hard physical labor this weekend, Jolene over at To Be Determined shared with me a little video, which can be found here.

I won't lie and say that I was not deeply touched by that video. I won't lie and say that I didn't cry watching it. I also won't lie and say that my attitude toward my body has not caused me bouts of depression, which causes me to leave the rest of the world alone and revert inward, blocking everyone out while I try to deal with it because I feel ashamed.

But then I watched this video. In fact, I cannot get that video to stop playing in my memory. I found it to be more than inspiring. At its foundation, it is a story of hope and perseverance, of achieving goals, and of slaying the ghosts of one's past in order to define one's own future.

It's inspiration.

The difference between Ben, and even Tyler, and myself is that they both seem to have a built in support system of family, friends, and the like, that are right there with them. And when I say with them, I mean right there, not 3000 miles away. I don't have that, not anymore. I had that support system with my ex-wife, and we lost weight and got healthier together. I lost 60 pounds when I was married, working together with her to achieve that. I won't lie and say I don't miss that.

But, as Ben said, "if you want to do it, all you have to do is do it."

And I just did. 3.5 miles in fact.

Welcome to TheDivorcedGuy 2.0, V2.1

Monday, September 13, 2010

She

Dear Diary:

She is probably the most laid back, yet outgoing woman I have met.

Words that I would use to describe her are intelligent, lively, thoughtful, entertaining, fun, youthful, ambitious, determined, self-aware, graceful, kind.

Who is this you might be asking? She is the girl I mentioned roughly a month ago that my friend is trying to set me up with. We have gone out twice.

She is a bit of an enigma. She is in her early twenties, yet she has gone out with me, a 32 year-old slightly overweight divorced man, twice. And we have a good time. It's very calm, yet fun at the same time.

Our first date I met her at a place that had a decent beer list, as I had mentioned to you earlier that she is a beer drinker. We talked, had a couple of pints, and then went and grabbed a bite to eat. As we were in an area with many options within walking distance, we just walked around and I pointed out different places, and she suggested I just pick one. So I did. And I hit a home run with my choice, to the point she is recommending it to all of her friends.

She looked strikingly beautiful, and is confident, with eyes you could get lost in, and a laugh that is infectious. While walking part of me could not help think that every person around us was wondering how the fuck I was with her.

She can also eat, and is not afraid of doing so. There is nothing more frustrating than going out to dinner with your date to a place that is known for a certain type of food and your date ordering nothing more than something light, like a salad, or a leaf. I thoroughly enjoyed how she was not afraid to have what she wanted. I found that appealing. Our second date included a walk near the water and stopping in a tavern for a couple of pints, followed by dinner overlooking the boats. I had fish, and she had prime rib.

She is tall. Blond, tan with a gorgeous smile. She wore something that showed off her figure while remaining tasteful. While walking we encountered a little dog, and she wanted to pet it. She is mature yet with a child like innocence.

She is not out of my league at all, but she does scare the fucking shit out of me.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Forever Mine

"It may not mean nothing to y'all
But understand nothing was done for me
So I don't plan on stopping at all
I want this shit forever mine, ever mine, ever mine"
-Drake

Dear Diary:

I've worked for everything I have. I've taken on risk. I've lost. I've won. I like to think I have won more than I lost.

Now, that is not to say that I have not had help along the way on occasion. But, help ends at a certain point, generally fairly quickly. Whether it was someone giving me an introduction, or helping me work through something financial, I have then taken their assistance at Step 1, and busted my ass to get to Step 20, and beyond.

I started off at the lowest possible position at my job, and busted my ass to get to the top. My car and house are in my name only. So are my credit cards.

But what I am most proud of is how I fought and worked like a bastard to rebuild myself, mentally and emotionally. If steps needed to be taken to talk to someone, I took those steps, no one took them for me. No one told me, "This is what you must do and this is how you do it." Ultimately, I figured that shit out on my own. And that's how I like it, because I can own it completely, both good and bad. No excuses.

And no one can take that, the process of how I did it, away from me.

It's forever, mine.

And it's just the beginning.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Firsts

Dear Diary:

I first seriously kissed a girl when I was 16 years old. I can remember ever single detail about that first kiss. I remember exactly where I was. I remember exactly how she looked. I remember who she is, and we are still friends (at least on that social networking site that shall not be named because they are not writing me a check).

I remember my first drink. I was a freshman in high school. We start drinking young in Texas, what can I say? I also remember my first legal drink. It was shortly after midnight and the bar I was working at was closed but the manager who is someone I still consider a good friend of mine opened the bar up for just us and we had a beer together.

I first had sex when I was....get ready for it.....24. I remember where I was. I remember how it felt. I remember her name. I remember what she looked like. I just cannot remember the color of her eyes. Oh yeah, and I married her.

