Have you ever heard the supposed-Italian proverb, “A bad beginning makes a bad ending”? Well. You’ve heard of it now, and it gives you a succinct understanding of where this is headed: a bad ending. (Or was it?)
Before we go any further, I wanna break my own “rule” of not saying “trigger warning.” I haven’t been around for a while, and there may be new people lurking that don’t know to expect to be triggered. Telling you now, expect it. I don’t know if it will be in this part or the next, but I will be talking about abuse (physical, psychological, emotional, sexual). I will be talking about substance abuse: i.e. alcoholism/a raging alcoholic and meth. I will be talking about severe Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). I will be talking about theft. I will be talking about infidelity. I may be talking about rape. There. That should give you at least an idea of what to expect. So move forward with caution, or not at all. Totally cool.
Happy Birthday to Me
I met Dirk (that’s his name now) the day after my birthday last year. That’s July 2017. We were supposed to meet the day before, on my birthday. He changed plans at the last second. (Red Flag #1 – don’t worry; I won’t be counting those. There aren’t enough numbers to cover them all.) He was late, and I had to wait for him. (Red Flag #2) He’d already been drinking by the time he got there. (Red Flag #3. Okay. I’ll stop. You get the point, and so did I. I just chose to ignore it.)
I was wildly uncomfortable, because it was clear, straight away, that I was on a date with someone whom was exactly opposite my personality and not at all my type. He was wild, outspoken, obnoxious, mouthy, and such a fucking bro…but also jocular, incredibly charming, and dead fucking sexy.
So I stayed. Against my better judgment, which was screaming at me and pounding away at the door to my common sense. I locked that bitch and stayed.
And So It Begins
Thus commenced the maddening, ill-fated relationship that followed. What came next was a series of random, unscheduled, nights spent together. Yeah, I’m not gonna go into detail on that. For your sake and for mine. Let’s just say, I’ve dubbed him Dirk for a reason. And so I had fun. I worked hard to separate my heart from it all and remain emotionally divested. It worked, for a time. It worked until he decided he needed to draw me closer to use and manipulate me more thoroughly and efficiently.
It went like this: Random Tuesday night, I get a call. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Random Thursday night, perhaps a week later, I get a text. Wham, bam, thank you Dirk. Perhaps a week or so would pass. I think I’ll never hear from him again. I’m strangely happy about that. Though I was having fun, his personality was so fucking intense, I could only handle it in small doses and was always relieved when he was gone. Random Saturday afternoon, I get a text. Yeah. You get the idea.
This went on for a couple of months. Until one day, the text was something like, “I miss your face. I miss your gorgeous smile and your awesome fucking giggles and your dimples. I need to see you.” (I don’t have dimples.)
Uhm. What? Really? Since when do you say shit like that…my eyebrows are raised, and I’m skeptical. But flattered. And charmed.
“I’m fucking serious! Can I come see you?”
Duh. I mean. It’s been a while at this point, and I could use another marathon Dirking. “I’m warning you if you say yes, I’m gonna stay a while.”
How long is a while?
“I dunno couple weeks”
You sure about that? Just a couple weeks?
“Yup, I gotta be on the road soon, so it can’t be longer than that.”
And so began Part 3: Cohabitation. Not trying to be all cliff-hangery, y’all. I can only handle this shit in short bursts.
So. About that four-day weekend. I kinda went crazy, y’all. I did a lot of masturdation. And you know something? I’m a damn good date.
Mkay. Let’s see. (I’m putting dates on these, because this was actually the weekend before last. And I did more shit this past weekend!)
Thursday, April 14: Sassy and Pensive
I’ve already told you about the sassy new haircut I got last Thursday. That was on the 14th. So last last Thursday. And then later, I went to the bookstore, too! And bought books!
Friday, April 15: Date with Deadpool
I’ve also already told you about the Deadpool masturdate last last Friday, so let’s move right along.
