Revelations On Tail

I’ve been making a serious effort to stop whining at you, and it’s getting easier because I’ve quit drinking so much and I’ve moved into the “denial” phase. I’ve been trying to stop whining at you, but it’s mostly resulted in a hell of a lot of quiet around here. So, what’s up?

The film company finally has a logo, and we’re all reasonably decently deluding ourselves into thinking that this is a perfectly reasonable backup plan. Like, if all the real jobs in America fall into a gaping crack in the Earth, (and become clubhouses for the lost boys), it’s no big. By then, I’ll be a film editor. Poo will smell like roses, cancer will be cured True Blood will come on some channel that I get, and my cat will live forever. Johnny Depp and Jack White will be fighting over me, trying to buy my affections with items from the Victorian Trading Company catalog.

Go big or go home.

(Jack will win by buying me the Cleopatra fainting couch.)

“How’s the book coming?” Well, I haven’t actually had time to think about it for the last couple of months. I tagged everything up to 2007, but 9 years of blogs take a while to tag. Seeing as how I’m now making a serious effort to stop working on dumb crap for dumb people who make me want to kill myself and never pay their bills, maybe some progress will be made. If your name is Tyler and you’re reading this, I’m not talking about you. Your stuff kept getting pushed back because someone else was sucking the life out of me. I have fired her, I’m working on your stuff and, rest assured, I will not be trying to get any money out of you. This has taken me an unacceptable length of time and I suck. Just sayin.

Despite efforts of friends and the internet, I have (so far) successfully dodged all members of the male gender (male? members? har?). It’s been more difficult of late, since October is always the time of year when random strangers decide to hit on the goth chick at the local Kroger. “What do goth chicks EAT?” “Babies.” Come November 1, the heat is usually off, but then I lost ten pounds and left the house a few times. Also, it’s knee boot season. I can’t take me anywhere.

A sense of humor is good.
Consistency is better.
Double points if you are short, sideburned and know what DeathRock is. Or if you are Jack White.

Jen is gone to the Navy, and that sucks ass. It’s good for her, and we’re all glad that she’s going to go off and live up to her potential and all that. I’m happy for her, but that doesn’t mean that there’s not a big empty space next to me at goth night.

WAIT! That’s the problem!!

Without Jen (who I lovingly refer to as my official cockblock), there’s no perky, cute girl standing next to me for dudes to talk to. They have no choice but to end up talking to me.

Well, I’m glad we worked that out.


(I’d like to preface this by saying that I really DID try to break this up over several days, but each mini-point bleeds into the next. Thus, I say this: read this in sections if you need to, but please don’t just skip the entry. I’m going somewhere with this.)

It’s been a while, readers. Where have I been? Busy, mostly, filling my days with work and filling my nights with a boy, or going to bed early to make up for not getting any sleep the night before. I have put some miles on my body, via treadmill, and my liver, via vodka.

I sense that I’m back now. There was much I couldn’t tell you, much questions, much boring plot summary that you wouldn’t want to hear. And an endless death loop of “what’s going on here? should I be getting attached or watching my back? Is it too soon to just ask?”

Answers: I don’t know, watch your back, yes.

Some people find the initial dance of meeting someone bizarrely exhilarating. The thrill of the hunt or some such. I do not. I find it annoying, tiring and a little demeaning. Every day is this slow ticktock of over-analyzing every little stupid thing, trying to figure out if some guy likes you or if he’s going to abruptly stop calling. I think that this may be why women are always so damn pushy about defining relationships.

There’s this unspoken rule that, time and nudity aside, if you’re not in a committed relationship, the guy can just walk away. He can hit the previous track button and pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. He doesn’t owe you any explanations because, technically, you’re not allowed to get upset. You were just hanging out, and if you were getting attached it’s your own damn fault. The Dropping Someone Like They’re Hot thing still happens in actual relationships, but it’s a little less likely. At least this is what I tell myself. Otherwise, I’d just buy a Wii and never leave the house.

I understand the rules. I have been guilty of hitting the metaphorical previous track button. I know how much easier it is. Strangely, though, my stupid girl brain keeps going. It wonders what it did wrong. It wonders when it did the wrong thing. It wonders why whatever guy in question changed his mind.

