Phlashlite's · Beam

Gack.

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If you could travel back in time to the birth of Christ, the beginning of the Gregorian calendar, and could set aside $1,350,000 ($1.35 million) every day of every week, every day of every month, and every day of every year right up to today - you still wouldn't have enough to pay off the over two trillion dollars George W. Bush has increased the national debt since he took office.
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"1981 was a common year, starting on a Thursday."

• My Cadillac, such that it is.
• ELO's album, Time.
• Proof that plastic hangers were the best: Mommie Dearest. (I still can't watch that film, pseudocampy as it is.)
• Palau became self-governing. (Good thing, too, since it later rose to stand beside us in Bush's infamous "Coalition of the Willing.")
• Ronald Reagan, and incidentally, the end of the Iranian hostage crisis.
• The first De Lorean rolls off the assembly line.
• François Mitterrand becomes president of France.
• The first cases of AIDS are identified by the CDC. (I cannot presently imagine what life would be like without it.)
• The Hyatt Regency suspended walkway failure.
• Sandra Day O'Connor becomes the first female justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.
• The metal band Metallica forms. (W00t!)
• The first test-tube baby, Elizabeth Jordan Carr, is born.
• The Iran-Contra scandal is exposed, proving yet again that getting involved in the messes of others is generally a losing proposition.

Two things amuse me about the gay men I've met here in San Francisco.

One is that, as Jeff pointed out, they tend to lose their "knack of moderation"--you meet people who do a lot of really insane things in the name of taking their experience to the next level. It's usually sexual shenanigans, but it varies. The story is predictable; sometimes the outcome (unfortunately) is, too.

What's been really interesting is that--the more people I meet and get to know as the people they actually are--the more I find that, invariably, even the guy who wants to have nails driven through his palms wants to be kissed passionately and cuddled with, too.

I think that this tells a remarkable story about who we are, what we do, why, and what we still commonly search for, as varied as we all are...

I don't know if it's too late now to write this. (Ha. I almost typed "right this," which would be--at least at this point--decidedly Freudian.)

I try not to apologize too much these days. It devalues my message; it dilutes the content. You told me so yourself.

Even I have a point, though, where I feel a little tentative, a little mournful to be behaving the way I am. After all, if you think it's difficult to put up with being the object of someone's incessant affection, imagine how hard it is to be the admirer, and how tired your arms get from carrying a torch.

Why do I do this? It's a good question. It's haunted me for months now, and I finally stopped in the middle of a walk yesterday to ponder the answers. I had to push the emotions aside; I had to mute the background noise of all the sensations that trigger nostalgia and familiarity in my soul. Those sentiments serve only to interfere and to reinforce what I feel--intensely, but baselessly. In my search for the truth, I had to get rid of what was just static and filler.

Not that emotions and love and nostalgia are bad--it's just that they were in the way.

When talking with someone more logical, it helps if you can have something more concrete to say than just "I don't know, I just really like you." Okay, great. What else have you got for me?

For an emotional person, that seems like a rhetorical question. What else do you need? But I understand that not everyone on Earth is wired like me, so I'm going to go out on a limb and explore a side of me I usually leave alone to evolve by itself.

Diving deeply into the logic of my reasoning (and struggling to swim through the strong currents of emotion that hindered my progress, I learned some pretty good things. Some were surprising and new to me, and others were what I had expected. So, without further ado:

Reasons why it is that I still want a chance to be with you:

• Every time I talk to you, you make me feel like I'm home. I'm instantly secure, happy, unthreatened. I'm fascinated, amused, at peace. I don't have to sculpt my words carefully to avoid a negative reaction. As I think, I can tell you what I'm thinking, and listen to what you're saying, and you're honest with me--and kind. So kind...your sweetness and thoughtfulness astound me. That ability to be comfortable with you--completely comfortable with you--really captures why it is that I absolutely fall for you every time you talk to me. I don't know if you really know or understand how rare it is to be able to have that with someone. Sometimes your reaction leads me to believe that it's not that big of a deal, but really, it's the biggest need I have in any relationship. If it's there, everything else is a challenge on top of a stable underpinning. If it's not there, then even trivial, mundane things take a lot of work. At the very least, a relationship should have a good undercurrent of communication, and that should include things like impulses of delight, and amusement, and wordplay, and subliminal messages, and whatever else makes it magical. I've never had that with anyone else even remotely to the degree that I have it with you, and--forgive my tenacity, but I can't let that go lightly. I know it puzzles you to hear me say that, and I wish I could draw some sort of parallel that would make you understand. I'm not sure I could, but please know what it means to me, and that I am more than certain of its concreteness.
• Familiarity breeds substructure. There is a lot I'd like to explore with you, but the way I approach the idea with respect to you feels like I won't be arbitrarily destroyed for wanting to see how you and I would click with regarding things to do, activities to enjoy, and, yes, what sort of sexual relationship we'd ultimately develop. That last part worried me for a while, but I've done some explorations recently that have helped me learn a bit about myself--what I enjoy, what I am at least amused by, and what I just don't want. I think I painted you in one particular role initially, when I should have been more open-minded to the fact that relationship dynamics (whatever the relationship) decide themselves over time, and that no one at any given time is the same to someone else as they were with another person who came before--there are no slots to fill, no substitutions necessary--just something wonderful to share. It's completely unique and totally amazing in its own right.

The warts I see:

• Someone needs a Palm Pilot. I know you think that I idolize you, and that the negatives don't make their way through the lenses of my rose-colored glasses. I see the warts as well as the handsomeness. Some of them are funny, because I have them too. My favorite is our respectively poor time management--and I think my premier example would be the fact that I missed my flight home. Granted, a lot of good things came from that (not the least of which was the chance to meet Eric, and to hold you for one more night), but it's illustrative of a common issue that neither of us addresses in the other. Put the two of us together, and we might never get anywhere on-time. Plus, I'm sure we're both bad about being distracted by other activities that seem more suitable than what we really should be doing. I know you do that. It might help to know that I am supposed to have been reading a book for the last six months for work, and I've read zero pages, but have cleaned the entire house six times since. Go figure. I don't think that this is necessarily a bad thing, though--if anything, sharing a propensity makes it easier to understand in each other.
• Sometimes you're kind of dense. You told me up front that you had to be beaten about the head about some things. I've learned through practice that there are topics where you and I are in sync, and there are areas where I'm worked into a frenzy and you don't even realize that I'm going insane. Some of that is the distance and infrequency of contact, but I suspect that it could be something we'd experience on a regular basis. It goes back to me being super-emotional, and you not being super-emotional. I have to work on communication, and you'd need to be willing to talk with me about subjects that, well, wouldn't necessarily have apparent merit. I dwell, and get upset, and need to talk, even if it's only to diffuse the stress. I promise you I won't throw stuff at you. But I also promise I'll have my moments. I think, however, that I have a lot to offer, and that it's more of a feature of the package ;-).
• You are going to be busy, and I'm generally stressed about my job. I don't harbor any illusions about what you're going to be going through. (I was amused when Eric and I talked the other night, and he said that--back in November--he wanted to be sure that if I was interested in you, it wasn't because I was gold-digging for a lawyer--it made me laugh out loud, and I was glad to hear that he didn't think that was still the case. After all, I've done so well to date, what with a trucker, a chef, a banquet server, a background investigator, and a transportation manager...) The thought occurs to me that, right when I'd really want to see you more, you'd be unavailable. Still, see positive point 1 above--that trumps an awful lot. And I know that, if I ever had the opportunity to settle out near you, I'd be a stress magnet for a good while until I got my bearings and got my life settled in a semi-comfortable groove. That's an unattractive prospect, but it's life. So long as you're willing to talk to me every once in a while, and maybe throw in something of the caliber of "our aura arborist Alice", I'll be fine. (And laughing.)
• I need a "daddy" because I'm young and naïve. This is Eric's theory. I think it's amusing, if not entirely accurate. Do I tend to appreciate guys who are more experienced and, as a result, tend to make more grounded decisions? Sure. Who doesn't? Does anyone seriously get into a relationship and think, "Gee, I hope this guy's a moron, because I really love being with someone who makes bad decisions"? I doubt it. I don't automatically accept the decisions the other person makes, however. In fact, with Will and Frank, there were many decisions that I rejected, and I started getting better--as the relationship progressed--at identifying hare-brained ideas from a distance, and not just assuming that they were good because someone older and wiser made them. After all, we are all products of our experiences, and the validity of our choices extends only so far as the sphere of our personal knowledge and familiarity. What's good for me is not good for everyone, and vice-versa. I will say that the people my age whom I have dated have tended to be more focused on short-term things like lame jobs and Versace sunglasses, and yup, that's a turn-off. I'm not unduly wise for my age; I just have a stronger appreciation for gravitas.

