Somehow the internets failed me, and at least one of my entries was deleted. Here is a gem from March of 2005:
Monday, March 28, 2005
In an attempt to revitalize my social life, I've taken up weekend trips to New York City up as a hobby. I've always gone to the city pretty frequently (mostly for shopping or observing homeless people with binoculars), but I've increased my visits lately, as I've needed a change of scenery. It's just as cold and bleak there as it is here, but with more beautiful women and Jewish camera and electronics superstores. I've also got some friends from school that have recently moved to Brooklyn and have hip designer jobs in Manhattan. I've had a lot of fun visiting them, in what used to be gross and downtrodden, but is now gentrified, safe, renovated, and ridiculously expensive. I like that. Sometimes I like to just go to the city and not tell any of my friends that I'm there, and roam around while listening to my ipod (misanthropic B's hobo-watching mix, volumes 1-6), observing everything, laughing, wanting to buy things in windows, trying to get lost, sometimes hoping some crazy motherfucking mugger will pop out of an alley and just stab me in the throat.
Anyway, there's this place in Brooklyn where the kids like to go (it's in Williamsburg; the hippest place in America from what I understand) that's called "Barcade." It's an expensive bar with lots of fancy beers, and the walls are lined with old arcade games. It sounds like heaven, I know. But somehow the novelty wears off more quickly than one would hope. You can only take so many games of "Rampage" or "Tempest," but you can always drink more. And try to hit on women. I attempted to do both of these things on friday night. My friends got bored of the bar and wanted to go somewhere else. Somewhere hipper and more exclusive, or something. But I had not yet fulfilled my mission of the night: get wasted, hit on a cute Brooklyn girl, and play Arkanoid until I ran out of quarters. I achieved the first part, and wished my friends a good night. I told them I'd catch up with them in the morning if I didn't somehow make my way back to Grand Central in time to leave the city. Then they left to go get six dollar beers at some other place. The girl-finding mission was actually much lower on my priorities list than the Arkanoid mission. But there was one problem; this one girl was hogging the machine all night. She had big plastic hoop earrings, and a beret, and a denim jacket and...and I stood behind for a while, tapping my foot, drinking imported beer after imported beer, growing ever more drunk and impatient. She had a never-ending pocket of quarters. She was kind of cute. And real good at Arkanoid. That's respectable. But I didn't really care about that. I just wanted to play, real bad. And she WASN'T going anywhere. I made three trips to the bathroom and she was still there every time I came back, completely ignoring me. Finally...and my memory is spotty on account of me being completely shitfaced, I decided I had to do something, anything, to make her get off that machine. "Hey.." I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around, causing her to miss her ball, and lose the game. "WHAT?" she barks at me, while fishing around for another quarter in her 160-dollar ripped jeans. "Hey..." I'm shouting over the indie-rock blaring from the speakers, barely able to stand up straight, "Hey hipster-bitch....I've..I've got some cosmic-balls you can paddle around if you want," I paused, not believing the words that were coming out of my mouth. She stared at me incredulously. I continued, "...and if you're lucky, you'll get the laser-upgrade! Ooh!" All I remember happening next was a sharp pain on my cheek, my glasses getting knocked to the ground, and spilling beer all over my pants "Yeah...get out of here...don't you have a thrift store to go to or something, you urbanite hussie?!" I screamed at her, my words getting drowned out by the whiney music all around me. I kneeled over, picked up my glasses, tried to brush some of the beer out of my soggy jeans, and then spent seven dollars playing Arkanoid for as long as I could keep my eyes open.
I awoke in my apartment the next afternoon, miles and miles away from New York City, with no recollection of how I left that cursed yuppie-infested concrete monument to humanity and made it back to my place. I almost remember climbing into some kind of space-tube to bounce around a magnetized cosmic ball (or maybe it was a subway train and I had found a chewed-up tennis ball on the ground somewhere), but it's hazy. I'll probably go back there next weekend. Brooklyn hasn't seen the last of me.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
It's been nearly a year since I've written to you. Nothing of any real importance has happened to me in the past year. My life seems to have entered some kind of weird buddhist loop where I just keep living the same stupid events over and over. Getting drunk, taking pills, buying more shit I don't need, going on dates with horrible people, etc. I still feel alone. I still feel contempt for almost every other living person. I still wish I had a real Shakie Wilcox kitty, or something else that I could cuddle with while I watch blu-ray movies on my Playstation 3 and LCD HDTV. I still live in Connecticut, but work in Manhattan. I've worked at a couple different agencies over the past year. Everyone in New York is such a fucking asshole. But I guess you could say the same about Connecticut.