My first divorce (and also hopefully my last) involved the same woman who I gave my virginity to.

I had another first this weekend, or after you read this it may be considered a series of firsts. That being said, let me get into the story.

I had a bunch of friends in town and we started off with a happy hour at 5:30 on Friday. Happy hour progressed to hitting up one of the bars around the corner from my house. As you can imagine, I had a headache that I believe was spawned out of the loins of Satan come Saturday morning.

I was leaving the bar around 12:30 or so and my brother who was also there motioned over for me to come talk to him, and meet the three women he was talking to. The one he wanted to really introduce me too, he tried to hog for himself, so I started talking to a friend of hers - law school student, brunette, skinny, fairly attractive, probably 25, but interesting.

My friend who was tending bar, kept the beers coming, as well as shots, and what went from a decent buzz started to get cloudy, but I saved myself by slowing down considerably and drinking a ton of water to rehydrate. I do remember at one point engaging in a fairly tame and innocent kiss with the girl I was talking to.

The girls left, and I left as well, to find the girls outside, walking back to the bar. The one I kissed, talked to me for five minutes, and I walked her home. She suggested we go to my place, but I insisted on walking her to her place.

First Number One: picking up a girl in a bar (or she picked me up, but either way, it's a first).

We walked home, she invited me inside, we started kissing, she suggested I spend the night, and suggested we go upstairs because she wanted to have sex since her housemates were gone and she wanted to let loose and not be a good girl.

So, I did what any self-respecting gentleman like myself would have done who has a woman throwing herself at him, aroused to the point her panties were wet from the view from up her skirt.

I said no.

I told her I wasn't the type of guy who was going to take advantage of a situation, and a woman, because she was drunk, and truth be told, I am not. She said she understood, and respected that I was respectful, even though she was a bit disappointed.

Now, I am no saint. I have had somewhat meaningless and more than meaningless but not quite meaningful sex with willing women, but they have been sober the first time we fooled around (and yes I have had meaningful, passionate, and intense sex with different women, don't get the wrong impression). But there is something about fucking a drunk woman and walking out the door never to see her again after getting my rocks off that I guess I cannot bring myself to do.

First Number Two: the walk of shame (although was it really? I mean, technically it was still dark out, and I didn't have sex, so it's up for debate)

Thankfully there was a 7-11 near her place that was open so I could grab some water, a snack, and nicotine (still trying to quite, I swear) for the walk home.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Ahhhhhhhhh

Dear Diary:

It's a bit amazing what one takes for granted by the simple fact that he or she may have two properly functioning hands. For the last month, I have not had two properly functioning hands. I have had a hand, and a thumb.

At the moment, I still do not have two properly functioning hands. However, I have one good hand and one hand that opens to about 160 degrees. I can make a fist with my not quite perfect hand. I can hold things with my not quite perfect hand. I can actually use, to a large extent, my not quite perfect hand.

And you can have no fucking idea how liberating that feels unless you have gone through something similar.

I went for a run the other day, without a cast. I pushed myself, and got about 2 miles in, and it hurt like hell. But, it was much better than the zero miles I have been able to do or the last month with a club attached to my not quite perfect hand.

I cleaned my house. And when I say cleaned it, I mean cleaned it. No quick spruce up. No just sweeping. The floors are swept, couch vacuumed, floors mopped, everything dusted, shit thrown out, shit put away, stainless steel polished, granite cleaned, toilets cleaned, sinks cleaned, and hell, I even did the decorative stuff for good measure. The master bathroom will be done being cleaned as soon as I....

Cut my fucking hair.

Now, I have curly hair. And I do not mean flowing locks of curls, but more rather straight on brillo pad hair. I can grow an afro if I wanted to, that is how thick, dense, and curly my hair is. In the summer, if it gets more than half an inch long, it holds in heat like a greenhouse to the point you could probably fry an egg on my head. I cut my hair one handed. It was beyond difficult.

But not anymore. Now, I am going to have a comfortable hair cut. Ok, for me, a comfortable hair cut is taking it all off, but since it is technically cutting hair, it is a hair cut.

When I run, I will not feel like my head is going to overheat to the point that it will explode. It feels cleaner, more comfortable, and well, it's me. And I guess that is the point of it all.

I'm getting back to me. Slowly but surely, I'm getting back to actually feeling like myself.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Rules

Dear Diary:

That which you are about to read will include profanity, blatant sexual references and may or may not make any sense. Reader discretion is advised.

The Divorced Guys Rules for Ending Sexual Relationships-

-Don't be mean. Just let time kinda take its course. Fucking someone, no matter how good the sex, can't last forever, so, ride it out (pun intended), and just let it flow.