My only regret:

• I'm only sorry I didn't do more, and sooner. I know you weren't ready for a relationship at the time, and your heart wasn't in it, but I took that to mean that I should scale things back and leave you be. I'm not sure that was the right thing to do. I'm hoping that you didn't write what you wrote the day after I came back from North Carolina because you were being too polite to say "You're not the one for me." I should have tried harder to see you; I should have been there more for you, and all I did was go radio-silent and assume that you'd seek me out if you needed me.

I'm torn between feeling badly about that, and not knowing what else I should have done. I know I make mistakes. What I'm hoping is that you still feel something for me.

Forget the distance, the pragmatism, the what-ifs, and just give me the abstract answer of how you feel. I have learned how to deal with all the practical issues; practical things can be resolved, and adversity taken in stride. What I have not learned is how to find anyone else who makes me feel the way you do.

I have never, ever done something like this for anyone else. I've never held a candle for seven straight months at the same level of intensity, regardless of how much or little I could see or speak to that person. I've never tried so hard and so repeatedly to put my heart into words in the hope that it'd be understood. I don't know what else to say to make this make sense to someone who is looking for a rational explanation.

I don't have one to offer you. I have this. All I know is that, to me, you are worth this. You are worth thinking about all the time, even when I don't get to talk to you all the time. You are extraordinary, even though I probably can't make you feel that, yet.

I'm starting to get to the point in this letter where I'm getting scared because I know that what I'm asking of you is unlikely to get me what I want--which is, simply, you. There's probably not a chance in hell, but for some odd reason, even though I have been safe in that knowledge from the beginning, it has never dissuaded me.

I would like that chance, though. In the uncertainty of what I can ask and what I can offer, that's what I want.

If what you felt when you saw me in Omaha was that I was cute and fun, and if what you wanted was someone attractive for a moment's amusement, that's fine. (I'm not loading that statement--it is what it is.) Please tell me that, though. Or, if it's a case of "Well, you were cute at the outset, but when I spent time with you in person, you were kind of a pain in the ass," that's fine too. All valid things to hear, to be filed under "personal growth opportunities."

If, though, you did see something in me, and still think about that, then I wish I knew that, too. I miss talking with you and sharing the conversations we shared back in the fall more than you know.

It would seem that one of my continuing mistakes in life is latching onto an idea and forever trying to bring it to fruition.

I guess I've made an enterprise out of moving Heaven and Earth.

I guess I just hoped that, in doing so, I could make something really beautiful and worthwhile happen.

The problem is, that in the endeavor, I missed something that was totally fine by itself, and should have been left alone.

I think, if there is ever one aspect of my persona that ends up being my undoing, it'll be the fact that I have not been able to ask for that which I love.

Will detected this pattern in me with unsettling clarity--"I think your parents instilled a sense in you that you should defer to other people, even to your own peril. I think they meant well, but sometimes, I wish you were just you."

At first, I was rather taken aback. I am, after all, quite proud of my parents for the childrearing job they did on me, and I'm happy to be their son.

Still, it comes back to haunt me.

Leafing through my e-mails today, I let myself go through a lot of the stuff that Rick had written me back in September and October, and a lot of emotions I thought I'd filed away for posterity came rushing back.

They came back harder after I admitted to Mike a few days ago that I am still as passionate about Rick as I was back when I was freshly infatuated with him. Mike's response hit me like a ton of bricks:

"Did you ever visit Rick again after that?"

That's when I realized that I'd deferred, that I'd assumed that Rick had just made the decision, that it was too impractical, too improbable, and that he had made impossibility a foregone conclusion.

And he may have. I'm too ashamed to ask Rick that. (I'm afraid of the answer I might get. After all, he is seeing someone right now.)

But the poignance of the response was chilling--here I had dismissed a possibility such that I never pursued it. I never gave it a second thought.

I guess it doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure Rick's long over whatever happened back then.

I should get the clue when emotional phrases are totally ignored, and my (admittedly, rather meek) requests to talk on the phone get denied.

I missed out on the greatest guy ever, because I didn't fucking take the initiative to pursue it, the way I should have, even if it meant doing stupid things like spending lots of money on plane tickets, or moving to the other side of the country.

Not like I haven't spent money before. Not like I haven't moved before.

But that's history now. I don't think I can do much about it.

But I still feel as intensely as I did, now seven months later.

What do I do?

Yes, my undoing someday will be that I was never able to ask for that which I loved, because I was worried that it was improper for me to do so, or that whatever I was asking for was, by default, meant for someone else, and that I had to honor that foregone conclusion.

And so I missed out on the greatest guy ever. And here I am.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It's simple.

• Kink the hose on the washer.
• Wash a comforter, and then have the poor washer try to spin a full load of comforter plus water.
• Have said washer partially succeed, and spin most of the water up over the top of the machine.
• Un-kink the hose, mop-up the pool on the floor, and you're done!

Oops...

Beck, I know what you mean, and I initially (at least) agree with you about the whole way you and I tend to fall in love with people, and the way we usually push as hard and as fast as we can to make things happen, so that we can feel the amount of drama we need to feel in order to, well, feel alive, I guess.

Thing is, it's been almost seven months since I first felt this way.

I'm pretty sure I'm not a stalker. No clandestine plane tickets so that I can lurk in the backyard or the windows. No incessant love-notes and candy. Frankly, a good deal of shame for still feeling this way.

What's wrong with me?

Or is this so persistent because this is how you're supposed to feel for someone--the way that ends up lasting by default, not because you shove everything you can into the fireplace to keep the fire from dying?

Jesus, I'm so confused. Once again, I need answers, and I can neither ask for them, nor can I provide them to myself.

The part of me that hopes has gone runaway, and the part of me that is the pragmatist has given up trying to talk sense.

When I first started working at Intuit for QuickBooks support, they had a brilliant training program, staffed by amazing people, who had an incredible knack for communicating both technical information (needed for troubleshooting the software), and interpersonal skills (needed for soothing angry customers, and calming them down enough to let the aforementioned troubleshooting process begin).

They also had another brilliant idea in place--support plans.

By far, the largest call volume at the technical support center was from support plans. Support plans were great--people called-in, you talked to them until their issue was fixed (or until you could feasibly shoo them off the phone to try something lengthy and arduous that didn't require your constant attention), and life went on. A ten-second survey followed.