The end credits had such cute (and vulgar) graphics. This was one of the only clear snaps I could get.
Saturday, April 16: Please sir, may I have some more…books?
I found myself lying in bed. All. Fucking. Day. Around 7 P.M., I had had enough. I was angry and disappointed with myself. So I got up, took a shower, and went to the bookstore. I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go, but I knew I needed to get my pathetic ass out of the bed and move. Also. It’s always fun checking out the cute geeks in the sci-fi/fantasy/comics section. Sometimes they’re so deliciously yummy, I want to kidnap them (don’t worry; they’re adults) and do things to them. So uhm. I bought more books. Quelle surprise!
Added three more to the TBR stack!
Looking forward to reading this when time allows. Speaking of time, that’s a “pocket watch” on a chain. I wear it around my neck to remind me that time our time on this earth is finite; it is precious and I must Carpe the fucking Diem. “There’s only lifetime. GO!”
Yes, I spent too much money. This is rare for me. But when I do decide to spend on myself, it usually happens in a splurgy burst. But I at least had coupons for books! So I didn’t do so bad at the bookstore.
I also justified it by using “spending money” I had set aside for the trip that wasn’t. I wanted to treat myself after some personal shit went down. And y’all, I ain’t even done. I’m tired of being in the backseat of my life (unless, of course, someone is back there with me) (even then, maybe I want to drive for a while, damnit).
No, I didn’t buy this. But seriously? Trigger Warning? Sex Inside? There’s sex ON THE COVER. But “trigger warning”? Good fucking grief. Overuse of “trigger” shit drives me nuts. And sex? This is Cosmo, people. It’s gonna be like, “10 things to make your husband less likely to fall asleep after cumming in 3 seconds flat.” or “5 tips on how to bedazzle your vajazzle.”
Anyway. Let’s get to the park, shall we?
Sunday, April 17: Parks & Masturdation, or One if by Land, Buddha if by Trees
This dude has been driving me batshit about getting the fuck outside. I make excuses. He tells me to piss off. I make more excuses. He says so the fuck what. I say, but I hate it here. I want to be in the Pacific Northwest! He says, but you’re not in the fucking Northwest. Get out and live now. I say my foot is broken; he says piss off and go hobble.
So you know what? I fucking hobbled my ass to the park last last Sunday. And unfortunately, I have to admit that the smug fucker was right. I couldn’t do much walking. My foot is legit still broken (had new x-rays and it’s finally and slowly healing, though – NO SURGERY! NO PINS!)
Anyhoodles. Park. I got my ass up. At oh…1 in the afternoon or some shit. But I did good. I went straight to the shower then straight to the park (with an intermission for getting dressed – it’s not that kinda park).
I grabbed my book, Buddha in a Teacup (which is bullshit so far – more later), and did a little wandering. Not much, mind you. My foot wouldn’t let me forget it’s broken. I went first through the greenhouse. It was always my favorite part of the park, though they’ve let it go to shit.
Lemme share some lovelies from that day:
That was park day numberus oneicus.
Monday, April 18: Parks & Masturdation, or Making Friends and Influencing People, or A Writing Assignment
Because some little shit couldn’t be satisfied, I went to the park two days in a row. (He also says go listen to High Pass Filter right now!) And I mentioned it to someone else…all like I know I should, but I don’t wanna and he was all but you must go! And you must write something while there! No reading! Must write! These demanding asshats, I’m telling you. I did go, and I did write. But I can’t share the writing yet, as it’s to be part of a collaborative something.
Lemme share a gratuitous amount of flower piccies, and then I’ll tell you about someone I met. It was one of those moments in life when you just know. You just fucking know. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
But first. Flower porn. GASP! New word! FLORN!
Ahhhh isn’t spring glorious? I fucking love flowers. Can you tell? No? Lemme show you some more.
KIDDING. Just kidding.