I went to the gym the other night. I've been trying to get into a schedule where I go to the gym directly from the train station, before I go home. There was an extraordinary number of douchebags there. More than usual, it seemed. I keep having all these stupid fantasies about the gym, that I think about when I'm doing my cardio workout. And they're not the normal fantasies most dudes have when they're at the gym, like ones involving the sweaty girl next to me, and maybe the slightly less-cute one next to her that I'm trying to secretly look at through a series of mirrors on the gym walls. No, not fantasies like that. It's more like I've kind of felt I want to try to get into a fight or something. Just let some meathead beat the shit out of me in front of all these hot girls, like some kind of smartass nerd-martyr. Here's my fantasy from the other night, inspired by some of the usual characters I see at the gym, in detail:
I pull into a parking space far away from the gym, next to a Cadillac Escalade SUV that's slightly over the line on my side. I open my door, slamming it as hard as I can into the Escalade, leaving a noticeable dent. The alarm goes off, so I pull out of the parking spot and find another one on the other side of the lot. No one sees me. I go into the gym and set my iPod Nano to "gym bro siqq mix." I start doing my weights, trying my hardest but ultimately not reaching my goals because I'm weak. This jacked asshole on the opposite side of the machine from me keeps slamming the weights at the end of his sets. I really hate when people do that. It's horrible gym-ettiquete. And he keeps doing it. Across the gym I hear this blonde girl laughing hysterically every two seconds. She's talking to this black dude who I guess is really funny. She keeps laughing, filling the enormous gym with the sound of her ridiculous laughter. I swear, she does this every time I'm there. She has the loudest laugher I've ever heard. So, she's laughing, the moron next to me keeps dropping the weights on the machine loudly, the music playing loudly on the gym's speakers is Aqua's "Barbie Girl" (I can still hear it over my headphones) and I feel like I'm about to LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. I start laughing as I walk past the weight-slamming dude. I puff my chest out and tilt my head back, my arms flexed in front of me, walking really close to him, getting all in his way. He pretends to ignore me, then does another set. SO STRONG! He's wearing a super tiny tank-top and a gold chain (you gotta have the chain brah). Of course he slams the weights loudly when he's done. And I can STILL hear that blonde moron laughing in the background. I make a lound grunt and stare at the guy. "UNNNHH!" He wipes his brow and takes a few steps towards me. "Hey guy, you mind givin me some room?" he asks me, loudly. I respond with a serious of grunts, flexing my arms and kissing my biceps. I stare at him and speak obnoxiously: "Nah. Guy." I then brush by him, walking slowly, puffing my chest out again. The weight machine (triceps pull-down) behind him is unoccupied, so i use it, setting the weight at 40 pounds and grunting and slamming the weights and being a fucking jerk. "UNNNGGGHH. YEAH! PUSH IT! THIS IS MY HOUSE BABY! NOBODY TOUGHER!" I scream, as I pretend to struggle with the weight (I'm not really pretending). The meathead comes up from behind, and taps me on the shoulder, hard. "You. Get the fuck out of here. Now." I slam the weights down, and turn around, taking in my surroundings. People are starting to stare, a few girls are giggling (one of them is pretty fat), and this dude in front of me is all red in the face and pissed off. I puff out my chest and put my hands on my hips. "No. YOU get out of here. FAGGOT!" Before I can gauge his reaction, I feel his fist in my face, and can feel something breaking. I fall to the ground, blood pouring out of my nose. I start laughing, and look around for a weapon within arm's reach. Luckily, there's an extra tricep pulldown rope on the floor, carelessly left there by some asshole. I quickly reach it and grab it, and swing it up as hard as I can, right into my attacker's groin. He lets out a loud yelp and steps backwards, allowing me to get back on my feet. "OHHH SHIT! I just hit you in the BALLS SON!" I scream, blood pouring from my nose. The dude is clutching his groin, and there is a crowd of people gathering. I can see personal trainers and gym employees starting to run towards us. I start swinging the tricep rope wildly above my head. "Motherfuckers get back! Check yourself!" One of the personal trainers comes at me and tries to grab me, so I clock him in his face with my mighty rope. Another sweaty meathead with a tanktop grabs me from behind, so I swing the rope backwards, hitting him hard in the ear. He releases me, and I close my eyes and lunge forward, swinging blindly and wildly and laughing like a goddamn maniac. Another gym employee, this douchey-looking guy who I kind of hate, just because, rushes me and tries to punch me. I deliver a powerful kick in his gut, rendering him a quivering pile of gym employee asshole. I tell you, I have become an unstoppable force, droppin many suckas as they try to disarm me. Women are screaming, I'm laughing, people are scrambling all over the place, some people are running towards the gym's exits, and more men are trying to attack me from all sides. I'm swinging my rope all over the place, clockin dudes in they heads, bringin them to their KNEES, spitting blood all over the place. One woman begs me to stop and I HISS at her. The meathead that started it all seems to have disappeared, until suddenly I find myself in a headlock, trapped in his enormous arms. He's holding me back, and some other bro starts punching me in the stomach, as I laugh and try to wriggle free, to no avail. Then the master meathead throws me down to the ground, and kicks me in the kidneys. After that, they all swarm me. Personal trainers, fat girls, scary muscular black dudes...all manner of gym clientele. It's like a pack of hyenas, ripping apart a gazelle or something. People are kicking me, punching me, spitting on me. I open my eyes and all I can see is blood. I feel things breaking. I feel like I'm turning to liquid. I feel my brains being squashed out of me. I feel my
By this time, I realize I had done an extra seventeen minutes of cardio. I suddenly came to, realizing where I was and what I was doing. I seemed twice as sweaty as I usually was after my cardio workout. I stepped off of the machine and walked, wobbly and exhausted, to the locker room, glaring at all those around me. The entire cast of characters was there. The annoying blonde, that douchebag slamming the weights, and some fat ladies. I sighed and called it a night. Fantasizing about baiting them into murdering me was pretty exhausting. But I'm beginning to think that my weirdo fantasies might be the best workout motivator ever.