-Be honest. If you want to stop sleeping with someone, tell them. Everyone will hit a point where they wonder if there is something more that just hot sweaty passionate, back-breaking hardcore fucking. Ultimately, for me at least, I want to have the same hot sex, just with someone whom I actually have legitimate emotions for other than "like."

-Don't be weird and start throwing the "but I loved you" line if both of you went into the relationship knowing you were just going to make each other cum as much as possible. If you get "the feelings" and didn't say anything then well, you broke the above mentioned rule regarding honesty.

-Be an adult. If you are old enough to be fucking, then you should be old enough to know how to act when you are no longer fucking.

The Divorced Guys Rules for How NOT to End Sexual Relationships:

-Don't go running your mouth all over town and telling mutual friends shit that just isn't true. They say discretion is the better part of valor, or something like that. The only thing you do is make yourself look like a fool in the long run.

-Don't stay in contact with a former lover as a friend, while saying shit like "mmm, wish I could help," with blatant sexual innuendo. Because for a woman, well, I don't know how a woman would react, but for a guy, we think with our cocks on occasion, quite often in fact, and easy pussy is better than no pussy (but we won't date easy pussy or let it meet our family).

-Don't talk to your former lover/fuck buddy/friend with benefits the afternoon before you have a date and say that you are horny but know you shouldn't sleep with your date, considering it is a first date, and then tell mutual friends how thick of a cock your date had and how much you liked when he went down on you.

I'll fuck easy, but I would rather not. It's like pussy in a glass, "break in case of emergency." I won't fuck slutty. And I won't talk to her either. And I sure as shit won't send her a housewarming present.

(Obviously I am putting myself in this context so it makes sense in my head. One can flip the male/female aspect and have it still make sense, I think. But it's not like this has actually happened to me.............)

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

T-Minus

Dear Diary:

T-Minus 6 days until my cast is removed. Now, this does not mean that I have regained the sensation that was cut (no pun intended...ok, yeah, it was intended) away as a result of the original injury, but I have felt tingling, which is a positive step. What this DOES mean though is that I will no longer have this medieval torture device strapped around my hand.

This is good.

So, you may be wondering what I am going to do with my regained freedom. And the answer is........

I'm going to clean. My roommate, while he is a likable and personable chap, couldn't clean a bathroom if you drew him a fucking map with pictures. So, needless to say, cleaning has been a bit of a chore while I have been one-handed. Holding a mop is not that easy.

I'm going to be able to shower like a normal person. There will be no more blue newspaper bags covering my cast and making me look like a damn alien. Have you ever tried to wash under your arm while using the hand that is attached to said arm? Yeah, I looked like a blue armed alien monkey doing that. Same goes for putting on deodorant.

I'm going to wear shirts with buttons. Have you ever put on a button-down collared dress shirt one handed successfully? Well, neither have I.

I'm going to cut my hair. Tried it one-handed. Degree of difficulty - 8.7.

I'm going to fix my stoop and paint it. Can you imagine using a soldering iron one handed, melting metal? I'm in a cast because of a stupid mistake. I don't need another one.

I'm going to hit the gym. Well, I'm going to use elliptical machines and work on my legs. Doing bench presses or bicep curls will have to wait six weeks.

I'm going to run. I'll throw on my iPod and try to get my fat ass back to where I could do six miles.

Last but not least...

I'm going to make guacamole. Cause you know, if I don't, the terrorists win.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Confident

Dear Diary,

I'm confident I am a good man. I'm confident I am worth knowing. I'm confident I have intrinsic value. I'm confident I am worth something, and will be worth a lot to a special someone in the future.

I'm also confident there is no such thing as a woman that it out of my league.

Sure, there are stunningly beautiful women on this city that wouldn't give me the time of day, but that doesn't mean they are out of my league. That just means they are not interested. Big fucking deal.

But on the off chance they do not care about superficial bullshit (ok, unfortunately the vast majority of women in this area do) and I am able to strike up a conversation, then I am confident I can:

-Make them laugh

-Make them smile

-Make them wonder

-Make them feel like there is no place on earth I would rather be (because honestly, in that moment, there isn't)

-And if given the opportunity, make them cum like they have never cum before

Now, the five things listed above all require one simple thing that unfortunately a lot of people have difficulty with: PAYING ATTENTION!

I like paying attention. I mean really, you would be amazed at the shit you can learn not only about other people, but about yourself if you just slow the fuck down, listen, and pay attention.

Ok, for the last of the five listed you may be thinking, "wow, what a cocky prick." But getting a woman off is not rocket science. In fact, I think guys that do not give a shit whether or not their partner gets off are missing out. I for one take great pride in it.