Support plans were relatively stress-free. Aside from the efficiency metrics that drove you to chronicle what you were doing while you did it (and avoid sucking-up large amounts of time doing it after the call), it was positively painless. If things really frigged-up, you escalated it to someone who knew what they were doing. Ninety percent of the time, you could handle it, because even if you weren't tremendously good at spotting typical problems early on, you had the time you needed to work through them methodically, and resolve them completely.

Life was good. Days were long (there is nothing like getting a call in the queue at 5:57 when you're supposed to log-out and go home at 6), but overtime was appreciated. All-in-all, no big whoop, and the employee cafeteria had good food. (They even had beer busts, and trust me, you haven't lived until you've tried to take a support call after a couple of Fat Tires. Actually, it kind of helps.)

Then, as it is wont to do, change found its way to the Intuit tech support center. Increasingly, software companies began to realize that it was a massive pain in the ass to supply technical support to customers who didn't read the manual, and who couldn't be persuaded to search for resolutions to their issues in the online help. It also became apparent that staffing such places with living, breathing people always cost the company money, regardless of how much or how little those people were utilized.

Yes, the realization came to Intuitville that tech support was a cost-center.

Bummer.

Two strategies were employed to try and rectify the situation. One was improved efficiency metrics--a standard practice nowadays. Software checks your phone to make sure you're spending maximum time doing what you're supposed to be doing, and moreover, doing as much of it as possible. Long calls penalized you--hence the urgency in getting the customer off the line. (Although fate did have a sense of humor, and on slow days, shoving someone off to try a knowledgebase article on their own occasionally had the karmic backwash of the person calling back and landing right back on your phone.) Long periods of time with your thumb up your ass also penalized you. When at work, work, and work a lot.

No surprises (or frankly, even disagreements) there.

However, the second strategy was nefarious, and--at least in my biased mind--ill-concieved.

Intuit's support center used to have a dedicated team of professional support engineers who did nothing but field incremental-billing calls.

"Incremental billing," by the way, is the polite way of referring to those folks unfortunate enough to not have a support plan. Either it's too expensive of an investment, or they have a one-time problem that's severe enough to warrant calling-in, or...whatever. You get the idea.

These are the people who just keyed in their Visa card number for twenty minutes of technical-support lovin', and they are a curious and intoxicating combination of pissed at the software, stressed about the time it will take to resolve their issue, frustrated with having been charged to fix something that the software clearly messed up, and furious at the fact that, regardless of the outcome, it will cost them money.

They have one eye trained on a stopwatch, and the instant it clicks to twenty minutes, the phrase "I need to speak to your manager" will spill forth from their lips.

Steeled to the marrow with that much emotion, frustration, and nervousness, it's no wonder that these folks were just not ready to either be thoughtful or cooperative as support customers.

The incremental-billing team was composed of people who were lightning-fast, ultra-efficient, and above all else, able to convince the customer that A) yes, they really had resolved the issue, and B) yes, they had done it all in less time than was even needed. Hooray! High-speed gratification at its finest.

They were familiar with smooth-talking and scripts, with knowledgebase articles and e-mail support. They could boot you out with a URL link and three easy steps to follow, so that you could fix your own damned problem, and never call back. Most importantly, you sure as hell were not talking to anybody's manager.

The IB folk were a breed apart. They were like Navy Seals, or Army Rangers, or any one of another corps of elite people who do one thing, and do it really, really well.

Unfortunately, Intuit felt that it was a good idea to dissolve that team, and make incremental billing everyone's issue.

The thought process behind it was probably sound--in theory, it would make everyone faster (because you'd need to be to survive IB calls), and that improved speed would propagate out to all support calls in general, plan-based, IB, or otherwise.

In theory.

Roll that up into a ball, and unleash it on the entire support staff, and you have what happened next.

In practice, IB calls frustrated and tired everyone. While hanging out in the call queue, you just prayed that you didn't get an IB call, because--unless it was dead simple--it was going to be disastrous. Most support plan-trained engineers, who had been told to plod along and meticulously document everything, and trace it out in the knowledgebase software, couldn't deal with the breakneck speed of IB calls. By the time they were getting a handle on what was really happening with the customer's software, the customer was already ready to kill them and give the support tech's manager a piece of their mind.

It was shortly after the unveiling of this concept that I tossed-in the towel at Intuit, which was--frankly--not long after I had started.

That decision haunted me for the longest time--was I a wuss? Was I just young, and inexperienced, and being impulsive?

Shouldn't I have stuck it out, and seen if things would have changed?

Fortunately, I came back to the tech industry after a brief segue in retail, and armed with the experience of a lot of diverse encounters and equally diverse working environments, I am here to tell you this unequivocally:

No.

What happened at Intuit internally is, fundamentally, the state of mind with respect to customers and IT support staff these days. It's the paradigm we've adopted.

The cake, and the go-ahead to eat it too, has been handed--fork, saucer, and all--to the IT customer, and they are still chowing down on it.

To be succinct, the IT service provider and the IT customer are locked in a ballet of opposing forces.

The service provider wants to help, and (at least, usually) genuinely wants to provide not only good service, but well thought-out avenues of growth.

The IT customer wants to grow, and exist, and frolic, and do it all as smoothly and seamlessly as possible.

There are challenges that divide these visions, however.

First of all, the IT customer not only wants to do what they do, but do it according to their game plan. They want maximum support at minimum expense, and with minimal intrusiveness. All of that is able to be realized, but as with anything in live, there is a corresponding cost to committing to a course of action. You want to do whatever, whenever, and be left alone? Okay, but that means that you can't screw with your computer, or the server, or the equipment that services both. You are free to work within your sphere of influence, and you are not allowed to frig with things outside of that sphere.

The idea of this relationship is to let the IT provider handle the strings behind the scenes, and keep everything flowing as best it can in the foreground--which is the part the IT customer sees and interacts with.

The problem, of late, is that everyone is a tech expert. Everyone knows little tricks--restart the program, reboot the computer, unplug the switch. They don't know what it really does--they just know that it generally does something, which has the desired effect. Empowered with this savvy knowledge, users no longer feel compelled to check-in with the folks who know what's going on, and they screw themselves into oblivion, when a simple check-in early on might resolve issues before they became horrific and complex.

Beyond user impunity, powered by faux-knowledge, there is the problem of cost. Now that companies are leaning on their users not to pester the IT folk (because it costs money when they do), the resulting behavior is a deep, inner desire on the part of the users (or more accurately, the middle-management) to handle everything themselves. So they try, but invariably fail, and the IT folk are kept on reserve so that they can un-fuck the fuckups as they arise.

Again, simple, easily prevented oopsies are displaced by more complicated clusterfucks that are far more difficult to untangle later on, usually in the absence of any intelligent information regarding what the hell happened in the first place.

Better still, IT customers feel compelled to withhold knowledge about what happened.

"I don't know."
"It worked yesterday."
Or, my perennial favorite: "It stopped working after you updated it."

Something in this pattern has to give, if the world's users are to ever make peace with the people who support them.

I feel like it's a simple breakdown in the modus operandi that our parents implored us to adopt--if it's not yours, don't mess with it; if you make a mistake, ask for help; if it's your fault, be honest, apologize, and ask what you can do to make it right.

I am, of course, hopeless to think that this kind of simple logic will ever prevail in the realm of IT customers. The merging of empowerment with technological self-awareness has removed the previously present (and healthy) respect that end-users had for technology. Nowadays, it's all about doing it yourself, both as a matter of personal pride (and prowess), and because it's cheaper when you don't ask for help.

Nevertheless, in closing, I cite a particular example of this penny-wise and pound-foolish behavior: Would you do your own hair? Perform your own surgery?