I went to the gym the other night. I've been trying to get into a schedule where I go to the gym directly from the train station, before I go home. There was an extraordinary number of douchebags there. More than usual, it seemed. I keep having all these stupid fantasies about the gym, that I think about when I'm doing my cardio workout. And they're not the normal fantasies most dudes have when they're at the gym, like ones involving the sweaty girl next to me, and maybe the slightly less-cute one next to her that I'm trying to secretly look at through a series of mirrors on the gym walls. No, not fantasies like that. It's more like I've kind of felt I want to try to get into a fight or something. Just let some meathead beat the shit out of me in front of all these hot girls, like some kind of smartass nerd-martyr. Here's my fantasy from the other night, inspired by some of the usual characters I see at the gym, in detail:
I pull into a parking space far away from the gym, next to a Cadillac Escalade SUV that's slightly over the line on my side. I open my door, slamming it as hard as I can into the Escalade, leaving a noticeable dent. The alarm goes off, so I pull out of the parking spot and find another one on the other side of the lot. No one sees me. I go into the gym and set my iPod Nano to "gym bro siqq mix." I start doing my weights, trying my hardest but ultimately not reaching my goals because I'm weak. This jacked asshole on the opposite side of the machine from me keeps slamming the weights at the end of his sets. I really hate when people do that. It's horrible gym-ettiquete. And he keeps doing it. Across the gym I hear this blonde girl laughing hysterically every two seconds. She's talking to this black dude who I guess is really funny. She keeps laughing, filling the enormous gym with the sound of her ridiculous laughter. I swear, she does this every time I'm there. She has the loudest laugher I've ever heard. So, she's laughing, the moron next to me keeps dropping the weights on the machine loudly, the music playing loudly on the gym's speakers is Aqua's "Barbie Girl" (I can still hear it over my headphones) and I feel like I'm about to LOSE MY FUCKING MIND. I start laughing as I walk past the weight-slamming dude. I puff my chest out and tilt my head back, my arms flexed in front of me, walking really close to him, getting all in his way. He pretends to ignore me, then does another set. SO STRONG! He's wearing a super tiny tank-top and a gold chain (you gotta have the chain brah). Of course he slams the weights loudly when he's done. And I can STILL hear that blonde moron laughing in the background. I make a lound grunt and stare at the guy. "UNNNHH!" He wipes his brow and takes a few steps towards me. "Hey guy, you mind givin me some room?" he asks me, loudly. I respond with a serious of grunts, flexing my arms and kissing my biceps. I stare at him and speak obnoxiously: "Nah. Guy." I then brush by him, walking slowly, puffing my chest out again. The weight machine (triceps pull-down) behind him is unoccupied, so i use it, setting the weight at 40 pounds and grunting and slamming the weights and being a fucking jerk. "UNNNGGGHH. YEAH! PUSH IT! THIS IS MY HOUSE BABY! NOBODY TOUGHER!" I scream, as I pretend to struggle with the weight (I'm not really pretending). The meathead comes up from behind, and taps me on the shoulder, hard. "You. Get the fuck out of here. Now." I slam the weights down, and turn around, taking in my surroundings. People are starting to stare, a few girls are giggling (one of them is pretty fat), and this dude in front of me is all red in the face and pissed off. I puff out my chest and put my hands on my hips. "No. YOU get out of here. FAGGOT!" Before I can gauge his reaction, I feel his fist in my face, and can feel something breaking. I fall to the ground, blood pouring out of my nose. I start laughing, and look around for a weapon within arm's reach. Luckily, there's an extra tricep pulldown rope on the floor, carelessly left there by some asshole. I quickly reach it and grab it, and swing it up as hard as I can, right into my attacker's groin. He lets out a loud yelp and steps backwards, allowing me to get back on my feet. "OHHH SHIT! I just hit you in the BALLS SON!" I scream, blood pouring from my nose. The dude is clutching his groin, and there is a crowd of people gathering. I can see personal trainers and gym employees starting to run towards us. I start swinging the tricep rope wildly above my head. "Motherfuckers get back! Check yourself!" One of the personal trainers comes at me and tries to grab me, so I clock him in his face with my mighty rope. Another sweaty meathead with a tanktop grabs me from behind, so I swing the rope backwards, hitting him hard in the ear. He releases me, and I close my eyes and lunge forward, swinging blindly and wildly and laughing like a goddamn maniac. Another gym employee, this douchey-looking guy who I kind of hate, just because, rushes me and tries to punch me. I deliver a powerful kick in his gut, rendering him a quivering pile of gym employee asshole. I tell you, I have become an unstoppable force, droppin many suckas as they try to disarm me. Women are screaming, I'm laughing, people are scrambling all over the place, some people are running towards the gym's exits, and more men are trying to attack me from all sides. I'm swinging my rope all over the place, clockin dudes in they heads, bringin them to their KNEES, spitting blood all over the place. One woman begs me to stop and I HISS at her. The meathead that started it all seems to have disappeared, until suddenly I find myself in a headlock, trapped in his enormous arms. He's holding me back, and some other bro starts punching me in the stomach, as I laugh and try to wriggle free, to no avail. Then the master meathead throws me down to the ground, and kicks me in the kidneys. After that, they all swarm me. Personal trainers, fat girls, scary muscular black dudes...all manner of gym clientele. It's like a pack of hyenas, ripping apart a gazelle or something. People are kicking me, punching me, spitting on me. I open my eyes and all I can see is blood. I feel things breaking. I feel like I'm turning to liquid. I feel my brains being squashed out of me. I feel my
By this time, I realize I had done an extra seventeen minutes of cardio. I suddenly came to, realizing where I was and what I was doing. I seemed twice as sweaty as I usually was after my cardio workout. I stepped off of the machine and walked, wobbly and exhausted, to the locker room, glaring at all those around me. The entire cast of characters was there. The annoying blonde, that douchebag slamming the weights, and some fat ladies. I sighed and called it a night. Fantasizing about baiting them into murdering me was pretty exhausting. But I'm beginning to think that my weirdo fantasies might be the best workout motivator ever.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I've awoken.
I've been working at an agency in Manhattan for some time now. It feels like a long time. Feels different. Feels like my life has changed drastically, like my old life was just an old movie or series of television episodes that I vaguely remember. I commute from Connecticut to NYC on the train every day. It's completely draining. Wasn't so bad at first, but now I feel like I'm in a constant daze, from when I leave my house at 7am, to when I return, usually about 8pm. People-watching on the trains and subways almost makes up for it though. So many fascinating specimens to be studied, in and out of the city.
Most recently I've made the disturbing observation that many of those around me, and myself as well, seem to be becoming more and more robotic with every passing day. I know that the goal is a completely automated, convenient, functioning society, but I feel like I've just noticed this...like I'm looking in from the outside. What I mean is, we're turning ourselves into machines, especially with the way we're constantly plugged in: cellphones, sidekicks, PDAs, laptops, gameboys, ipods, PSPs, PMPs, etc. What's alarming to me is the way we are roboticizing ourselves...almost becoming like the 'borg' from Star Trek...when we have these wireless bluetooth headsets constantly attached to our heads, blinking with their little LEDs, wirelessly communicating with unseen handsets. And the 'voice dial' function forces us to speak almost digitally. I realized this when I tried to call a coworker while on the train.