I like paying attention to the way a woman breathes when I caress her skin gently with my fingertips and lips. I like her smell, and the taste of her skin as I gently kiss her neck, working my way down across her collar bone, across her chest, and between her legs. Honestly, there is nothing quite like the sight of a woman's heaving torso when you are looking up at her from between her legs. It's empowering really. And I could spend hours doing that, or until at least my jaw fell off. I actually had a woman tell me I should teach a class on how to eat pussy, so I guess I am pretty good at it.

But no one will ever learn these spots on their partner if they don't fucking pay attention! You cannot learn the different paces and pressures if you don't pay attention. Just because anyone can have sex, it doesn't mean everyone knows how to.

But I digress...

No one is out of anyone's league. Whomever put that idea into other people's heads was an idiot. A woman either is interested or she isn't, but that doesn't make them any better than anyone else.

No one is out of my league, including the stunning, younger, tall, thin, light eyed, blond knockout that a friend is trying to set me up with.

And she loves beer. And I'll be buying her one tomorrow.

Goodnight!

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Well Shit

Dear Diary:

Well shit.

No seriously, I need to shit.

One of the side effects that doctors do not always tell you when prescribing pain medication is that it can, and will, make you constipated.

I know, just what you wanted to hear, right?

So, needless to say, my bowel movements have not been that regular. I walk around feeling like I am carrying a baby: a big, stinky, turd baby.

Now for us guys, taking a good shit can be a beautiful thing.

*side note- when I was about 14 or so my mom, dad, and I were having dinner. The topic of school came up and I had watched the NOVA special on child birth (you know, the one that everyone sees in health class where they show the baby from fertilization to birth). I had commented that birth looks disgusting, and at that point my mom said "honey, giving birth is a beautiful thing." Which was quickly followed by my dad saying, "well for a guy a good shit is a beautiful thing, but no one wants to look at it!" And this is why I love my family.*

But anyway, taking a good shit can be a beautiful thing, but not when you are plugged up. In fact, it is then a painful, oh man is it a fucking painful, thing. You do not sit upon the porcelain thrown with a cup of coffee and the paper and let fly the dogs of war. Oh no, you must hunker down and pray that your ass is not split in four. (Hey that kinda rhymed, I'm a poet!)

You sometimes crouch over and hold your legs or anything you can clench because you my friend, are about to crap a Cadillac. Or at least it feels like a fucking Cadillac. With gigantic tires, and lots of very sharp edges.

But you cannot clench. The tightening of the exit point is not an option, especially when you have the turtle head sticking out. This only delays the inevitable and prolongs the pain.

So, you hold your breath, and you pray. You pray that what is about to disengage itself from your body will be quick. You pray that you will be able to walk after a log the size of a redwood escapes your system. You pray there is no serious damage. You pray that you never have to go through this again. You pray for fiber, tons and tons of fiber. You pray that when you look to your side there will be toilet paper. You pray your colon didn't escape too.

But most of all you pray you didn't clog the toilet.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Untitled

Dear Diary:

I walk down the street and go unnoticed. Does anyone see me? Is anyone interested in really knowing me? Do they even care about my story?

We all have a story, or rather a collection of stories that compose the symphony that is our life. Is anyone interested in hearing mine? There are millions of people that walk this planet every single day asking this same question. But I don't care about millions of stories. I care about two: mine, and the one that when combined with mine creates a harmony that would make Mozart cry from its sheer brilliance and beauty.

But right now my symphony creates an image of doom and chaos. Right now it sounds violent as my frustration with my current situation is dangerously close to boiling over.

I cannot sleep. I cannot put on a dress shirt without assistance. I cannot find refuge in the creativity I find when I am in the kitchen. I cannot blow off steam by putting on my running shoes or lifting weights until I feel that sweet pain of physical exhaustion.

My summer mission to lose at least twenty-five pounds is back to zero. There is nothing I can do about that unless I just starve myself for the next month, literally. This has had an extremely negative affect on my mood and my level of comfort in my own skin.

I cannot smile. When I walk down the street and pass someone I cannot smile. I try, but a shy grin is all I am able to muster.

I live in an area consumed with and driven by power, status, money, networking, and beauty. These are not things I possess. I am not rich and powerful and I do not have an impressive title on my business card.

I find myself professionally trapped in a situation where I am isolated to the extent I cannot meet my full potential and while I may do the difficult work, I do not get any credit and therefor no one knows who I am. I must be the public face in a certain area of my profession, and yet when I sit in meetings I am passed over and others are recognized who are not even there. It is beyond embarrassing.