It's all a matter of degree. And the sooner the end-user acknowledges the difference between a technological hangnail and open-heart surgery, the better it will be for all of us.

You may detect bifurcated bitching on my part, and at first blush, you'd be right. After all, why did I spend the first half of this pointing out that people needed to think for themselves, and be cool about it, when I spent the second half berating those users who were just a little too motivated to work with everything themselves?

The answer lies in degree. It's just as irritating to support personnel when someone is hopelessly needy and won't learn how to read simple documentation, as it is when they pretend to be power-users and simply leave a swath of destruction in their wake. The answer lies in splitting the difference--do what you can, and when you have exhausted the instructions in help and can't go further, raise your hand.

It sounds simple, but it apparently is beyond the capability of the world at large right now. (What's funny, in the end, is that I've done it myself--destroyed things by playing, when I should have called it a day and called-in a lifeline. But hey, it made the lesson all the more personal--and has solidified my aforementioned beliefs even further.)

We used to pray for grandiose things, like "please make me successful" or "please help me finish this college degree."

Now, we pray for more obtainable things, like "please get me through this freaking day."

Hail, Saint Tanya, patron saint of the relationship-frigtarded.

I pray to thee, for I am awash in my confusion, and I look to thee to set me back upon the path of righteousness.

I mean, to get me back on the path. Not set me back. You know what I mean.

I've done so much talking with my friends, but never have I felt more in a state of flux. As I was relating to Ken today, there is so much in motion and undergoing change right now--my job, my romantic life, my sense of self and my reflections upon how I've behaved and the choices I've made--that I don't have any stationary points from which to gather a compass bearing.

No, Rick, I don't have GPS, either. "At your earliest possible opportunity, please make a U-turn."

Thus, the sentiment of the moment is one of constantly adjusting and readjusting to try and behave, and decide, and emote appropriately, and it's just the damned truth that none of it is coming together for me.

Ten years ago, freshly ensconced in my emotional-developmental stages, I would have found an explanation that came to two straightforward conclusions:

• It was not my fault; it was an unfortunate assemblage of circumstances as presented to me by life, the cosmos, and everything, and
• I am fundamentally a good person.

At first glance, those don't seem to be earthshaking observations. I mean, most of us blame misfortune on the path of fate and the random nature of life, and it seems like a fairly inarguable assertion. That, and the belief--the credo--that my structure and substance as a human being was crafted initially in pristine state, and only modified, diminished, or sullied with time--seemed plausible enough. Rather like the soul, in fact--initially clean and pure, and only greyed with the dinge of intentional and dishonorably motivated mishaps and wrongdoing over time.

Nowadays, I'm not so sure.

I was talking on the phone with Beck last night, and we simultaneously (as always) reached the conclusion that, just perhaps, our assumptions about us both as individuals may, in fact, be somewhat flawed.

More accurately, two blind people leading each other around do not, necessarily, contribute anything more valid to the sum of their shared observations. Instead, they just make many more observations, and operate from the same perennial, imperfect paradigm.

More precisely, two incorrect observations do not combine to create one correct observation.

To make a long story short, we're both just very doubtful of how cocksure we can be when everything that we have tried, that we know, and that felt like part of who we are has failed to deliver that which we have sought.

Whatever that is.

Beck went for the jugular. "You know, we both have this love affair with the idea of the instantaneous romance, of the preassigned lover from the cosmos whom we have sought so long and so desperately, and for whom we have suffered the slings and arrows of countless fruitless romances.

"In fact, we are delighted and surprised when the 'right person' finally comes along, because the whole process leading up to our identification of this 'right person,' has, of course, felt exactly the same."

Exactly the same as the previous, oh, ten or so "right" people, who just didn't pan out. (Only the next person will be different.)

"The idea," Beck reminded me, "is to fall in love with someone as fast as possible, and to do whatever we can to grease the wheels, to get them to capitulate and reciprocate in due form."

Only, you know, perfectly.

Okay, so I know I've got a problem. I know I'm not 100% all right in my psychology. Moreover, part of the charm of the relationship that Rick (here in Greenbrae, Rick) and I have is that--whenever he annoys me--it's such a product (and such an obvious product) of a very similar psychology to mine that I can't be angry with him. Instead, all I can do is hem and haw, and be a little in awe, and a little adoring of him, because I know I'd act exactly the same way.

In its own right, that's a little relieving.

Today was a superstar rockathon of psychological warfare, though. It was a real test.

We went to brunch for the birthday of one of our friends. Initially, only Rick and I were invited, but then I spilled the beans to Frank, since I figured (completely automatically, and without a second thought) that he was invited and going, too. Only, he hadn't been, and even though my friend was immensely gracious and thereafter extended the invitation to Frank and Will (the initial withholding of the invite had been purely to keep Rick and me from feeling awkward, which I appreciate, even though I had never expected such a thing in the slightest), my massive powers of fuckupability were firmly established.

Sigh.

Let's backtrack a moment and note that, Thursday, I had the day off work for my birthday. I decided to be-bop online and see what was going on, to see if there was someone fun to talk to as I laid in bed and did the best of nothing really.

Lo and behold, Will was online.

Keep in mind, I'm used to being civil with my exes, even being friends with them. I'm an idiot in this case, though, because I'm expecting civility and friendliness too soon. After all, my relationship with Will was my longest-running relationship to date--three years--and you don't shut that off like a light without significant consequences and long-lingering repercussions.

Will was concise. "I need a friend."

I mulled it over. I always try to be a friend, but my mind wandered off to do a quick (if dirty and uncalled-for) analysis of what might have precipitated this statement. With Will, nothing happens without a reason. My first instinct was, "Okay, what do you need?"

I was right on the money. "I have to get a doctor's note because i have the flu, and have missed three days of work, and if I don't go to the doctor and get a note, I'll lose my job."

Gulp, I thought. The point of no return, and I pole-vaulted over. Or, more precisely, I'm a sucker for this sort of thing. Not like I couldn't say "no," but I can't. You know?

I got cleaned up and drove into town, now accepting of the fact that I was going to blow a perfectly good day off waiting around in medical institutions. I at least was cheered by the fact that I'd be spending the day with Will, and that socializing would be fun. In spite of ourselves, we tend to default to a very comfortable mode of banter and tomfoolery.

When I arrived, Will was analyzing the bus schedule, to see how soon we needed to walk out the door.

"Oh, one other favor I need to ask of you, and I'm sorry to spring this on you like this. I need you to pay for the doctor's visit. It's about $250."

I'm not hurt by the idea of spending money on someone I care about...though, I do have to say, a little honesty up-front might have saved a lot of damage to Will's integrity later on. Nevertheless, slightly bewildered, I agree, because, well, it's what you do for someone you care for.

In my psychology, anyhow.

We went to the doctor's office, and I paid. Then we went to Walgreens afterward, so he could get his medicines and start feeling better, and I paid for them, too, out of pocket, because his insurance was fouled-up.

A banner day. Doctor's visit: $250. Medicine: $125. Spending a nice day with Will: Priceless.

Factor all this in, and then factor in what happened next.

We went back to the apartment, and he checked his bank account. He stood-up in a panic--he was overdrawn, and needed to get money in the bank in the next thirty minutes in order to not get charged a fee.

So, we ran down to the Safeway in the Castro, and he Coinstarred a ton of pocket change, and deposited the proceeds into his bank account.

We again returned to the apartment, whereupon he thanked me, told me he'd always love me, burst into tears, then kicked me out by asking me to "Seriously, please leave."