"Call Anthony."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...ANDY?
"No. Call Anthony."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...Erin?
"No. Call Ann-thuh-nee."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...ANTHONY?
"YES!"
>>CONNECTING.
I've watched well-dressed men on their way to Wall Street speaking loudly and moronically into their headsets, making it look like they're shouting into the air, at no one in particular. "Call Jessica. Call JESS-UH-KAH." I smile and stare at them, then look around to see someone else, maybe another man, with a wireless headset on one ear and a regular cell phone shoved up against his other ear, using his free hand to stuff a Dunkin Donuts bagel into his mouth.
It made me sick to really look at myself and see what I was becoming. I mean. I guess I've always considered myself to be less than human in some ways, but now I feel it's happening to all of those around me as well. The way people speak into their cell phones, so that those little robots can understand them. They speak slowly, enunciating every syllable. We are in effect simplifying, digitizing, dehumanizing our speech so that our electronic tools can better understand us. But now I'm wondering if I just need a better bluetooth headset. Or maybe get a T-Mobile sidekick so that I can be on AOL Instant Messenger during my entire commute, just in case someone, a friend or something, MIGHT want to talk to me. I don't know. But I am making more money than I ever have in my life, so I might as well buy these things and find out.
I've been working at an agency in Manhattan for some time now. It feels like a long time. Feels different. Feels like my life has changed drastically, like my old life was just an old movie or series of television episodes that I vaguely remember. I commute from Connecticut to NYC on the train every day. It's completely draining. Wasn't so bad at first, but now I feel like I'm in a constant daze, from when I leave my house at 7am, to when I return, usually about 8pm. People-watching on the trains and subways almost makes up for it though. So many fascinating specimens to be studied, in and out of the city.
Most recently I've made the disturbing observation that many of those around me, and myself as well, seem to be becoming more and more robotic with every passing day. I know that the goal is a completely automated, convenient, functioning society, but I feel like I've just noticed this...like I'm looking in from the outside. What I mean is, we're turning ourselves into machines, especially with the way we're constantly plugged in: cellphones, sidekicks, PDAs, laptops, gameboys, ipods, PSPs, PMPs, etc. What's alarming to me is the way we are roboticizing ourselves...almost becoming like the 'borg' from Star Trek...when we have these wireless bluetooth headsets constantly attached to our heads, blinking with their little LEDs, wirelessly communicating with unseen handsets. And the 'voice dial' function forces us to speak almost digitally. I realized this when I tried to call a coworker while on the train.
"Call Anthony."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...ANDY?
"No. Call Anthony."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...Erin?
"No. Call Ann-thuh-nee."
>> DID YOU SAY, CALL...ANTHONY?
"YES!"
>>CONNECTING.
I've watched well-dressed men on their way to Wall Street speaking loudly and moronically into their headsets, making it look like they're shouting into the air, at no one in particular. "Call Jessica. Call JESS-UH-KAH." I smile and stare at them, then look around to see someone else, maybe another man, with a wireless headset on one ear and a regular cell phone shoved up against his other ear, using his free hand to stuff a Dunkin Donuts bagel into his mouth.
It made me sick to really look at myself and see what I was becoming. I mean. I guess I've always considered myself to be less than human in some ways, but now I feel it's happening to all of those around me as well. The way people speak into their cell phones, so that those little robots can understand them. They speak slowly, enunciating every syllable. We are in effect simplifying, digitizing, dehumanizing our speech so that our electronic tools can better understand us. But now I'm wondering if I just need a better bluetooth headset. Or maybe get a T-Mobile sidekick so that I can be on AOL Instant Messenger during my entire commute, just in case someone, a friend or something, MIGHT want to talk to me. I don't know. But I am making more money than I ever have in my life, so I might as well buy these things and find out.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
chapter XVIXIXV
I've been putting this off for about a year now. I kept lying to myself, hoping things would change, hoping it didn't really happen, hoping I'm not as much of a bad person as she told me I was, hoping it was all a mistake... a misunderstanding. A quick recap: I met this girl when I was single last year, at a party. I had a date with her and fell in love nearly instantly. She was probably one of the best women I've ever met in my life. And I kept it all to myself. You'll notice there are some huge gaps in my bloggery last year. My life hit a ridiculous high point, then spiraled down into depths of emotional shit.
So. I met this girl. This girl, this woman, this savior. Maybe you remember the 'first date' at the Chinese restaurant. Everything started better than I could ever imagine. For a while, I actually considered that this girl was an angel from heaven, sent down to save me from the world (and myself). We were inseparable for nearly two months. We'd talk on the phone every weeknight for about two hours. We'd spend every weekend together. We'd watch movies, play videogames, go on walks, go shopping, go out to eat, try cooking together (we were both terrible), go to the city, do everything. It seemed like those two months lasted a year. We crammed so many good memories (I can barely remember any of them, except for what I captured with my digital camera and camcorder) into such a short amount of time. Oh how I loved my angel. I knew that it was all moving very quickly, and that I'd never felt like this about anyone before (maybe I just finally allowed myself to?) and that there was so much about myself that I was afraid she'd find out and hate and she'd realize what a jerk I was and realize that I'm just a husk of a man, no soul, no real care for anyone in the world, just for myself and my possessions, and .... I tried so hard to change all that. Change for her. And I was changing. I could feel myself becoming a better person. More sensitive, a better listener, more in-touch with myself and with others. But it all turned to shit, and deep deep down, I knew it would all along.