I am not a GQ model, nor will I ever have the sleek and toned muscular body that women lust after. I listen to stories of women, women who live near me, filled with desire, lust, intensity, and a burning passion that emanates a level confidence and intimacy that dreams are made of, wishing, dreaming, hoping one day I will be able to know what it feels to be desired like that. But somewhere, deep down, I feel it will never happen.

Because I walk down the street and go unnoticed. No one sees me. No one is interested in really knowing me. No one cares about my story.

So I continue to compose the symphony that is my life alone. But what good is it if no one will ever hear it?

(This message has been brought to you by the makers of Vicodin, frustration, and exhaustion)

Monday, August 9, 2010

Frustrations

Dear Diary:

I cannot do much these days because of one tiny fucking nerve in my hand.

I cannot cook really. I cannot chop veggies or hold anything with two hands.

I cannot work out. I cannot lift weights. I cannot even go for a run. I feel like crap. I feel disgusting. I believe I can see pounds being added.

I cannot get dressed easily. I cannot button a shirt. Putting on pants is a challenge. But I cannot go to jail, so walking around everywhere naked is not an option.

I cannot do any serious work on my house. I cannot do any serious work on the outside of my house. I was going to landscape. Not happening.

I cannot take even take out the trash.

I cannot cut my hair and will suffer having a greenhouse on my head because I am not paying someone $15 bucks to just shave it all off.

I cannot (ok, I'm not supposed to...) have a beer while on pain medication.

I cannot do my routine.

What I can do is get frustrated with not feeling normal.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Ouch



Dear Diary:

Ouch!! Ouch I say!

This is what happens when you are not paying attention.

I took this picture in the recovery room about ten minutes after waking up from surgery. The fucking cast is the size of a Buick. It is only good for clubbing small animals, or maybe I could use it as a nice decorative piece. I could probably even use it to strengthen the foundation of a large building.

I remember three things from the procedure:

1. That they screwed up my IV and when they thought they were putting me to sleep all they were doing was causing me extreme pain in my right arm to the point I was shaking and biting my tongue not to scream and punch they guy. We are talking a solid 11 of pain on a scale of 1 to 10.

2. Then they moved the IV to my hand after shaving it (oh yeah, it looks sexy), and when the drip started it hurt like hell too. I asked them if it was supposed to hurt like that and then...

3. I woke up in recovery.

My nurse in recovery was a peach, and I may have offered to buy her a car if she got me a cup of coffee, which she did. I also downed about a gallon of juice in 30 seconds because I was thirsty as hell.

Also, doing random things are very difficult, like getting dressed and showering. So difficult in fact that I think they should make it an Olympic sport.

Now please excuse me while I pop some pain meds and relax.

(not bad typing one handed am I?)

Monday, August 2, 2010

On Hiatus

Dear Diary:

Tomorrow I go in for surgery to repair a severed nerve in my hand. As a result, I will be in a cast for 2-3 weeks while everything heals. As a result of that, the likelihood of you hearing from me is not that high.

So I figured I would just rant and rave about completely random bullshit, maybe go on some tangents in a stream of consciousness type of way, bitch and moan about a couple things, and expound upon things that I think are great.

And off we go!

-The summer is winding down, thankfully, I think. This summer has been a complete and total cooker. I have never seen days where it has been so ungodly fucking hot in my life. Oh, and here is a tip for everyone out there: don't go for a run when it is 100 fucking degrees out unless you want to feel like your head is going to evaporate and your skin will melt off.

-The bad part about summer winding down (which come on now, we all know won't happen for a while) is that there will be less and less women wearing summer dresses and showing off their bare legs. I am more of a leg guy than a tit guy, so this depresses me. Well not really, but I am going to miss seeing all the legs to heaven walking around my neighborhood. Short skirts are the bomb, yo.

-The deck was a failure, so I am going to improvise. After walking around the city a bit and checking out the back yards of some of the folks in my greater neighborhood region, I came up with a solution that I think will work out just fine: stairs. I am just going to build some stairs going out of my back door and then build the deck on the ground, where it will cover up some really rocky soil that is of no use to anyone, namely myself. And if it isn't of use to me, that's all that matters because well, I own the place.

-The backyard right now looks like the fucking rain forest. My tenant that I rent my basement apartment to is a bit of an environmentalist, and well, likes working with soil. Reality check tenant-o-mine, there is no fucking soil in DC. There is only dirt. This is not fucking Indiana where you can plant corn and wheat and shit and have your own sustainable garden. The dirt has years upon years of random dumping and crap in it. But that didn't stop you from planting corn and broccoli and lettuce and all other types of random shit before you left town for work for two months. And as a result, I need a machete to get into my backyard. Bastard.

-I wonder when I will be able to have sex again? Probably not until the cast comes off. But however, it is not like I have a woman that I am sleeping with at the moment, so me thinking about this is about as useful as tits on a bull.