I cried on the drive home. They were mixed tears, tears of pain from feeling as though I had forever hurt Will, and something as beautiful as the friendship we shared could never again take hold, because my own evil nature would forever fuck things up. They were also tears of confusion, from trying to do the right thing, and then being rebuffed so constantly.

Above all else, they were tears of sorrow for being my parents' child, a child whom they saw as beautiful and the culmination of their dreams, but I knew that I was, in fact, dreadfully imperfect.

I cite the evidence. If, as they posited, I was such a good person, then how could these events keep playing out the way they did?

Hard to say. I'm still working on that one.

Fast forward to today's brunch. Will and Frank did come, and were, as expected, uncomfortable with Rick's presence. I can't blame them, though I am a little irked at Will, since he said he wanted to meet Rick over lunch at someplace socially light, like at a restaurant.

What killed me, though, was that Will didn't even say good-bye to me. He shook Rick's hand and said good-bye to him.

So, I'm only good for anything when I've got a chunk of free credit, and when that's not the case, or when you need nothing from me, then I'm the scum on the soles of your shoes?

Simply amazing. I don't know what surprises and hurts me more--the idiocy of my pandering to Will's needs at the expense of my own, or the idiocy of expecting to be treated decently after-the-fact.

Or, maybe, the sense of injustice that comes from wanting to be treated like a respected human being by someone who, I guess, has no need to respect me.

Like I said, so much in motion, that I can't even get bearings enough to develop a sense of self.

Rick and I spoke at length about what happened today, and I was forthright in my misgivings over many subjects. It was a good talk, but I still don't feel any closer to understanding myself...

Breaking up with someone with whom you've spent three-plus years of your life causes a shockwave effect that differs significantly from those shorter-term relationships that you end on your own.

Instead of feeling liberated, or great, or whatever, it just vaults you into a realm of existence where you continue onward as just-you, minus the familiar.

There is so much that goes on in a relationship that we take for granted--I call it the "background note" effect. It's the overall sensation of the relationship, from what you prefer to do with your time, and how often you actually accomplish that, to everything you accept as your normal daily routine. When you break-up with the person with whom you created those routines and cycles, it leaves you feeling very disjointed indeed.

Will and I are still at a total loss for how to behave around each other. On the one hand, conditions are, well, strange, because we don't really have a relationship with each other anymore. I mean, we do, because we know each other, and have a basis of familiarity, but we don't now exactly what that entails now, nor how familiar we can really be with each other.

What behaviors do we indulge in? Do we dare laugh and be-bop around with each other, or should we demonstrate the so-called appropriate level of scorn for how things are? Should we maintain the level of intimacy we once enjoyed, or is it no longer allowed?

Part of the issue is that there is nothing that specifies how we should behave, either way. Technically, we could be happy with each other, like we want to, but indulging in letting our hair down tends to come perilously close to reopening old wounds. Get too comfortable, and you might scratch an old itch until it bleeds. Evenings that started out easygoing have tended to end-up in tears, and I feel badly about that.

Still, I'm puzzled. I know I have an inherent defect in my personality. I know that I tend to expect people to continue to be friends with me even when circumstances change drastically in my life or their lives (or both), and I'm starting to realize that that expectation may not be reasonable. More specifically, I see how tortured Will gets as the day goes on, and I'm beginning to realize that Frank may be right--I may just need to not spend time with him. As much as we like and enjoy each other, maybe the damage is too great for this relationship to continue. Maybe, peace is exactly that for which we should be shooting.

Having my visit with Will end disastrously yesterday (after initially being called-over by him to take him to the doctor, and to the pharmacy, and pay for both, thank-you-very-much, which is not Will's fault [long story], but it does add to the drama, I suppose), it occurred to me that this has happened to me so frequently of late that I must have found a fundamental defect in the way I am.

I don't know what it is, but I have a suspicion. I'll have to work on it. In any case, I've never felt so low, so unhappy, and so repulsed by people I thought were friends. Something must be wrong here. Something requires repair. Now, I have to dig around in the cold and the dark to figure out where the bare wires are.

I haven't even heard from Roger since mid-January, and he doesn't return my calls.

Yeah, I must have fucked up something fierce.

You know, I didn't really want to go through life endearing myself to people, then breaking their hearts.

I'm starting to get the impression, though, that prevention of the former automatically prevents the latter...and even though it goes against my character to do that, it may be the best course of action, especially if it is indeed my character that is suspect.

Why, oh why, could I not have turned out to be normal?

This was the signature on one of my friends' e-mails. It's a classic, and I needed to share.

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
-- Douglas Adams

*LOL*

I'll drink to that.

I've been marveling at Rick.

The other day, on a lark, I set-up our forty-or-so gallon aquarium at long bitter last, since it had languished, empty, next to the television since I've moved in. (Rick noted that it has, in fact, languished ever since he moved from Fairfield two years ago.)

We went to Wal-Mart (of course) and bought some aquarium rocks, and filled it up with water. I cleaned and assembled the filter-pump, gussied-up the glass, and got everything copacetic for future habitation by fishies.

I explained to Rick that fish are delicate, that new water is icky, and full of chloramines/organic compounds/gack that needs to degas from the water itself, and furthermore, that the water needs time (and additives) to, well, crossmojonate and become the sort of relaxed, groovy water into which you want to stick living creatures.

He's so cute. It was like watching a six-year-old salivate over the presents under the tree, as Christmas came ever-nearer, but not quickly enough.

Every evening, he'd look at the brilliant blue that reflected in the odd, pinkish, simulated daylight of the aquarium bulb, and the lust for what could be would play across his face.

An empty aquarium is so beautiful--just serene, clear water, playing all the hues of everything in the tank across the glass. But yes, it's pretty empty, and in terms of utility, pretty purposeless.

After a few days of staring forelornly at the tank, Rick started asking, "How long do we have to wait before we can get fish?"

Same answer as always. "Two weeks, babe."

He'd become momentarily crestfallen, then be distracted by the television, until the aquarium made its way inexorably to the forefront of his attention again.

"How long?"

"Two weeks."

*pregnant pause*

"Really?"

"Really."

If you turned the light out on the thing, it was like taking his puppy away.

"Why'd you turn the light off?"

"Because the bacteria and algae need to sleep, too. The daylight period in the aquarium should roughly match real daylight. If you leave it on all the time, the bacteria and algae go nuts, and then you end up cleaning-up after them."

"Oh."

Finally, after the fifth or so iteration of "How soon before we can get fish?" I relented, and we went to Petco to get some ichthyid companions.

I steered him to the goldfish and tetras, since they're the most indestructible. He was thrilled, he was awed by the colors, and he was, above all else, curious to know what appealed to me, in addition to whatever interested and inspired him.

"Which kind do you like? I like the tetras. Get one that you like. How many can we get, anyway?"

He never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes, I get frustrated, because he does have his moments when he gets focused--really focused--and becomes sort of self-absorbed. I start to get irritated after a while, because I feel--hopefully correctly--like I have tasks of importance as well, and an agenda that I need to keep.

Usually that agenda involves housecleaning, but hey. It's an agenda.

But then I realize that being depressed and bittersweet about life and its events is its own sort of self-absorption, and that I'm no more entitled to stick to my guns than he is, or that is to say, that I suppose we both share that entitlement.

It is, at least, good to be in a position where life is a learning process again. I was starting to feel as though I had learned all I could, and it made life feel very one-dimensional and unpromising.

There's something that inspires me about a man who still gets a six-year-old's sense of wonder about anything in life. (About the only item that provokes a similar response in me is an iPhone, and even then, I'm pretty much over that by now.)

