Oh Where, Oh Where, Can You Be?

Where are you? Seriously, I am getting older and I think my looks may only have, at most, the better part of this decade. That line of thought being brought on by finding my first grey hairs, but I may luck out and end up like Anderson Cooper, minus skin cancer, or George Clooney. God, let be like George Clooney, but without the lack of commitment. I have dated off and on for most of my life and now I have the feeling I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. I see people getting married and they always do that bullshit “They’re my soul mate” line during the wedding and all I can do is try and figure out if mine is the room; or what they are doing at that moment. (Or after a rough break up, create a pool on the divorce date… Kidding keep those invites coming, I love open bars). I know the line isn’t bullshit when they say it, it just feels that way in my self-loathing think-tank that is drowning in whiskey at the time. So, where are you soul mate? When are you going to pop up?

Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?

I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.

Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.

Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.

http://phons08194.deviantart.com/

Still Around.

I knew a genius once,
they talked of branches, failure, and the sun
I don't speak with the genius,
but I know I was the lucky one.

Stuck

Ever get that feeling you're stuck on a teeter-totter and there is a fat kid on the other end that doesn't look like he going anywhere anytime soon? It is one of those situations where you can't really move any which way without completely screwing yourself over. On one side there is mad gunmen waiting to drill you as soon as you step off. On the other a tiger pit waiting to skewer you. Then all you can do is stare at the little fat fucker and wish you had a redo. And not like "Can I be where I was ten minutes ago;" no it is one of those full blown rewind the time so I can restart my life. You just want to take it ALL back. Not just some of the stuff, the whole shebang. Partridge in a pear tree, start at square one, so maybe, just maybe you can become a semblance of what you think you should be or actually become what you believe you should be.

What do you do? Check out? Is that the answer you've been looking for? "The easy way out," some old man would say, or "We never expected this," some not too close family member might say, probably as ignorantly as possible on some obscure news cast. How are you going to do it? Pills? Seems easy, but you know better. Most overdoses from pills are violent, messy, and most importantly, painful. You might not even be able to keep down a lethal enough dose. Then you just failed again. Plus most people picture checking out of this world with some gusto or at least peacefully, not covered in vomit. Oh, how about that bathtub and razor-blade combo that is dramatized on countless made for t.v. movies. Eh, but then your left with the fact that someone will find you. That's great. You give up, and someone has to see you in a pool of diluted but still dark blood water and naked as the day you were born. Great image for them to be haunted by every time they close their eyes.. Isn't it bad enough you want to end it since all you do is cause people pain... obviously inflicting more pain and hurt wouldn't really be the best way. Maybe it is. Just one last bit of pain for anyone who gives a fuck about you but that is it, you're out. You could jump off something tall, but then you run the risk of being the most unlucky mother fucker on the face of the planet and surviving as a paralyzed person who fucking hates themselves. Best case scenario, they bury you in a Hefty bag. Fuck that. Okay we're down to a bullet. You know where the gun and ammunition is, load it up, dress sharp, and click; it's all over. After a big mess and a closed casket, people can forget about you and that little fat fuck on the teeter-totter can rot in agonizing hell. Do you do it? No. You can't. Somewhere inside of you there is that unselfish tick that won't allow you to go through with it. Or maybe you're just too big of pussy to actually go through with anything in your life. Finalizing scares the fuck out of you. Maybe you're just an asshole that wants the last word in everything and you've become so torn over the idea that it would be the biggest last word ever, but then everyone will talk and you'll be dead. So your response time will be shot to shit. So what now hot-shot?

You hate yourself. You've just invested serious thought about ending it all. But you can't. Hansel and Gretel never bread-crumbed this shit out for you. Slide down the teeter-totter kick the kid in the face and never look back. Live. You choose to live. Purge out the demons you have lurking in your head. Get yourself together. And milk the world for everything you want. Because lets face it. We all die. And most don't get the chance to pick. So go live your life, besides you smoke two packs a day, you're well on your way and you didn't even think about it.