Things started to fall apart after week 7. I can't remember what exactly set it off. I think it was a number of things. I frantically tried to put everything back together, but ultimately failed. I do remember being stressed out about something at work (ironic, because the "old me" usually didn't care enough to get stressed out, but I was trying to care more), and I might have snapped at her, or been rude, or just been distant. We had a couple of fights. We made up, but I feel like I can remember telling her a lot of things that she probably wanted to hear (that might not have really been true). Things about my feelings. I knew that I cared for her a lot, but maybe I could just never be the person she needed me to be, no matter how hard I tried to change myself...no matter how hard I tried to allow her to change me and save me. Things finally came to a head one Friday night, where she told me over the phone that she didn't think we should see each other anymore, that things were becoming too hard, we moved too fast, she didn't know what she was doing and she made a mistake by being with me. I begged her to just let me take her to dinner one last time. She reluctantly accepted after I pleaded to her for a good while, telling her I just wanted a proper goodbye. I know she didn't really want to, but she was such a sweetheart that she decided to do it for me. But I had every intention of saving that relationship. I told her I'd pick her up Saturday evening. I plotted all night and all day, preparing myself for a difficult confrontation, for an argument that I must absolutely win if I was to remain happy. She was too amazing to not fight for. I had to let her know it.
I picked her up the following night, and we sat in an awkard silence as I drove us to the location of our first magical date: my favorite Chinese restaurant. "B, I'm not really in the mood for Chinese food. I have a bit of a stomach ache and I'd rather not eat here." But I somehow convinced her that we should eat there, as I was desperately trying to connect with her and make her remember all the things that she liked about me. The food was excellent, but dinner was horrible. We barely spoke. She didn't eat anything. Just pushed expensive food (that I ordered for her) around her plate with her chopsticks. It looked as if she was witholding tears and didn't know what to say to me. I didn't know what to say either. I kept trying to make jokes and failing. I kept trying to remind her of instances from the previous seven weeks when we had such wonderful times. She would just say "Yeah, I know B...it's just...it's just..." and I'd try to get her to really tell me what was wrong so I could fix it, so I could fix myself and repair our relationship and be perfect for her and save everything and be happy with her and with myself together forever. It wasn't working. It was so painful for both of us. Suddenly, as the waiter brought me the check and a few fortune cookies, I thought I had a brilliant idea. I thought I could surely make her laugh, just as I had on our very first date, at that very same restaurant at the same table (which I requested and made us wait for fifteen minutes for them to clear it). I smiled as I opened the fortune cookies, quietly reading the fortunes in a thick Chinese accent, flipping them over and reading the little "Learn Chinese" translations on the back.
"Haha! Look at this one! Ah, your ah preenceeples mean ah more to youuu than any mahney or ah successs! Hmm. No. Let's learn Chinese! 'Delicious:' Hao-chi. Howwww cheeee! Here's another. You have ah the rayyre abeelity to recognize abeelity in ah othas! What? More translations! 'Chicken:' Ji. Jeeee! Oh my god. This one is 'airplane' and it is Fei-ji. Airplane Chicken? Hahaha! 'Spinach:' Bo-cai. Booow kaaaaaiiiiuh!
I grew panicky as I could see how uncomfortable she was. My voice grew louder and I laughed nervously. I ran out of cookies. "Ahem. Um excuse me? Sir?" I asked, loudly. "B! Stop it!" she begged me, but I just motioned her away, as if to say "Don't worry, I've got it under control baby, I'll get you more cookies and I'll make you laugh and you'll forgive me for whatever it was I did, and everthing will be okay." "Can we have some more fortune cookies please?" I ask. "Ah yes, ahh of course!" He said, bringing me another handful. I continued to open cookie after cookie, reading the fortunes to her, trying too hard to be funny and to make her laugh. God, why wasn't she laughing? Tears started trickling down her cheeks. I opened the last cookie, my hand shaking, slowly reading the Chinese translation in my horrible Chinese accent, and then she interupted me, exploding: "-STOP IT B! Just please fucking STOP IT!" I stared at her, feeling like I'd just been punched in the chest. "What?? I was just trying to make you laugh? What's wrong?" Everyone in the restaurant knew that there was some drama at our table, but pretended to ignore it.
She finally told me what was wrong. With me. She told me I was a selfish jerk, only concerned with myself. Never placing others before me. She told me I was rude. I was cheap. I was stupid and easily confused and sometimes she was suprised that I even went to college. I wasn't nearly as funny as I thought I was. I was out of shape. I was bad in bed. I had problems with intimacy. (This was true. I preferred sex over a computer interface rather than a human one. I was so used to seeing sex on a computer monitor when viewing my horrendous internet porno collection, that I didn't know what to do when I was actually with a real woman. I was actually somewhat terrified of physical intimacy.) I was overly critical and my standards and expectations were too high. I was greedy. I didn't work hard at all for the success that I have had. I didn't appreciate anything. I cared about material things more than I cared about people. And she went on, until we were both sitting there, staring at each other, tears streaming down our faces. She said she's never met anyone like me. She said I needed help, badly. She said she tried to help me, to save me, but she couldn't. She said there's nothing inside me. That I'm not there.
I stared at her, trying so hard not to cry. Trying to hold it all in. It hurt so bad. She hurt me so badly. I felt like my heart had completely stopped beating. There was just this big empty space in my chest, but it was filled with hurt. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. God, it hurt so bad. How could she? I loved her. I tried so hard for her. Slowly, I forced some words out to her. The only words I could speak. "...Fuck you." I said, glaring, "You're not my fucking soulmate." She was gasping quietly as she cried. I looked at the angel once last time. Looked at my missed chance for salvation. I wanted to get on my knees. Beg her to love me. To fix me. But she couldn't help me. There was nothing more that could be done. Nothing could be saved. It didn't matter if we had dated for two months or for ten years. It was over. "I hate you. You're dead to me," I told her. I then stood up, wiped my eyes, threw all of the cash in my wallet onto the table (I'm not sure if it was even enough) and walked away, as she sobbed behind me.
That was a year ago.