Thing is, the only way to stop all the stupid questions is to ask them and you and I both know that you don’t REALLY want to know the whole truth of the answers. Even worse is when someone is too nice to even say “hey, let’s just forget this all happened.” I learned this lesson more than 10 years ago when someone clearly had no further use for me but kept telling me “don’t be a stranger” and “come hang out.” Instead of seeing a subtextual “fuck you” for what it was, the “fuck you” just took 6 or 7 months and cost me parts of my self-respect I still haven’t recovered. I kept trying because I liked him so much as my friend, but two people can’t be friends when the other person feels rejected. A friendship is between equals, and that poor guy couldn’t even look me in the eye anymore.

In my defense, I was ten years younger and had much less guy experience then. I was crueler than I should have been because I had never been on the other side. I had never been ditched. I had never been the rejected one. The one looking at the floor. That was back when I’d been half-assing my relationships. Once I started whole-assing them, I started being the one slinking away, knife-backed, staring at her shoes. My success rate was so much better ten years ago, when I was shy, skinnier, crazier, younger, and dumping every guy before the 3-month mark.

What happened? I realized that half-assing my “relationships” wasn’t good for me, my life path or whatever poor soul ended up dating me. I blame my cat for this. It’s a ballsy thing to bring a life into yours, knowing that you will fall in love but you will also outlive the other life. Even scarier: HOPING that you outlive the other life, because that’s the only way you can make good on the promise you made when you brought that life into yours. It’s the promise of Forever:

“Even if you get old and incontinent, even if you hate me, even if you claw my couch, I will feed and love you for however long you live. When you die, you will do so in my arms, and probably because I have to put you out of your misery. The last way I will be able to do right by you will be to let you go.”

Murphy taught me about the Forever. Even in my darkest, most depressed days when I wanted to just kill myself, he would look at me with big blue eyes, reminding me that I promised him Forever, which I can’t guarantee if I off myself.

Wait, that wasn’t supposed to be present-tense. I am not currently suicidal, no no. Any suicidal tendencies I may have ever had in my life melted away watching Diah’s mom having to bury her son’s ashes. That was the second time I’d had to watch a mother bury her child, and I have no intention of voluntarily inflicting that on my mom. Anyway, where were we?

Forever is a mighty long time, and I didn’t grasp that until a 14-pound cat sauntered into my life and made me his bitch. I understand now. It’s not about finding perfection. It’s about finding someone who’s worth the trouble. It’s not about someone who doesn’t annoy you at all. It’s about finding someone who annoys you much less than everyone else. It’s about finding someone and realizing that you life would be lessened if they weren’t it in.

Part of me wishes that I’d learned this sooner. Part of me is glad that I didn’t, as the breakups hurt much more when you’ve let someone get a good hard look at what lies inside the castle walls, beyond the dragon-filled moat. The consolation of the pain is knowing that you didn’t half-ass things. You went in with guns blazing, lost the battle, and still lived to tell the tale.

Of Eunuchs and Clydesdales

A couple weeks ago, a guy approached me at the Waldenbooks “going out of business” sale. I tried to avoid giving him my number, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I gave in, figuring that I could always just not pick up the phone when he called. Thing is, he won’t stop calling and I just keep feeling more and more like an asshole. He never stood a chance. There’s nothing left for me to give him.

In days of harems, eunuchs would be employed as security. Keep the ladies safe without risking their virtue. Though they were men among women, they were considered harmless.

Clydesdale horses were originally bred for work, not beauty. They were known for strength. Not grace.

When I am gone, my legacy will be in pixels and ink. Not blood. My last name will die with me. There will be no children to care for me when my cancer comes.

Once upon a time, I believed in him. The man on the white horse. The Rochester to my Jane Eyre. The Sam to my Joon. The Sir Percy to my Marguerite. I waited. In his absence, I made myself into a woman, getting stronger, learning things, trying to build some kind of character. It was as though I was thrashing around, doing every conceivable thing to make up for shortcomings that I can’t help. I would never be a trophy, so I became other less-shiny things.

I was wrong. Men like shiny things. They don’t want a business partner, a soldier, an equal. Men like to see themselves as those things. They need to feel indispensible. They need to be needed. If I can kill my own bugs, pay my own bills, and hook up my own stereo, men don’t know where they’re supposed to fit in. I don’t make much of a bracelet. I don’t make much of a hooker. I don’t make much of a dependent. The parents taught me better. They meant well.

