What's left behind

Did you ever lose something to someone? After all is said and done, after it's all done, he still has that street, that song, that winter. That dress, that drink that he always ordered from that bar, that state that he went to without you but now its his by default. What did he see while he was there? What did he think?

Why would I give a man an entire state? Why have I given men entire years?

The Doctor took "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. "Jesus, Etc" by Wilco. I hear either one and I get this feeling. A knotted stomach aching right where I can't reach it I can't help it I wish it would just go. Even while I'm doing something else and said song comes on, I get a feeling before I am cognizant of why. I get a feeling of things that are his. That song, that memory, its his. So why won't he just take it? Why won't he just let me be?

But. I'm taking Wilco back. I'm taking it, he can't have it.

May cause side effects

Because I texted him the not-so-pitiful text, because I have been put to shame, because I have to back off or else aggravate the situation, he has the upper hand. I cannot handle this. Why won't he text me? Why won't he text me?

I found myself stumbling ("stumbling") upon some video clips of him playing (being a musician and all), and stared like a swooning school girl (trite wording, apologies, but let's face it, this entire thought process is trite, this entire blogpost is trite.).

The only reason I'm doing such ridiculous things is because I no longer have the upper hand. I feel out of control of the situation. This is my reaction to not being in control. I gave too much of myself, and cannot retract it, cannot fix it, can only wait.

Wishing and hoping

I texted The Musician after a few drinks. After midnight. After I reached the point of exhaustion. And this morning, feeling no hangover whatsoever, I had to wonder.

Wonder why. Exhaustion prompts you to do a medley of things, but typically not text men oddly sweet messages when truthfully, truthfully -I'm not so sure. It's true, I don't trust him. But time heals and- I could trust him eventually.

We have seen each other a few times. Yesterday. And I left him feeling like it could go either way, and I wouldn't really mind. Because the thing is, the part that is unsettling to me is this: this late night text? It was a lie. It was a pity text. It was an I'm-sorry-I'm-cooler-than-you-and-a-total-bitch-but-you-started-it-and-now-I-don't-trust-you-but-kinda-feel-guilty-because-it's-in-my-nature. But it didn't come out that way at all. What was I thinking? Wishing for something that doesn't exist? Wishing that I really did like him, really did want to talk to him when I'm exhausted and texting nonsense?

Maybe I scared him off? Is it bad that I kind of hope I did?

Wandering eye

Or mind. Wandering mind.

First official date with The Musician, lunch and talking and me still being ravenous when I got home and walking and this pier with fiddler crabs and a view and talk of the salty air and our mutual fear of birds and one time one flew into his car and talking too long about former relationships and wondering when he would kiss me and I didn't call my sister back but did manage to say fuck in front of a small child.

Just the usual.

But knowing how slow things must proceed with him, how guarded I am and how scared he is, knowing this made me think of things I can (or can't? Or can?) have, like the Third Grader. Despite his being gone already. So maybe... can't.

It feels primal. This can/can't. Kissing doesn't kill has suddenly taken a turn for the ...sex. Well, sex doesn't kill, either.

One monogamous day

Monogamy. The Third Grader told me he was interested in monogamy.

I stopped him right there.

We don't even live in the same town.

"What do you mean, monogamy?" I queried.

He paused.

I waited.

What if

Timing. It's all about timing. Chance. Circumstances. Really. Maybe my cynicism is getting the best of me, maybe it is, but I'm really beginning to feel as if dating, relationships, sex- it all has to do with who happens to be sitting next to you on the train, on the bar stool; who frequents the same coffee shop. And then you make it work. Then you give and you take. Then you accept the person, forgive the person, because suddenly, it feels sacred.

But what if it's not?