-I have a feeling putting on pants may be a difficult task come tomorrow afternoon. As well as putting on socks. Too bad I cannot show up at work in gym shorts and flip flops. I think we need a dress code change.

-I think morning sex should be required by law. Think of how many people that you work with that would not be complete and total asshats because they got laid that morning? I think this would make the world a much happier place.

-Is it odd that the thing I am most worried about is not being able to work out? I have not lifted weights since I stabbed my hand, but I have gone running quite a few times. However, I do not know if I will be able to run with the cast on for fear of inadvertently fucking up the healing that is happening.

-I had a large dead tree removed from my front yard, and now have four gigantic bags of mulch I have to do something with. Once the cast is off, I think it will be time to finally landscape. I have been drawing up plans for a while now, but I think I know exactly what I want to do. I will build a platform in the front yard. A bit of a mini deck if you will, and then landscape around it, and throw a park bench on it so I can enjoy a morning cup of coffee outside, or a beer in the evening.

-Paint smells like shit after it gets old. Use it, or chuck it and buy some new stuff. Trust me on this one.

I think that is all for now. Maybe I will throw up some pictures of my stitched up hand, or at least the cast so you can all laugh at my misery.

Most expensive fucking avocado ever, mark my words.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Ok Then

Dear Diary,

Since I really have nothing to write about other than my hand and the sheer annoyance that is it becoming, I will tell you a story. Or is it give you a recollection? Share a memory maybe? Eh, anyway, I am tired, it is hot out, and the coffee I am drinking hasn't kicked in yet, but here goes.

I am going to take you back to a happier time, or at least one day in my life where I was so overfilled with joy that you could have shot me in the ass and I wouldn't have cared: my wedding day.

Now, I will not go into details about my entire wedding day. But, I will tell you a few things about my ex mother-in-law, since I am feeling very generous, and maybe a little bit condescending.

My ex mother-in-law was a great women....ok, sorry, I just had to laugh at that.

My ex mother-in-law was a fucking lunatic. She used to get all worked up over stupid and pointless bullshit. There were a couple of times that we would visit her and we would leave with my ex crying because her mom had been an ass and made her feel like shit. This happened on my ex's birthday once. So yeah, you can see what type of mother-in-law I had.

Well anyway, my wedding was small. It was a destination wedding and we only had the bridal party and our parents there, so we enjoyed a long weekend in South Florida with a very close group of people.

On my wedding night, after the reception, the vast majority of us went to a local bar near the beach and were laughing and drinking. My ex father-in-law was there having beers with my dad.

(Both sets of parents are divorced by the way, which will help put the following into context)

While we are all sitting there laughing and enjoying a good time, my ex mother-in-law bursts into the bar and screams, "(insert ex father-in-law's name) you ASSHOLE!" My ex father-in-law left less than a minute later.

And that was how my wedding night started. With my bride crying.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Dearly Beloved

Dear Diary:

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of one man, and one avocado, for they shall forever be intertwined from now until eternity, or rather, until he is dead and buried and no one gives two shits about his severed nerve.

I need surgery.

Fuck me standing.

I had an appointment with one of the top dogs of orthopedic surgery in the area (because this is the treatment you get when the first emergency crew to respond says "oh, its superficial, it will heal" because they didn't clean the wound and realize I punctured an artery) a few days ago. It lasted about fifteen minutes. During said appointment, he took out this little tool with some prongs on it, and poked my hand.

He asked how many prongs he was poking me with, and I got it right until he touched one finger on my hand. When he asked, I said I felt nothing. And I didn't. And then he pressed under my finger, right above the original wound, and asked me if it tingled, and it did.

Now, I imagine as far as nerve damage goes, I am fairly lucky. I have full motion of my hand and fingers, but there one entire side of a finger is completely numb, and has been for over a week now, all because I severed a nerve. The only time I feel anything is when I unfortunately pull at the scar tissue that is forming around the nerve, causing a shot of pain to move up the finger. Because, well, as we all know, nerves don't like that shit.

So, according to the doc, if I want to be able to have any feeling whatsoever in the affected area ever again, I need surgery.

Hot diggity dog.

Now, as far as injuries go, I have never broken a bone or torn anything major. I have never had surgery, ever. This is my first one. I still even have my fucking wisdom teeth (well, at least for two more months roughly).

I have to be put under because apparently, while my hand is not that thick (not like other parts of me ;) you know?) the surgery is fairly invasive. It is an outpatient procedure, so it shouldn't take long, but after the surgery I get to have a cast on for three weeks.

A cast, for three weeks, most likely during the hottest fucking month of the year.