Lemme tell you about Anthony now. I had been watching him, you see, crafting the beginnings of a short story based on him. He had no idea, of course. I just saw him and was inspired. I caught a glimpse of him from my table. He was down fishing off this little covered pier thingy. It showed up in the picture up there with my notepad.
I actually snuck an excellent shot of him re-baiting his hook. It was the perfect shot of him in his element, but I won’t even show my face on the blog. Not my place to show his.
Anyway, the more I wrote, the more I felt compelled to meet the real man. Not the one I was making up.
This. What I’m about to tell you about is well and truly outside of even the remotest of my comfort zones. But I felt compelled, in the truest sense. I had to meet this man.
So, for what seemed ages, I gathered my courage.
And then I gathered my things.
And then I walked down that pier.
And then, heart pounding, I spoke,
Hi! Mind if I keep you company for a bit?
It’s a public pier in a public park, but he was alone. Serene. And compared to the weekend chaos at that peer, with all the kids and geese, I figured he was probably enjoying his solitude. His communion with nature.
But he turned to me and grinned, telling me “Sure!”
So I put my things down, and he said he’d seen me writing. Asked if I was in school. Hehe. I said no; I was just writing a story. So he told me about his granddaughter. She writes children’s books, but is having fits getting published.
We chatted for a while. He asked questions about me; I answered. He told me about himself. Turns out we work for the same company. He had been retired, but grew bored after a long relationship busted up and went back to work. In his sixties now, he expressed that sometimes he grows weary of having been in the same place all his life.
Only so many times you can see the same ole thing and not wonder what else is out there that you’re missin’ out on. Ain’t much time left, and I’m past retirement age. Got a brother in Minnesota, though. Sure do love it up there. Why not, right? But it’s a scary thing, so I don’t know if I have it in me.
Why not, indeed.
So I shared a bit of my story with him, and my desire to move to the Pacific Northwest. He asked why there, and I told him how I’d been in love with Oregon ever since watching The Goonies as a kid. And then once I visited the region, I fell even harder and knew a life change was in order.
He told me I’m young and should go for it.
So I pointed at the “pocket” watch on the chain around my neck. Held it up for him to see.
Do you know what this is?
He shook his head, “Naw. Reckon you gon’ tell me, though.”
I popped it open and showed him the watch. “And do you know why I wear it?,” I asked. He just looked at me, expectantly waiting.
I wear it to remind me that life is short. I wear it to remind me that our time on this earth is finite. I wear it to remind me that there’s no time like the present time. I wear it to remind me that there’s never a right time. There’s only right now. I wear it to remind me that as long as I continue ticking along with it, it’s not too late. So I’m moving to Oregon. And you’re moving to Minnesota. And we’re going to make it count.
He smiled a winsome smile, tilted his head and cast his line back into the water.
You know somethin’, young lady? I’m gon’ call my brother tonight. See what we can see.
He looked hopeful now, wistful. I smiled and gathered my things.
Then I shook his grimy bait hand, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and to have good luck with his fishing.
And hey, Anthony? Make it count. Let’s make it count.
He grinned back at me and said, “Never too late.”
This post brought to you by:
Tomàs, for encouraging me to write even when, especially when, I doubt my ability to write anything worth anything at all. For making me feel worthy, writing aside.
Stupidityhole for relentlessly pushing me to get the fuck out of bed and the fuck out of the house. Many. Many. Many times now. I am eternally grateful.
Dedicated to Anthony and everyone else who thinks it’s too fucking late. Grab life. Pluck it when it’s ripe; carpe the fucking diem.
Coming Soon: Masturdating at Happy Hour last Friday, complete with photos of old men flexing in their tighty-whities. Perhaps a recap of tomorrow night’s concert – yes, another masturdate, and then my group Happy Hour this coming Friday night! Oh. Oh yes. And allergic reactions and moronic recruiters and the relocation conundrum. Stay tuned! You know me. I’ll fill you in in a month or so. (Winky Face, bitches.)