What if really, really, there are so many possibilities, so many what if's, so many bar stools that you can't even fathom? What if truly, it's all about chance. Everyone offers something different. Everyone brings something new to the table: good, bad, crazy (that'd be me, this blog speaks volumes attesting to this very fact). And it's all a fit. It's not all magical, it's compromise, and really? [Besides totally nullifying any point I've made thus far pointing to the uniqueness of relationships, of finding someone who you actually like- who you love], I'm beginning to wonder if I could happily be with a variety of people, all offering something different, but all offering also, also, something good and unique.

So, soulmates and all that jazz? Maybe. Maybe. And maybe I'm cynical. But what if there are multitudes of what ifs?

I'm so excited?

I'm thinking of appropriate song lyrics. This is not a Jessie Spano reference. Don't worry.

I should be more excited about The Musician business, right? I should be more excited?

But truthfully, I'm worried about my self respect. I have it, right? Right? But the more I talk about it, the more I mention it, the more I feel as if giving him a tiny, tiny chance means that I- obviously- have no self respect. (And tiny, tiny chance? Apparently, that means lunch. Yes. It means lunch. We're having lunch. Tiny chance: shouldn't that mean something along the lines of perchance seeing him out and about and then maybe I'll talk to him and then maybe I'll see him again and then maybe if we see each other again and it's been a good sixteen months I'll exchange more than niceties?) I feel like I'm not giving myself enough credit.

We all need credit. We all need to make decisions and know when to draw the line. His reaction? His avoidance? If that's how he acts towards me when I am just beginning to know him, how is he going to act if I do get to know him? And some wise advice I just got? Everyone has a story. It doesn't mean you treat people the way he did me.

And then despite being perhaps alone and perhaps self aware and perhaps spending too much time with books and cats and work, perhaps we accept men sitting on our floor with good intentions? But does he have good intentions? Am I trusting my instincts? Is the obsession with work and Hemingway keeping me from seeing the truth?

And can I blame it?

Hemingway is clouding my judgment. I can't be blamed.

(I'm pretty sure that Hemingway will be at fault in a few months. Or tomorrow. But certainly not me.)

Walk on the wild side

I can't even walk home without having oh so many awkward encounters with the opposite sex. The first began with a man who has not taken my subtle hints, who insisted upon walking me home. I was sure to remind him of the street in which he lives upon though, so as not to allow him to walk me any further. And en route with said man I saw the Third Grader, but he didn't see me. I wanted him to. And after that and after that: The Musician. And the fateful talk. And we will see.

The slightest touch

As I was hunched over my computer last night, writing the previous rant about the Musician and how I secretly hoped he'd knock on my door and grovel, he knocked on my door. And grovelled? Yep, you betcha. He apologized for blowing me off. We sat on my floor. Kept our distance. Talked. Asked questions. Told him the truth. He talked. I listened. Hours passed. I asked him to tell me something honest: he touched my knee.

Insult to injury round two

He really shouted, "Hey, Heartless!" to me as I was walking to my door. The Musician. (Heartless as in my pseudonym in this blog. He really didn't refer to me as heartless.)

I knew this would happen! I told you! I told you I would walk home one night and find him here. I would find him with my roommates and would be perfectly civil but would wish secret, angry curses against him.

So he's outside. Right now. And part of me wishes he'd wander past my room. Part of me does. Despite my appearance. Despite the pajamas of assorted Ex Wear. Despite my anger. Despite my present state of hunched over my computer.

I went into my kitchen to get water, found myself (logically, mind you) unloading the dishwasher, then feeling paranoid that he'd walk in and find me and how dare I unload the dishwasher! How dare I unload my dishwasher at my house whenever I want.

It's not the dishwasher. It's the thought that another person cannot deal with me. Cannot see himself unloading dishes or hanging out or merely texting back. Calling me back. That's where we stand. He refused to call me back. I saw him last week at my favorite bar. On my turf. And again tonight. On. My. Turf.

Leave. My. Turf.

Seriously?