Oh yeah, totally looking forward to this.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

one handed

dear diary,

i like me some avocados. they are tasty little suckers and i could eat them daily if i had the opportunity to. but those tasty little suckers have ruined me. how so?

well thursday i was trying to take the pit out of one at work, making myself a tomato and avocado salad. the knife slipped and i stabbed myself. and when i say stabbed i mean stabbed, the blade, a serrated one no less, when right into the palm of my hand below the knuckle of my middle finger.

blood ensued, and lots of it. as well as pain, and yelling fuck about a half a billion times. my coworkers of course were freaked out, and i am sure the site of me holding a bloody hand wasn't that appealing.

anyway, the emergency team showed up, with a dr, and the dr said i didnt need stitches.

fast forward 9 hours, and i am at the emergency room with blood squirting 6 feet out of my hand, and i apparently had punctured an artery, and possibly severed a nerve.

for the last 5 days i have had half of my middle finger numb.

my hand looks like i punched a brick wall since it is black and blue as a result of the blood flowing into the tissue of my hand.

it is still swollen a bit as a result of all of this.

and now i get to see a hand specialist.

by the way, i typed this, you guessed it, one handed.

so besides being fucking swamped at work, this is my life. a comedy of bloody errors.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Unblocked, Kinda Sorta

Dear Diary (Readers):

Thank you all for your questions. I can imagine you are all drooling with anticipation and were desperately wondering when I was actually going to get around to answering you, but hell, I have been beyond busy (and yes I know I say that a lot, but it's true). Anyway, here we go:

Dear Jolene:

What makes me tick? Honestly, I have no fucking clue. By nature I am not a very excitable person, and many confuse that with ambivalence, but it couldn't be further from the truth. There are a lot of things I like, and thoroughly enjoy, but I am not the type of person to have his heart racing because of a certain thing or situation (well, except for love, and it hasn't raced in a while). I guess normal everyday life makes me tick. The fact that I actually wake up makes me tick. Bacon, definitely bacon, makes me tick. I mean, who the hell doesn't like pork fat? Communists, that's who.

What would I like to know, and what am I curious about? Everything, and everything.

What am I wondering? Oh you naughty girl, wouldn't you like to know! (Seriously though, nothing, I am fucking tired)

__________________________________

Dear Magnolia:

If I was a tree, I imagine I would be an oak. You know, sturdy, large, hard.....(sorry, couldn't resist).

Did I have trusted people in my life try to try to tell me that maybe I shouldn't have gotten married? Nope, not a one. However, I did have friends, post-divorce, tell me that they were glad I was divorced because they never really liked my ex-wife. I think that is bullshit to be honest with you, and I don't talk to them that much anymore. Not because they didn't necessarily like my ex, but because they didn't have the fucking balls to be honest with me. I can take honesty, even if it is not something I want to hear.

__________________________________

Dear Anonymous:

If I could live anywhere, it would be near the ocean. Maybe Key West (before BP fucked the world)? Or the Carolinas. I am definitely more of an East Coast kid.

__________________________________

Dear Alley:

The roommate situation is working out just fine. He even set up cable for the house, in HD. We get along fine, and my bar tabs have yet to be over $10. So, life ain't all bad.

__________________________________

Dear TD:

I have never owned a magic 8-Ball in my life.

__________________________________

Dear lac:

If you would like to see Chapter One, just click on this. As far as what brought me to this place, I am not sure what place you are referring to specifically. So, that being said, feel free to E-mail me directly with any further questions you may have.

I am still on a hiatus from dating. Truth be told, I have been so preoccupied with other stuff that I don't have the time to date. Hell, I don't have time for much these days. I am still working on my house, and it is taking longer than I would have liked. The deck is completely fucked because the city is a joke, and have neither a deck of a grill, and I am not a happy camper about that. I am also not happy about the fact that I didn't have time to go to the gym in the last 10 days. Blah. I feel like horse shit.

I am following the Nats. Strasburg is a stud. I just hope management is careful with him so they don't mismanage his outings, as well as how the media handles him. I would hate to see him have a short career because management screwed him up.

Oh, and I am not a writer by trade.

__________________________________


Until next time folks, peace.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Block

Dear Diary:

For everything that you already know, what is it you do not know? What would you like to know? What are you curious about? What are you wondering?

Ask me

Friday, May 21, 2010

That's What Friends Are For

Dear Diary:

Today was my buddy's birthday, and for a birthday present, his landlord gave him a nice little eviction....

Yeah, you heard me.

I was in meetings most of the morning, and when I got back my brother had send me an urgent text to call as soon as possible. When I made the call, I found out my friend was being evicted that very second.