I've been putting this off for about a year now. I kept lying to myself, hoping things would change, hoping it didn't really happen, hoping I'm not as much of a bad person as she told me I was, hoping it was all a mistake... a misunderstanding. A quick recap: I met this girl when I was single last year, at a party. I had a date with her and fell in love nearly instantly. She was probably one of the best women I've ever met in my life. And I kept it all to myself. You'll notice there are some huge gaps in my bloggery last year. My life hit a ridiculous high point, then spiraled down into depths of emotional shit.
So. I met this girl. This girl, this woman, this savior. Maybe you remember the 'first date' at the Chinese restaurant. Everything started better than I could ever imagine. For a while, I actually considered that this girl was an angel from heaven, sent down to save me from the world (and myself). We were inseparable for nearly two months. We'd talk on the phone every weeknight for about two hours. We'd spend every weekend together. We'd watch movies, play videogames, go on walks, go shopping, go out to eat, try cooking together (we were both terrible), go to the city, do everything. It seemed like those two months lasted a year. We crammed so many good memories (I can barely remember any of them, except for what I captured with my digital camera and camcorder) into such a short amount of time. Oh how I loved my angel. I knew that it was all moving very quickly, and that I'd never felt like this about anyone before (maybe I just finally allowed myself to?) and that there was so much about myself that I was afraid she'd find out and hate and she'd realize what a jerk I was and realize that I'm just a husk of a man, no soul, no real care for anyone in the world, just for myself and my possessions, and .... I tried so hard to change all that. Change for her. And I was changing. I could feel myself becoming a better person. More sensitive, a better listener, more in-touch with myself and with others. But it all turned to shit, and deep deep down, I knew it would all along.
Things started to fall apart after week 7. I can't remember what exactly set it off. I think it was a number of things. I frantically tried to put everything back together, but ultimately failed. I do remember being stressed out about something at work (ironic, because the "old me" usually didn't care enough to get stressed out, but I was trying to care more), and I might have snapped at her, or been rude, or just been distant. We had a couple of fights. We made up, but I feel like I can remember telling her a lot of things that she probably wanted to hear (that might not have really been true). Things about my feelings. I knew that I cared for her a lot, but maybe I could just never be the person she needed me to be, no matter how hard I tried to change myself...no matter how hard I tried to allow her to change me and save me. Things finally came to a head one Friday night, where she told me over the phone that she didn't think we should see each other anymore, that things were becoming too hard, we moved too fast, she didn't know what she was doing and she made a mistake by being with me. I begged her to just let me take her to dinner one last time. She reluctantly accepted after I pleaded to her for a good while, telling her I just wanted a proper goodbye. I know she didn't really want to, but she was such a sweetheart that she decided to do it for me. But I had every intention of saving that relationship. I told her I'd pick her up Saturday evening. I plotted all night and all day, preparing myself for a difficult confrontation, for an argument that I must absolutely win if I was to remain happy. She was too amazing to not fight for. I had to let her know it.
I picked her up the following night, and we sat in an awkard silence as I drove us to the location of our first magical date: my favorite Chinese restaurant. "B, I'm not really in the mood for Chinese food. I have a bit of a stomach ache and I'd rather not eat here." But I somehow convinced her that we should eat there, as I was desperately trying to connect with her and make her remember all the things that she liked about me. The food was excellent, but dinner was horrible. We barely spoke. She didn't eat anything. Just pushed expensive food (that I ordered for her) around her plate with her chopsticks. It looked as if she was witholding tears and didn't know what to say to me. I didn't know what to say either. I kept trying to make jokes and failing. I kept trying to remind her of instances from the previous seven weeks when we had such wonderful times. She would just say "Yeah, I know B...it's just...it's just..." and I'd try to get her to really tell me what was wrong so I could fix it, so I could fix myself and repair our relationship and be perfect for her and save everything and be happy with her and with myself together forever. It wasn't working. It was so painful for both of us. Suddenly, as the waiter brought me the check and a few fortune cookies, I thought I had a brilliant idea. I thought I could surely make her laugh, just as I had on our very first date, at that very same restaurant at the same table (which I requested and made us wait for fifteen minutes for them to clear it). I smiled as I opened the fortune cookies, quietly reading the fortunes in a thick Chinese accent, flipping them over and reading the little "Learn Chinese" translations on the back.
"Haha! Look at this one! Ah, your ah preenceeples mean ah more to youuu than any mahney or ah successs! Hmm. No. Let's learn Chinese! 'Delicious:' Hao-chi. Howwww cheeee! Here's another. You have ah the rayyre abeelity to recognize abeelity in ah othas! What? More translations! 'Chicken:' Ji. Jeeee! Oh my god. This one is 'airplane' and it is Fei-ji. Airplane Chicken? Hahaha! 'Spinach:' Bo-cai. Booow kaaaaaiiiiuh!
I grew panicky as I could see how uncomfortable she was. My voice grew louder and I laughed nervously. I ran out of cookies. "Ahem. Um excuse me? Sir?" I asked, loudly. "B! Stop it!" she begged me, but I just motioned her away, as if to say "Don't worry, I've got it under control baby, I'll get you more cookies and I'll make you laugh and you'll forgive me for whatever it was I did, and everthing will be okay." "Can we have some more fortune cookies please?" I ask. "Ah yes, ahh of course!" He said, bringing me another handful. I continued to open cookie after cookie, reading the fortunes to her, trying too hard to be funny and to make her laugh. God, why wasn't she laughing? Tears started trickling down her cheeks. I opened the last cookie, my hand shaking, slowly reading the Chinese translation in my horrible Chinese accent, and then she interupted me, exploding: "-STOP IT B! Just please fucking STOP IT!" I stared at her, feeling like I'd just been punched in the chest. "What?? I was just trying to make you laugh? What's wrong?" Everyone in the restaurant knew that there was some drama at our table, but pretended to ignore it.