There's something amusing, and oddly delightful, about someone who has such--I don't know--realistic measures of his success in life. Get and keep a job. Eat decent food. Work out at the gym. Play softball, excel at it, then have sex afterwards because sports get you horny.

Here I am, waxing philosophical about life, the universe, and everything. Waxing because life is unfair, love is unfair, the world is unfair, and everything I ever dreamed of, in all its complexity, never really did manifest itself out of the ether as I'd hoped.

The thought hit me today, as I was missing Rick, the other Rick in North Carolina. And I do miss him, and I mourn the fact that I'm probably not even a dot on his radar screen in terms of appropriate partner material, but that--to me--he's the most complete representation of "perfect" that I've ever found. He gets flattered; he gets flustered, and he says I don't see the warts beneath the apparently flawless exterior. Thing is, I haven't found a wart yet--I just find everything that I miss, and I find that being in his company, and talking with him, is like enjoying a spontaneous sunny day no matter where I am. Time with Rick feels warm and comfortable, like a well-worn jacket, traced with the scent of a familiar and bittersweet cologne.

Why do I keep feeling this way, so one-sidedly? Why do I keep reiterating the way I feel, when the window of "Who gives a fuck" has so solidly passed?

Argh.

That aside--that shoved to the corner for the moment, because I doubt I'll ever reconcile it--Rick (here, Rick) is a thing of beauty. He's wonderful, and kind, and makes the most structured effort I've ever seen to be fair and do right by others. Like me, he makes errors of judgment; he sometimes underestimates how much time it takes to do all the things he wants to do. Sometimes he robs Peter to pay Paul, making too many commitments, then having to decide which are the least disappointing if he fails to honor them.

Sometimes I end up writing-off those commitments, or more accurately, I end up being the one written off, because I am the most constant object around, and it can generally be assumed that I'll still be there regardless.

Sometimes that hurts, and sometimes I'm offended by it, but more often than not, I'm surprised by how much I understand the psychology. It's almost aggravating--to watch something unfold, and contemplate raising a protest, and then realize that it's totally something you'd do, anyway.

After all, it's the psychology I share. In the greatest sense, it's the ultimate blessing and the ultimate curse, and sometimes, I think I hear a glint of knowing laughter in Will's echo:

Next time, I hope you end up in a relationship with someone exactly like you.

Welcome to Reno, Nevada.

A few miles past Tahoe, and an hundred miles from ordinary.

There's a reason why they chose this as the backdrop for something as real and compelling as Reno: 911!

We departed from San Francisco just after five, and embarked on one of those trademark Nor-Cal trips up freeways that never flow freely even at 2 a.m. Lurching along, I admired Rick's tenacity of faith:

• "It gets better once you get past Texas Street..."
• "Once it goes to two lanes up here, everything should speed up..."
• "Oh, it goes faster right after the twelve-D exit."

I personally don't think that Exit 12-D does, in fact, exist. I admire the sentiment, however, and in a sense, I grok with that. I too know how to get through life on a diet of strings and levers, and smoke and mirrors, all concocted and coordinated to make life still feel pretty and worth living, even when it's not going so well.

Whether that's on the metaphorical freeway or the actual one.

Anyhow, Reno.

We pull up to the casino, much like the others, desperate in their dreams of growing-up to someday be like Vegas, even though Vegas isn't much like Vegas anymore, and just mostly aspires to become Disneyland with tits.

We are the representatives of the white-trash elite: Four threadbare gits with frequent-gambler cards fully loaded, rolling-up in a Saturn Vue with over an hundred thou on the odometer, clunking and buzzing its way onto the scene, covered with enough of the patented California freeway water/mud mist from the last few weeks' rains that the only clean and non-matte spots on the car are the sweeps of the windshield wipers front and back.

Yes, Reno, we have arrived. Better still, we have disembarked the Bentley in the valet lane of the hotel, where--I'm sure--the valets thrill at the chance to pilot a Vue with trash piled up to one's ankles snugly into a protected, enumerated spot right between a Mercedes SLK and an Aston Martin Vanquish.

To add to the effect of dignity, composure, and couture we waddle into the lobby, bleary-eyed and tired, since it's 11:30 at night. (Rick shares my excessively optimistic time-estimating tendencies.) We're dissheveled and dragging oodles of mismatched luggage across marbled floors, and our mottled faces are made grotesque by the hodgepodge of neon lights and blinking gaming consoles.

Nevertheless, my colleagues are getting everything comped, because the composure does not speak to the man, and we are, apparently, the Whiskey-Tango High Rollers.

Keycards in hand (along with a ridiculous, impossible-to-hide heart-shaped box of Valentine's candy, because Rick and I figured it would be a good weekend to lay around and eat chocolate, but we don't need to advertise that fact to the world), we enter our rooms; the others wander off to gamble, and I wander off to check my eyelids for light leaks.

I don't gamble. I never have. The only significant memory I have of wagering anything was sticking a nickel in a slot machine in Vegas when I was there with Beck and Sheila, and being excited because I got five nickels back. That was it; that was the winning streak. I cashed-out and kept my winnings close at hand. You never know who might cut you for your hard-won twenty-five cents.

I don't know why I never succumbed to the thrill of pissing money away. Maybe I'm too practical; maybe I'm too insecure to allow myself the luxury of money to burn. Whatever the case, not a solitary cent has left my pocket and entered the coffers of this casino, much to its indubitable chagrin. I don't know. I was happier getting high on weed and hitting the Strip after midnight in Vegas, too stoned or drunk to do anything but appreciate the surroundings. I was more delighted by the then-testing of the dancing waters of the Bellagio, and hearing Frank Sinatra belt "Luck, be a Lady Tonight" from unseen speakers than I ever was to set foot inside the property when it later opened.

I have many ways to lose money in real life that don't involve lousy excuses like, "Well, it just wasn't my night." Please. If I need to liquidate cash, I have a Cadillac and credit cards, and I can do lots more with either than plant my ass in front of a slot machine.

That, and if you don't smoke, then gambling still isn't your scene. It's just like bars. Let's be real--what made bars fun was getting tanked and smoking. Cigarettes and alcohol are like chocolate and strawberries--it's a natural pairing. So it goes with gambling. Nothing teams up with brain apathy and money-loss quite like drinking and lighting up.

As for apathy, it's one of the primary reasons I come to these places. (The other reasons are the buffets, but we'll get to that.) Everything here is such a study of human psychology--the garish environment that horrifies you so much that you have no choice but to focus on things that don't drive you batty--namely, food and slot machines. The constant, tweedling, electronic twaddle of music that throbs and pulses in the background, from thousands of tiny electronic devices singing in completely dissonant--but oddly concordant--unison. Walking through the casino pits makes you feel like you're fighting truth serum or anesthetic gas--your brain simply wants to succumb to the sleepy, warm thrum of a chair and a slot machine. Everything else assaults your senses and drives you away.

If you're not busy losing money, you must be here to eat. We've focused on making that our goal, since Rick lost his gambling allotment during the wee hours of that first evening of our arrival. Penniless to piss it away, we sit and eat, and eat more, and make comments about the quality. It's all there--American, Italian, Chinese, and Mexican. Breakfast to dinner, infinite supply, plus dessert. Somehow, though, it must taste better when you're gambling and/or winning; the food seems a little flat when it's all that there is to absorb your attention. Nevertheless, it's a hotel, and when matched with a buffet, it's a life cycle: Eat, then nap; nap until you're hungry, then eat; overeat again, then go back to bed.

Personally, I think it'd be a great way to kill yourself.