I feel like I've just been re-initiated into third grade. This one, this new one, the one who ignores me as a way to tell me he likes me, he is new. And fleeting, as they always are. We kept getting into these intense conversations and then he would excuse himself and not come back. So I took that as a sign, a sign that he wasn't interested. But then we would find ourselves talking again, him clearly wanting to know more, situating himself near me, asking me specific questions. But then wandering off again.

And finally, it was late. I was tired. I was leaving. And as I was leaving, I found myself outside, in the dark, next to him. I couldn't help but think, Was this planned? Wondering if he had counted on this: this dark moment. And truthfully? Honestly? I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me and then I wanted to drive away in my car.

But he didn't. And I didn't. He gave me an awkward hug. And walked back up the steps into the house.

And I stood there.

And stood.

Then said, "Seriously?" after him. But he didn't hear me. So I got in my car. Felt foolish. Went to start it. Stopped. Tried to think of an excuse. Then thought, Fuck it. And got out of my car and walked up the stairs after him. But he wasn't there. And I didn't want to make an obvious inquiry. And then I really felt foolish. And so this time I really started my car and really drove away.

Red, red wine

I just found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, red wine and a pregnancy test in hand. Counting to one hundred eighty. I got to sixty and then I think skipped to 71. Stopped. Reassessed. Knew I should have brought some kind of timer. 67 68 69 707172734567. Tried not to touch it. Re-read the instructions. Worried I didn't do it correctly. Worried I missed a step. The step that would tell me that it's true, it's true. It was all a big mistake, meeting him, knowing him, knowing it was never going to work and still knowing him. The most ironic of all things. The most evil irony.

And trying not to think about those three minutes, trying not to worry, trying not to think about how I'd broach the subject or what I would do or how things would pan out. Thinking how red wine would see me through this, red wine would make it all okay.

And I write pretty words (or I tell myself I do). I write and try to be relateable and try to be funny and want to tell you things, things that are real and truthful and honest, but really, there's still sugar coating. This moment? This moment is terrifying. This moment could be the worst of my entire life, and no one would really know that, not from the red wine talk. The red wine doesn't tell about how I looked, sitting on the bathroom floor, resolving to do this, resolving to know, to know, resolving to sit next to this bottle, look at it, know that I need it, know that I need it to deal with whatever this three minutes brings. That pink line. That's what I'm looking for. And staring at it, 129 seconds in, I'm wondering if I'm a monster. Wondering if I really am getting what I deserve. Wondering if I'm out of control. Wondering if this red wine is my only friend. The only one to see me through the next 51 seconds.

The pink line didn't appear. But the red wine? Oh, its still here.

Greener pastures

I keep telling myself that we're all human. This is the human experience. And truthfully? Let's enjoy it. Let's stop beating ourselves up over inconsequential things. Because grass is always greener, someone's always gonna judge, and nothing's ever perfect.

But me? I don't listen to a thing I tell myself. I can know all day long what to do, how to act, what's acceptable and healthy, but I tend to go against that. You know this. If I really believed myself, this blog would sound a lot less like it's written by a nutcase.

I want what I can't have. What is that? I've been feeling a bit rejected recently, a bit pity me-esque (as opposed to..?), angry that all the men I like (could have should have would have) are, circumstantially, not working. Circumstantially. The Doctor, we knew he was moving, we knew that the moment we met him. The boy from December, we realized early on that he wasn't in it, he was waiting for her. The Boy, we were apart for too long, and I couldn't pretend like I cared come May.

It seems that I only want what I can't have.

Happy trails

Before he left, The Doctor left a bag at my house. Nothing important in it, don't worry. (I may have checked.) We tried tried tried to coordinate a time to exchange it. And then it was the last night, and I was busy, and he was busy, and we were too busy for each other, we always were, and so I left said bag on his porch on my way home from one of my busy activities.