She finally told me what was wrong. With me. She told me I was a selfish jerk, only concerned with myself. Never placing others before me. She told me I was rude. I was cheap. I was stupid and easily confused and sometimes she was suprised that I even went to college. I wasn't nearly as funny as I thought I was. I was out of shape. I was bad in bed. I had problems with intimacy. (This was true. I preferred sex over a computer interface rather than a human one. I was so used to seeing sex on a computer monitor when viewing my horrendous internet porno collection, that I didn't know what to do when I was actually with a real woman. I was actually somewhat terrified of physical intimacy.) I was overly critical and my standards and expectations were too high. I was greedy. I didn't work hard at all for the success that I have had. I didn't appreciate anything. I cared about material things more than I cared about people. And she went on, until we were both sitting there, staring at each other, tears streaming down our faces. She said she's never met anyone like me. She said I needed help, badly. She said she tried to help me, to save me, but she couldn't. She said there's nothing inside me. That I'm not there.
I stared at her, trying so hard not to cry. Trying to hold it all in. It hurt so bad. She hurt me so badly. I felt like my heart had completely stopped beating. There was just this big empty space in my chest, but it was filled with hurt. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. God, it hurt so bad. How could she? I loved her. I tried so hard for her. Slowly, I forced some words out to her. The only words I could speak. "...Fuck you." I said, glaring, "You're not my fucking soulmate." She was gasping quietly as she cried. I looked at the angel once last time. Looked at my missed chance for salvation. I wanted to get on my knees. Beg her to love me. To fix me. But she couldn't help me. There was nothing more that could be done. Nothing could be saved. It didn't matter if we had dated for two months or for ten years. It was over. "I hate you. You're dead to me," I told her. I then stood up, wiped my eyes, threw all of the cash in my wallet onto the table (I'm not sure if it was even enough) and walked away, as she sobbed behind me.
That was a year ago.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
some confessions:
I've been really busy lately with new experiences (new job in NYC, etc), so I've been a bit behind on transcribing every major and minor event in my life for you during the past few months. Next-up, I'll tell you about my horrible heart break. Absolutely brutal for me and hilarious for you. But first, there are a couple of details I left out regarding the events leading up to the firing from my job.
About two months before I completely doomed myself at work, I became completely obsessed with Robocop. This had always been one of my favorite movies as a child, but for some reason while watching it when I was all messed up on percocets and cough syrup (I'm not really that much of a drug user - except for the chronic, son, but I was really depressed that night and decided to whip up some kind of horrible cocktail to numb the pain. Or was it to numb the feeling of numbness...to make myself feel something?), the film seemed EXTRA magical (and comical) to me. For almost three weeks at work, I became obnoxiously enamored with Robocop. I constantly invited people at the office (especially girls) to come back to my apartment and watch Robocop I or II with me (Robocop III was pure, PG-13 rated garbage. Stupid fucking Japanese robot ninja). I made a Robocop wallpaper for my work computer's desktop. I bought a bunch of old Robocop action figures off of ebay and decorated my cube with them. I think people started get really frustrated with me at work, as I started to talk like Robocop a lot (and think it was funny) and even behave like him at inappropriate times (one time when new clients were touring the office). I'd interrupt people when they were mingling in the kitchen in the morning: "COME QUIETLY OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE" and then they'd look at me blankly, as I made robo-motions, all slow and with sound effects, and I'd list to them my prime directives: "SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST, PROTECT THE INNOCENT, UPHOLD THE LAW." Once I saw my creative director in the bathroom, about to use the urinal, and I walked slowly and loudly up behind him, and then announced "YOUR MOVE, CREEP." In my best Robocop voice. He laughed nervously, but I'm pretty sure he couldn't pee with me standing there, so after staring at the back of his head and making whirring noises for like twenty more seconds, I left the bathroom so he could piss.
I started slacking on my responsibilities more than ever, and others had to work twice as hard to make up for the work I wasn't doing. More than once, I'd get fed up with a project (after finally settling down to work on it for about fifteen minutes) in the early afternoon, and I'd just get up, walk out the front door, and go home and play videogames for the rest of the day. When people would ask me where I went and how much work did I get done on those layouts, I'd just say I had a horrible stomachache but couldn't find any of my superiors to tell them I had to go home, or that I sent an email but I don't know why they didn't get it, or that I had a family emergency. One time I almost slipped up and told one of the project managers, "Look, those Nazis hiding in my Xbox aren't going to kill themselves, now are they?" But I just apologized and said I'd stay late to make up for the work I didn't get done. But more often than not, one of my coworkers had already done that to cover my ass.
People started avoiding me, not even making small-talk in the kitchen in the morning. I'd go in there to get some coffee and have to listen to them talk about last night's episode of "Lost" or talk about some new restaurant or "Will and Grace" or FOOTBALL or SPORTS CARS or computer technology, new ipods, who's engaged, who's pregnant, who's buying a house, who left which company, who's the new VP of some fucking stupid ad agency we work with, talk talk talk talk talk about NOTHING. I'd get so sick to my stomach. The only way to remedy the situation was to pull out some more Robocop talk, loudly interrupting them: "SOMEWHERE THERE IS A CRIME HAPPENING," and leave the kitchen slowly, leaving them quiet and confused. Oh, also one day when I had a cold I spit a mouthful of my saliva into the water cooler when I was changing the bottles.
I've been really busy lately with new experiences (new job in NYC, etc), so I've been a bit behind on transcribing every major and minor event in my life for you during the past few months. Next-up, I'll tell you about my horrible heart break. Absolutely brutal for me and hilarious for you. But first, there are a couple of details I left out regarding the events leading up to the firing from my job.