During the in-between time, when we either snack on Valentine's chocolates, or fart and excuse ourselves after eating some particularly odd food combinations for lunch, or have sex for something to do because TV is bad, we watch MTV's dating reality shows, and enjoy absorbing the fact that--no matter how odd or stressful or fucked-up life gets--there are worse places to be...and it's important to remember that, at least, no one is televising your misery. It's still mostly manageable, and almost entirely yours.

Like I said, it's all about leveraging the positive in life, even when it's ridiculous.

Rick and his mom are off exploring another casino, because she still has money. When he gets back, it'll have been more than three hours, so--you guessed it--it'll be time to eat again. The fact that I'm strangely curious and excited by the culinary prospects of what we might find at the buffet downstairs is telling, and maybe, in a sense, it's kind of sad. One part of me feels like this is a new low, and yet, another part of me thrills at laying around and eating, because we just don't do it anymore.

When was the last time you truly reveled in a sunbeam, or just didn't do something because you didn't have to do anything, and what's more, you didn't give a fuck?

It felt great, didn't it?

Don't lie. You can tell me. You can admit it.

So tell me this: Why do we work so hard to find something to do? Why, if we don't have anything going on, do we mop the floor, or rearrange the refrigerator, or shampoo the carpets?

Must we have something to do at all times to make our existences meaningful?

Or, by virtue of the fact that we exist at all, and take up space, can't we just take comfort in that, even if we never make it obvious that the space we took-up was worthwhile?

I think it's time to think outside the box.

Tomorrow, we'll head home, and reclaim the WhiteTrashMobile in all its dingy glory, complete with ink-stain on the front seat. It will buzz and clunk and deliver us safely back to the bailiwick of our normalcy, and we will, once again, embrace our lives in full, and be responsible with them.

Even so, I now see the magic of tits, and chips, and lights, and food, and smokes: It's the chance to wallow in everything we should not be doing and should not be enjoying, and the chance to really do, and enjoy, it.

Hedonism has a place in everyone's life.

Find yours.

This is the last time I'm going to reflect on this, both because I feel like it's kicking a dead horse, and because I've simply run out of energy to talk any more about it.

I've spent so much time documenting my thoughts in this journal as pure thoughts--a sort of ongoing, evolving philosophy of self, with the (I assume) purported desire to grow. Learn. Improve. Change. Something.

And, as I know you know, above it all, I held hope in the highest.

It all became a sort of big diatribe on a soliloquy overarching a thesis comprised of hypothesis derived from nothing-in-particular.

Today, at least for that part, I lay it to rest.

I don't have anything more to say. Not because I think that I'm wrong, or irrelevant; instead, I'm somewhere between tired, and at peace. Mostly tired, but very Zen.

You can talk all you want about the things in life in which you believe, but at least for me, it's felt like a machination of odds-and-ends, hastily constructed, and held up quickly and flinchingly for the approval of others. "Here, look at this, isn't this brilliant? THIS is what I thought-up today--all by myself! Aren't I smart?"

Only, I'm not.

Twenty-nine years, and I'm no closer to smarter than I was when I started pursuing this whole thing called life (in earnest) eleven years ago.

I am more refined. I am slightly less Pollyannaesque. But I'm not a whole lot more evolved.

All this time, and all I've been doing is finding better ways to say the same thing, so that I feel better about myself, and hopefully sound smarter to others.

All this time, and the image in the mirror doesn't match what's making the reflection.

So, let's whittle it down for posterity, and if it's a final message, let's make it a good one:

I'm still me, I'm still pretty much alone, only one person really understands, and she knows it.

I'm tremendously average while appearing intelligent; my only superpower in this life is recognizing patterns, and I use that to do everything from making paintings, to selecting spaghetti sauce in the grocery store, to troubleshooting computers so that I can eat and have a place to live.

And that's it.

Anything else is an offshoot of a hope or a dream, or a self-perceived something-or-other, the way that Walter Mitty is a surgeon, and I am an extraordinary person.

There's only one thing I truly want, and I will never be able to have it. And in that special, bittersweet way, life is really just a J.C. Penneys, full of everything you need to make it, but forever out of the things that are in your size.

Maybe if I'd spend more time living in life, and not my beautiful snowglobe facsimile of it, I'd catch on a little faster.

We'll see how it goes. In any case, I'm done drawing pretty flowers with crayons for now. The winter has come. My imagination is tired.

Flap your arms as hard as you want...you are never going to fly--no matter how much your heart or your hope tells you otherwise.

In that, there is only the certainty of today, of the moment, and of the now; of the ripple that just made its way across the lake, or the breath of wind that made you feel momentarily cold, or momentarily warm, or momentarily exhilarated, as you sensed the planet awakening around you.

There is only what we are offered, and what we accept--or what we walk right on by, ignorant of its beauty by chance or by choice.

There's just whatever happens in those twenty-four hours of every day, and everything else is so much projection and expectation and ado about nothing.

So, I guess my big, encompassing thought is: Enjoy it now. As Roger would say, "Life is not a dress rehearsal."

As to the specifics, they are like Santa Claus and stardust: Potent in their message and symbolism, but formless in their truth.

In the end, I guess, that's okay.

But it sure has been fun to pretend to be a philosopher.

Further proof that you can't have it all in life. Or, more accurately, that happiness is forever counterbalanced by unhappiness.

Rick found out today that he didn't get his regional contract renewed, which means that he basically loses his job in a month.

To say that this is horrific news is an understatement; if I can be selfish for a moment, then add to that the fact that I *just* finished moving everything to our new place, and you can see where I'm at. The fucking-unfair nature of the universe is creeping up my last nerve in a big way today.

There will be much to figure out. What do we do? Does he hope for a new job with his company somewhere else? Or does he cut bait and look for something else here? Can he find something here that will pay the bills? If he goes somewhere else, where will I go? What are our future intentions if that happens--do I plan on moving elsewhere to follow? Do we just try to keep things going through a sort of long-distance relationship?

Obviously, I'm now kind of imperiled for a place to live. I'll find something, but considering a 9 x 10' room rents for $410 a month here, it's not going to be pretty...and I'm not super-psyched about losing everything that just now is getting comfortable.

We'll have to see what we can do now. I'll probably have to go back to plan 'A' and liquidate the Cadillac for a song, both to get rid of it and to get some needed extra money out of it.

Funny how, when you work so hard to get everything right, you get totally hosed.

All I can figure is that I must have pissed the Gods off somehow. So, let's backtrack it--which was worse, moving to San Francisco in a shaky relationship, or leaving that relationship and working really hard to get life back on track?

It's hard to say, and hard to get a good sense of perspective right now.

All I know is that California is turning out to be a serious drag right now, and as much as I kind of don't miss it, I'm starting to miss Arizona. Monotony and lowered expectations are starting to look better than beauty surrounded by constant drama.

Life is going okay.

After feeling like the sole goal of the universe was to take away those tidbits of things that make me happy, I'm rebelling a little, just to see how it goes. I might win, or I might at least break even, but there seems to be very little to lose.

Pimpmobile

The Cadillac has been a very difficult issue. After being crushed by the fact that it needs fixing (again) to pass emissions, and then contemplating how much it'll take to get it back in good shape exterior-wise, I initially decided to sell it. "Fuck it, whatever, done with you" kind of a thing. You know.

But a combination of cooling down after the emotional waves--and the realization that this car is rather rare, and the probability of finding another in such pretty shape is close to nil--has helped clear my perspective. That, and I spent a week feeling awful about giving it up, and finding that--everyday--I was damned near moved to tears at the thought of letting it go.