Now, I hope you understand why I feel the need to write about this. Do I feel bad for my friend? Yes, I definitely do. He has been out of work for over a year now and is just trying to survive in this shitty fucking economy that we find ourselves in (although it is getting better, and if you don't believe me, see how much your retirement account has gained over the last year).

I called him and told him he could stay with me as long as he needed. So much for living by myself, which I cherished. But, I can manage. I am doing something for a friend that is needed. And I want to do it for him. I can't stand to see the people that are lose to me suffer. This guy was in my wedding. We have known each other since we were in high school. Although we don't see each other often (which is definitely changing as we speak), he is the type of guy that I can call whenever, and he will be there, no questions asked.

If there is a downside, it is that my living room now looks like a garbage truck vomited all over it. He had to pack stuff in whatever he could, which was large black garbage bags. I have literally doubled the amount of stuff in my house in one afternoon.

But I don't care. He needs me, and I am there for him, regardless of how much it may be an inconvenience to me personally. That is what friends do.

When I was going through hell over a year ago, I had people like that. If I can pay it forward even a little bit by doing this, then it is worth it.

But if he fucks up my kitchen and ruins my knives, I will cut off his balls.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Remember Me?

Dear Diary:

Yeah, I know I haven't been around much. I know I said I would provide weekly updates on how things were going with the weight loss. I know I said I would write about anything at some point. Blah blah fucking blah.

I have been a combination of busy/frustrated/annoyed/lonely/happy/sad/tired and oh, did I mention frustrated?

Well, here is an update on a couple things, as well as some mindless rambling (hey, it's what I do best!).

I stepped on the scale this morning, and am down to 252. That is 12 pounds total, in five weeks. Now, granted, that really came in one week of seven dropped, and one week of five. A couple of the weeks in there I had to deal with a pulled muscle in my back, work, and other shit, but I am on track, still, to reach my goal. So that's a plus.

I haven't been on a date in a couple months. That's not a problem either.

What is a problem is the fucking city government, or more specifically, trying to get a building permit for my deck from the fucking city government. Or maybe I should call it the "fucked up city government" because it has proven to be the most inefficient waste of money on the planet (and I know it has stiff competition).

My house needs a deck. There is only one exit to the main house, and that is the front door. This is a fire hazard in my opinion. With a deck, I have two exits.

With the deck, I am also able to finally move a bunch of shit into the back yard where there is already some shit, and have it all hauled away. This will allow me to open up a ton of space in my house and finish it off completely without having to constantly move shit around in it.

With a deck, I am also able to finally get a grill.

You see, and this might be hard to understand for some, but the grill represents a final piece. Why you might ask? Well, I will tell you.

I lost my fucking grill in the divorce. I couldn't take my little Weber with me when I moved so I left it at the old house. My year in exile in the suburbs was without a grill.

There is a weird but unique bond between a man and his grill. It's cooking meat with fire. It's the smell. It's where the guys hang out and bullshit when people are over drinking and eating. I don't know how to explain it, but it's a guy thing (and yes, I am well aware of the fact that women like grills as well and love to use them).

I want to get a grill the size of a compact car. One with a rotisserie spit. One that can cook and entire pig (figuratively obviously because I live in a city and I don't want to take up my entire back yard).

Grilling is an outlet for me. It is calming. I cannot buy a grill until my deck is done because I have no other place to put it.

I WANT MY FUCKING GRILL!!!

Friday, April 30, 2010

....Shit

Dear Diary,

I got an email this morning from Girl 9. The kind that started with "Hey there :)" and ended with "I really think you are a wonderful man. Best of luck to you!"

She said she isn't ready to date. I can respect that.

But at some point one starts to think. I have been in the dating world for a year, and I have gotten more than these types of reactions than I would like. At some point one starts to look in the mirror, you know?

You start to wonder if it is going to be like this forever. You start to wonder if you are going to ever get used to this feeling. You start to wonder if they are not ready to date or just not ready to date you.

You start to look in the mirror. You start to see imperfection. You start to see everything that is wrong, while not seeing what is right. You start to question if it is even worth it. You start to question everything.

And then you remember. You remember coming home to someone. You remember what it was like to curl up on the couch with someone. You remember what her laugh sounded like. And then you start to hear her voice again, calling you that one pet name only she called you.

And then you remember the pain. You remember the embarrassment. You remember the shame you felt. You remember how alone you felt.

And then you remember how hard you worked. You remember how much you have grown. You remember that you are stronger. You remember you are wiser. You remember who you are now is much better than who you were then.

And then you remember that you are worth something. And then you realize that one day, maybe, you will be worth something to someone else again. And then you realize that while these little messages are disappointing, they happen to people everyday, and you are not alone.

And then the reflection in the mirror doesn't look so bad after all.