My female logic says “do you really want a fragile princess raising your kids and sharing your bank account?” but my female logic is wrong. It’s so wrong that it can’t even wrap its head around its own stupidity. At the end of the day, I’ve done little more than turn myself into The Great Emasculator, and it just keeps getting worse. The longer I’m single, the more time I have. The more horribly scary I am.

He told me once that I’m beautiful. When he looked at me, I believed it. I think that’s what he needed to think. Kept him from realizing that he was kind of too hot to be with me. On a really good day, I still manage “cute,” but no one (no one sober) has ever called me beautiful. Anyway, he paid me this compliment after breaking up with me, which also makes it harder to believe.

Oh, readers. I thought he was The One. It was so easy to sleep next to him. It felt like home. Like safety. To someone who’s never felt safe a day in her life, that’s all very alluring. I would lie in bed thinking “I could do this. I could do this for 50 years.” I didn’t say it out loud. I can barely type it, so saying it out loud, to someone’s face, is completely insane. Did I mention I also don’t cry in front of people? When you’re little and female, you don’t give up your armor easily. The world is no place for the small and fragile, so I buy platform shoes and don’t cry in public. As it said in Call of the Wild, if they take you down, you’ll never get back up. Don’t let them take you down.I don’t trust anybody, but I trusted him as much as I was able. I didn’t say that out loud, either. For somebody with such loud fingers, I sure do have a quiet mouth.

While I was thinking, slipping into domesticity, he changed his mind. Imagine the sound of a wine glass breaking. That’s what the last two weeks felt like. Glass breaking when I realized he didn’t respect me for taking medicine for my formerly crippling panic attacks. Glass breaking when he stopped asking me what I wanted to watch on tv. Glass breaking into sharp little barbs shoved into my back. I felt like there was an ever-growing list of requirements, and trying to keep up with them made me feel constantly inferior. Never quite good enough. Not that I need any help with feeling that way.

He disposed of me quickly. Business-like. The trust was washed away all at once. A clean break. If this could happen, if this person could toss me aside so easily, anything could happen. This could happen again. I always knew it in my head, but then I knew it in my heart. You’d think the two would communicate a little better.

For my part, just like a girl, I found a way to blame myself for everything. I’d gained weight. I’d refused to travel. I didn’t pick up the check enough. I didn’t put out. I didn’t surprise him with random gifts. I didn’t try hard enough. I saw my friends too much. I didn’t let him drive. I didn’t like enough of the same music. I wasn’t fun anymore.

Then came the other one. He also told me he loved me, but in a (mostly) different way. (Guys, I feel you should have fair warning. Men who say they love me have a tendency to die. Just sayin.) He was helping me mourn the first guy. I should have been helping him through the loss of his The One. I thought he was stronger than me. I thought he was bulletproof. Instead, he took whatever was left of me. He ripped it out through my back.

It’s been almost a year since we put the ash down, but the wound isn’t closed, and I’m sorry that you’re still having to hear about this. I keep picking at that scab, thinking that allowing myself to feel it will make the pain wear off. It’s working. It’s just taking a damn long time.

Ever since those things, I just can’t get excited about guys. Love just reminds me of glass breaking, having my heart removed, and people leaving me. Kissing someone new still feels like cheating. On the rare occasion that I meet a guy, I immediately look for reasons to run and hide. I don’t meet many guys. I’m the eunuch in the harem, ladies. I won’t steal your man. I might help him organize his closet, but I’m just the friend.

I don’t enjoy the thrill of the chase. I don’t want to compete with other girls. I don’t want to start all over with a brand new guy. I don’t want to wonder if he’s going to call. I don’t want to wonder if he likes me. Some people find that dance exhilarating. It makes me want to give up, hide in my house, and watch Law & Order.

Still, I have this feeling that I’m wasting time. There’s still that tiny nugget of hope (dear hope: fuck you) that says “he’s out there, and you’re hiding in here!” I’m not getting any younger. My face is starting to melt. I go out and just see girl upon girl who’s prettier and more approachable. I’m scary. I’ve had all the time in the world, and I’ve spent it working. Clydesdales are not bred for grace or beauty. My logo is shaped like a horseshoe.