I know, that's ridiculous, because it's just a material possession, but it's also 4100 pounds of sentimental value. If it was just a car that I found myself and fiddled with, I'd be bummed, but I could let it go. I've done it before; I got rid of all my washing machines, after all.

But my parents gave me this car as a Christmas present, and I think it hurts them as much to think that it all didn't work out as much as it hurts me to think that I'd disappoint them by getting rid of it, or by making them think that it evolved into some kind of cosmic millstone around my neck.

Rick and I talked and waffled at length about it, and finally decided we'll just keep it and figure out how to get it fixed. He has some mechanics that work for him who might be willing to tackle it, and I'm more at peace with the idea of just letting it be and seeing how it all turns out. Rick likes it too, and doesn't like the idea of getting rid of something that has so much potential. I like that about him, I have to say.

I'm so driven in life to be instantaneously decisive, because I've cultivated this idea that messing around and waiting-and-seeing is so somehow counterproductive. What's funny is that I hate that tendency in others, but it's one of the foremost attributes I manifest myself. Funny how that works, isn't it?

Anyhow, it's nice to have someone who likes what I have, too, and is willing to support my endeavors and maybe even willing to use what I have and help maintain it. The idea is totally foreign to me, because Will and Frank never, ever contributed toward the cost of maintaining my vehicles, even though they drove them. (Frank did occasionally buy gas, for which I give him credit, but still.)

Hobbies

This area is going surprisingly well. Though I'm sure that it's as weird as someone who collects umbrellas or jock-straps, Ryan and Rick are surprisingly tolerant of my weirdo hobbies (the house is already festooned with a vintage fan, waffle-iron, radio, and so forth).

I replaced the shitty GE dishwasher (anyone who knows me knows that it is my private and most-hateful hell to be stuck with a GE dishwasher, because they can take a load of clean dishes and still make them come out dirty) with a KitchenAid that I managed to acquire for free in Lafayette, so we may actually enjoy clean dishes someday. I also got a tiny washer from Roger that is both adorable and functional (it actually holds as much as the coin-op machines we have here, so that makes it hold its own), so I have something to play with, and some things to look forward to. It's nice. After spending so much time stuck in a relationship of pragmatism, having the space to dream and breathe is welcome.

On Rick

It's not all candy, roses, and romanticism--he has issues from past relationships, and obviously, so do I. Plus, we're in that awkward phase of homosexual sexual interactions where we haven't been tested for STDs yet, so we are both enthralled with and (obviously) turned-on by each other, but still sort of regard each other as metaphorical kryptonite. It's the thrill of "damn-I-want-you-but-um-be-careful," and it has its moments. Ever since moving to California, I've developed the ability to get nosebleeds at the drop of a hat. Don't ask me why; it's not like the air is dry here, for gosh sakes. But all I have to do is rub my nose really hard or bump it, and it's nosebleed city.

Imagine how sexy it is to get a nosebleed in the middle of sex, and then be told (after you recover) that, well, that wasn't exactly hot, and thanks, but no thanks on continuing sex for the evening. It's a unique delight to be treated like a bug for something that you really have no control over. I mean, seriously. "I'm only turned on when I bleed profusely from the nose; sorry, I know it's like totally kinky, but I can't help it."

The best obstacles to relationship bliss are the ones over which neither of you have any blame or control, but yet, they persist.

Yob

It's going well; I don't think it'll ever be anything that I truly love, or that ever gets to the point where it's on rails, but that's okay. I'm not starving and I'm not totally miserable, and based on my experiences in life heretofore, that must be good enough for most average definitions of employment.

Of course, I've never had the kind of epiphany that leads me to believe that I'll ever uncover the perfect job for me, where work feels like play and total gratification comes as part of the package. I actually wonder if that sort of employment experience is reserved for the entrepreneur or for some other kind of person (not me) who has the innate ability to meld together what they enjoy with what they do so perfectly.

Sometimes, I think the person makes the joy, rather than the person becoming joyful, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, it's time for me to head out to another meeting, but since I had a rare half-hour in which to babble, I figured I'd take advantage of it. You know, it's like a smoke-break for the soul.

Well, back to work. I hope this finds you groovy and centered.

It has been a long time since I'd felt like this.

I still regret this.

I regret it because it is easier to stay quiet, to stay in a relationship that only sort-of works, to stay complacent. Sedate. Inert.

But here I am, and it's Christmas, and I have picked the worst time of the year to start something that's going to hurt two other people a lot.

Correction--something that's going to hurt Frank, and absolutely devastate Will.

Isn't it amazing how--even with all the anger, the furor, the frustration, the hurt pride and insulted emotions, with everything that drives us to the end--it never gets any easier?

There is nothing, at present, that I want more than to back down and say "all right;" to say that everything that has been argued over and over before will simply lay itself to rest; to bow out, and say that everything that has pushed me beyond the point of no return is somehow not that bad, and probably fixable, and worth discussing, and deferring, further.

I am consumed with the desire to just let this go.

It is hard to remember why I am fighting to free myself from everything that this relationship represents. The howling aggravation over perceived grievances is now only a tiny, shaking voice in the corner of my mind, and I have to focus intensely to hear it at all--and even then, I only catch what it is saying in bits and pieces, like listening to someone speaking next to you as a jet flies overhead, where your brain takes the fragments that it thinks it hears and tries to piece them back together into something coherent, something that it assumes makes sense in the right context.

Distant whispers.

The sound that drowns everything out is the sound of Will crying, and pleading, and struggling to understand, and promising that with time, with help, with change, with counseling, things will be different.

This time, everything will be different. This time, everything will turn into something that smoothes over the sores of my psyche, something that massages away everything that has hurt me, that has cut me short, shut me down, and turned me into only a framework that once held the fullness of who I was.

Will commented that I have been gone for a long time, and that he wishes I would come back.

I told him that indeed I have been gone, and after having learned how to adapt to be maximally out of the way in this relationship, I would like to feel what it feels like to feel again, to truly be me, and to truly be with someone who loved me for everything I was, not just everything that they wanted me to be, or that I could sometimes kind-of be.

I've been here before. Will is so emotionally focused when the storm approaches and the tide rises that it never ceases to affect me, to persuade me, to amaze me. Jesus, if he'd be like this when I wasn't threatening to walk out the door, we might actually have a relationship.

I do believe he loves me. I do believe that he is this passionate. Nothing but the truth could make him cry this hard, could make him hurt this much as he runs the gamut and connects the dots between his shortcomings, my needs, his efforts, and my lack of appreciation thereof.

Why this, why now, why Christmas?

Impeccable timing. I am sorry for it, but I cannot take it back. He asked a question, and I--electing not to lie, but instead, to begin to truly speak--made a foolish decision, a policy of truth, and now there is no turning back.

My integrity, my decency, Christmas, and his heart, all wrecked and ruined and tarnished, and all my fault.

As usual, I suppose.

I am so awash in confusion, and pain, and hope, and fear, that I don't know what to think. I am on my knees, three-fourths of the way across the minefield, and I don't know how to find the strength to make it to the other side.

I could turn back, retrace my steps along the safe path of which I am certain. Or, I could press onward, and risk so very much for so comparatively little, and hope that--in the end--there is something greater than the sum of these parts.

Either way, I've never been so unsure or so alone in all my life. I've never felt so unjust in my decision to willfully hurt another human being in the name of change.

I'm so lost. I don't know now why I did this.

Three and a half years is a long time, and a heart is a very precious thing.

Am I doing the right thing? Am I really doing right by Will and Frank in the slightest?

Or have I chosen to destroy, on a whim, the lengthiest relationship I have ever had?