While driving, I had an obsessive (one of many, mind you) thought process about whether to leave a note, and then of course I'd leave a note, but wait! do I have any Post Its? anything other than an old bar receipt? (Hey last impression, great, yeah, a receipt for cheap beers. A receipt for taking you too seriously, too personally, a receipt for drinking you away.) After frantically searching my purse and any other nearby locale (glove box, floorboards, the back part of the seat with the storage area, does that have a name?), I was at a loss. Nothing. Why did I take that stationary out of my purse last week?! #&@*%! But. I eventually found blue Post Its. And then I decided to obsess over what to say. I wondered how my handwriting looked. Wondered if I was an idiot for finding myself in this predicament. Didn't we already have this blog post? Didn't we talk about not getting involved? About how you know yourself too well and you should have been done done done with this months ago? That didn't stop this blue Post It madness, don't you worry.

I wasn't satisfied with my first attempt at "Happy trails" with a smiley face, and then I worried about whether to sign my entire name or just my first initial? Is it more personal with just the first letter? Maybe it is. But what if it just makes it easier for him to forget I ever existed? What if it's that easy? I'm just a letter, just a number, just a fleeting moment. A crazy moment it seems. Absolutely nuts.

Hills like white elephants

Let's never say the word, let's not mis-step here, but what if? What if he's gone across country and I'm left here and he doesn't know? Would I tell him? What would I say? It's cruel, a cruel situation, I'm sure worse has happened but when?

20/20

I went late night running. Late, late night, running so hard that I was worried I'd collapse onto something, then taking a break, walking, worried the sweat pouring off every bit of my body, worried my flushed appearance, worried my crazy eyes, would scare passersby. Worried people in cars would stop and offer help. Worried I would let it get to me. Worried it really is me. It really is me. Worried I would cry.

But I'm not a crier, so there. I'm a runner. And a writer. So I ran. And as soon as I got home, as soon as I could find it, I checked my phone to reassure myself that I didn't have an apologetic text awaiting me.

And don't you worry, prophecy not fulfilled. He doesn't want me. And that's fine. That's fine. It's fine. Until tonight. Until I see him out and no, he's not with a girl. No, I'm not with a boy. It's still the seeing him. I haven't seen The Musician in a month. Since he never returned my phone call. So I ran him out a month ago. I ran and dealt with the fact that I was shut down. But tonight, I saw him. And it has to happen. It does. I had to see him at some point, in a town this small.

Running at midnight says something. Running at midnight speaks volumes.

Volumes about how I can't pretend like I don't care. Volumes about how I don't handle this well. I went running at midnight to get rid of this anger. (A given, it's better than a bottle of merlot, but.) And the anger? No, it's not gone. It's there. I can't stand thinking about what he's thinking about me.

And why do I care? Why do I care? I need to worry about what I think. How I feel. If I'm okay with myself, if I'm happy on my own, if I'm good with late night runs and friends all the time and reading good books and my career and my life- why do I care? I get to listen to all of the girl music I want. I don't have to deal with the sharing bit. The consideration of another's feelings. So why do I care so much about his feelings?

The rules of attraction

If I have to talk myself into it, I don't want it.

A little less conversation

Is this beginning to sound very Sex and the City-y? Apologies. Or maybe not. I think I'm evolving here, stay with me, let's see what happens.

Men are from?

Sacrifices. What are we willing to sacrifice all in the name of a relationship? Of a partner?

Money? Sex? Love? With The Ex, I sacrificed words. I sacrificed feelings, ideas; and really, in the end, it was love. He never could love me. And I didn't know why. I tried so hard to make myself lovable, I put up with bullshit for a long, long time, all in the name of love. And then I acted out. He's not going to love me then? Well fine, I'll meet someone else. I'll date someone else. I'll kiss someone else.

But that didn't work. Because the man who I really wanted, he didn't notice. He didn't care. He didn't love me. Even when I spelled it out for him, even when I said: I can't do this because you are never going to love me.