There’s a peace that comes from accepting your lot in life.
At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

I have never known my place.

Hottest Guitar Tech Ever: Adam Stockdale

**I’ve been sitting on this post for a while, just cause it’s stupid and fluffy and doesn’t have much redeeming “social commentary” value. Buuuut…I’m feeling very stupid and fluffy today. Bring it!

A while ago, I saw The Kooks play at 3rd & Lindsley. The place was packed, so by the time I got there, I had the choice of squeezing myself into the back behind a bunch of tall people, being in the walkway of the wait staff, or hiding in the little empty spot stage right. I chose the empty spot, and stood next to Security Guy.

“Is it cool if I stand here? I promise not to run on stage or anything.”

I don’t know why they feel like they have to put a security guy over there. Who the hell is gonna to rush the stage at 3rd and Lindsley? Would anyone really run up on stage to grab on some dude from The Kooks? Has anyone ever tried to stage dive? This strikes me as hideously uncool, but you know it’s happened at least once or they wouldn’t always station a big burly guy over there.

Anyway, standing next to security guy put me directly behind The Kooks’ guitar tech. As in, “I could reach out and touch your hair and not have to move my feet forward” behind. I enjoyed the show, but spent an embarrassing amount of time watching the guitar tech: curly white man fro, pixie nose, sideburns, British accent…if he’d have been shorter and had thicker wrists, I might have had to try to hit on him after the show. OK, probably not. We do not talk to boys. We do not talk to boys. We do not talk to boys.

Anyway, after some totally creepy googling to try to find a picture for you guys, I found VIDEO. Behold!

I Enjoy Being a Bitch

“You’re…difficult,” Mark once said to me.

“You can be a bit…now, don’t take this the wrong way…I don’t want to upset you…but you can be a bit…”

“Abrasive?” I know it’s kind of rude to interrupt one’s shrink, but honestly, the amount of time he would spend trying to make me not upset would use up too much of our rather expensive time together. It’s my dime, so I chose to move things along.

“Dude, it’s ok. I know. How about we work on some elements of my personality that you have some snowball’s chance in hell of changing? Basic building blocks of my personality are such a lofty goal.”

I used to feel kind of bad about this whole “hey, dude, you’re kind of a bitch” thing. Then I realized something. Being a bitch isn’t the same as being an asshole. Assholiness, yes, I’m working on. I’m working on saying “thank you” more. I’m working on trying to phrase things less abrasively so they’ll have a bettter shot at being heard. I’m working on being more supportive, not blocking intersections, and being nice to the people at Comcast even when they’re total dicks to me. Hell, I might even start recycling.

But you’re still going to know exactly what I think of you. One of my selling points as a human is that people always know exactly where they stand with me. I have no poker face. It’s not for everyone, and that’s fine. Might as well be hated for who you are and not who you’re pretending to be, and I might as well be zen about my “fuck you” attitude because it’s not going anywhere. Birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim.

This, I suspect, is why the dudes I end up with are usually IT guys or guitar players. They’re the only guys with enough ego to survive me, and I’m the only one stupid enough to tell them, “hey, you’d better dial it down a notch.” It takes all kinds. Some dudes enjoy bitches, and God bless those dudes. I’ve dated some very nice guys, but the trouble there is that it frustrates the piss out of me to have this conversation:

“Where do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about _____, _____, or _____?”
“I don’t care.”

And then I feel like I’m always making all of the decisions, like he’s secretly resenting me for always picking the restaurant/movie/whatever. So I start trying to guess at what he would want. It’s exhausting, and I gave up on that years ago. If he can’t voice an opinion, then fuck him. He doesn’t get one. I’m not going to spend my life trying to guess the cinematic desires of someone who can’t even decide between Saw II and Beaches. And when he throws that up in my face (and they always eventually do), I’m just going to be like “well, you never voice an opinion…you forfeited your vote.” And then he’ll say something like “well, you’re a scary bitch.” And then I’ll say something like “I don’t recall putting a gun to your head to date me.”

What was my point, besides reminding myself that I’m glad to be single? Screw it. Will be coherent tomorrow.