What are you willing to sacrifice for a relationship? There's a give and take in all relationships, and everyone is different. Some people stay for reasons they shouldn't: the sex is too good to leave, or even something as trivial as having a date to a wedding in a couple weeks (just hold on a little while longer! I can't go alone!). I actually didn't want to leave a man once because he loved bookstores and coffee as much as me; I thought that was a reason to stay, even for a bit longer. I didn't want to leave another man because I didn't know how to sleep alone. (And here I am today, sleeping alone, alive and very, very well.) I think it's important to know our limits. To know that relationships are compromise, but also to know the difference between compromise and defeat. In not being loved. In not getting what you need.

Because truthfully? You're in this for you.

The Married Man

No. I'm not pursuing him, don't you worry. It's my lack of interest that is startling.

Or not startling at all, as a matter of fact.

A pattern.

If I know a man is taken, but I also know I may have a crush on him, I go into an extreme defensive? offensive? mode (I never quite understood these sports terms.). I won't even acknowledge his existence, in an effort to...not seduce him? (Is it that a given? Do I just seduce away whomever I please? That ballsy, huh?) Well. Not seduce, perhaps. But I think, subconsciously, I don't want to put myself in a compromising situation. Because with me, it's always compromising. In my mind or real life, it's always compromising.

The not putting myself in that position, does that make me wholesome?

Namesake

John Currin's "Heartless" and, perhaps, my namesake.

For your enjoyment

Yep. I did it.

Just to entertain y-o-u. The things I do for you. Kissing all sorts of men just for your enjoyment. So I wandered around town, showed a version of my true colors, more of me than he'd seen, there was gin, there was overbearing heat and tonic and exhaustion, making eyes at the bartender, wondering if I should even be hanging around this man, making eyes at the bartender?!, this is silly, but then kissing in the street.

And good kissing, I'll tell you. Good, good kissing.

But distance. My distance. I prefer distance. No feelings. It's a self awareness thing. Because he wants me, I don't want him. Just the kissing. Because, hey, there's no harm in it. It doesn't kill. But it may hurt feelings.

I'm trite.

Mischief maker

I'm beginning to care too much about how you feel about me, blogging audience. I fear I am finding shenanigans just to find shenanigans. Just to entertain. So right now, yes, now? I'm looking into mischief. I'm checking out the scene, weighing my options, and deciding how it's going to go down. So. Mischief. We shall see.

Going, going, gone

I couldn't stand to see his name in my phone. I couldn't stand looking at it. I want to be done with this. I want it over. I don't want to see his name. I don't want to know him. I deleted every message with his name in it. I want him gone from my life.

Whaling

Car sick

I feel ill. Ill. Physically ill.

Okay, okay, you get it, physically, gravely, ill. Sure. But why am I so affected? Why am I physically affected? I think it has to do more with getting out, making my own way, than it does with him. I need to get some distance from this town, take a step away, and find my own way. Never in a million years would I want to follow him, but I'm jealous. I'm jealous he's off to his new life.

I am sick to my stomach with jealousy. That's it. It's not him, it's the west coast. Just like Boston. Just like anywhere but here.

The ugly truth

This is what happens, you see? You live and you learn, I get it, I get it, but. But. Date with a new man.

It's all about knowing someone. Anytime someone means something to you, it's different. First date with The Doctor? Same place, funnily enough, and I kept thinking that we should have had a heated argument. But this time, this time, it was exactly the same. So I could feel the same way about this different man? I could talk Politics and Religion and move forward and be okay with this? I could be happy with him?

Or be tortured, what's the difference?

What's the difference in passing someone on the street, and knowing them? What makes us depend on the other? What is that? The Doctor, with The Doctor, it was just the same as tonight. It's striking a chord because it was just the same: same restaurant, same sort-of safe conversation, same tentative chivalry. And then things exploded. But how did they explode?

Did I legitimately have feelings for him? Or is this angst? My [supposed-to-be-gone-far, far-away-by-the-age-of-sixteen] angst.