About two months before I completely doomed myself at work, I became completely obsessed with Robocop. This had always been one of my favorite movies as a child, but for some reason while watching it when I was all messed up on percocets and cough syrup (I'm not really that much of a drug user - except for the chronic, son, but I was really depressed that night and decided to whip up some kind of horrible cocktail to numb the pain. Or was it to numb the feeling of numbness...to make myself feel something?), the film seemed EXTRA magical (and comical) to me. For almost three weeks at work, I became obnoxiously enamored with Robocop. I constantly invited people at the office (especially girls) to come back to my apartment and watch Robocop I or II with me (Robocop III was pure, PG-13 rated garbage. Stupid fucking Japanese robot ninja). I made a Robocop wallpaper for my work computer's desktop. I bought a bunch of old Robocop action figures off of ebay and decorated my cube with them. I think people started get really frustrated with me at work, as I started to talk like Robocop a lot (and think it was funny) and even behave like him at inappropriate times (one time when new clients were touring the office). I'd interrupt people when they were mingling in the kitchen in the morning: "COME QUIETLY OR THERE WILL BE TROUBLE" and then they'd look at me blankly, as I made robo-motions, all slow and with sound effects, and I'd list to them my prime directives: "SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST, PROTECT THE INNOCENT, UPHOLD THE LAW." Once I saw my creative director in the bathroom, about to use the urinal, and I walked slowly and loudly up behind him, and then announced "YOUR MOVE, CREEP." In my best Robocop voice. He laughed nervously, but I'm pretty sure he couldn't pee with me standing there, so after staring at the back of his head and making whirring noises for like twenty more seconds, I left the bathroom so he could piss.
I started slacking on my responsibilities more than ever, and others had to work twice as hard to make up for the work I wasn't doing. More than once, I'd get fed up with a project (after finally settling down to work on it for about fifteen minutes) in the early afternoon, and I'd just get up, walk out the front door, and go home and play videogames for the rest of the day. When people would ask me where I went and how much work did I get done on those layouts, I'd just say I had a horrible stomachache but couldn't find any of my superiors to tell them I had to go home, or that I sent an email but I don't know why they didn't get it, or that I had a family emergency. One time I almost slipped up and told one of the project managers, "Look, those Nazis hiding in my Xbox aren't going to kill themselves, now are they?" But I just apologized and said I'd stay late to make up for the work I didn't get done. But more often than not, one of my coworkers had already done that to cover my ass.
People started avoiding me, not even making small-talk in the kitchen in the morning. I'd go in there to get some coffee and have to listen to them talk about last night's episode of "Lost" or talk about some new restaurant or "Will and Grace" or FOOTBALL or SPORTS CARS or computer technology, new ipods, who's engaged, who's pregnant, who's buying a house, who left which company, who's the new VP of some fucking stupid ad agency we work with, talk talk talk talk talk about NOTHING. I'd get so sick to my stomach. The only way to remedy the situation was to pull out some more Robocop talk, loudly interrupting them: "SOMEWHERE THERE IS A CRIME HAPPENING," and leave the kitchen slowly, leaving them quiet and confused. Oh, also one day when I had a cold I spit a mouthful of my saliva into the water cooler when I was changing the bottles.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Like I said earlier, most of this year was spent in a weird emotional haze, and it took a huge toll on both my social life and my professional life (ultimately resulting in me losing my job of nearly four years). This haze continued well into my unemployed period, or as I like to refer to it, my "blue period." Overall, the blue period was pretty awesome. Finding myself with zero responsibilitites, I quickly delved into a world of schedule-less decadence. Staying up all night playing video games, sleeping in all day, playing more video games, smoking a bunch of pot that I bought off this awesome fat Puerto Rican dude that I always see at the little bodega I sometimes buy groceries at. I know I should have spent that time absorbed in self-reflection and trying to get my resume and portfolio together so I could get a new job. I mean, that's what all my family and friends told me to do. But I bought a bunch of playstation games and a couple bottles of really good tequila instead. Sometimes I wonder if it's even possible to "find myself," because I'm not even so sure that there's anything to find.
The blue period turned sour fairly quickly. I lost track of time, and day and night slipped into each other without me noticing. I slept as I pleased, and barely ever left the house. I ordered pizza probably every other day, and I managed to gain almost ten pounds in a month. I became utterly disgusting. Any physical progress I had made at the gym this year disappeared pretty quickly. I also began to hate myself a lot. I'd look at myself in the mirror while drunk on tequila and tell my reflection how hideous and useless he was. Then I'd start laughing, and roll a joint or something. The haze continued, as did my depression. I didn't answer my phone (ironic because I had just purchased the best phone my wireless provider offered: the new Motorola E815 with Jabra BT250 bluetooth wireless headset), or check my email, or anything. I think paying my rent, ordering pizza online, and occasionally going to Blockbuster Video if I couldn't wait for my Netflix movies to arrive were my only interactions with other people during that month. I found myself looking at a lot of internet pornography. I noticed that I had the "Speed Channel" playing on my television during a lot of the time too. At times I'd find myself masturbating to the Speed Channel and not even realizing what I was doing. It all became pornography to me. Speed Channel, the Food Network, G4tv, etc. I was more of a mindless, emotionless monster than ever. The only things I felt were hunger, my natural gross human sex drive, and the desire to race cars and shoot people on a video game console.
How did I snap out of it, you ask? I think it was a combination of things. First of all, I came to the realization that my savings account was dwindling rapidly and wouldn't be able to support me at my current disgusting pace for more than another two weeks. Secondly, I thought of a whole bunch of stuff that I really wanted to buy, and to do that, I would need a job. Thirdly, dfjlal;ksdhtal;hdkf;ha dl;khtealkhe hfdnadgj;yepauh3nadn adgashdfasddaken
The blue period turned sour fairly quickly. I lost track of time, and day and night slipped into each other without me noticing. I slept as I pleased, and barely ever left the house. I ordered pizza probably every other day, and I managed to gain almost ten pounds in a month. I became utterly disgusting. Any physical progress I had made at the gym this year disappeared pretty quickly. I also began to hate myself a lot. I'd look at myself in the mirror while drunk on tequila and tell my reflection how hideous and useless he was. Then I'd start laughing, and roll a joint or something. The haze continued, as did my depression. I didn't answer my phone (ironic because I had just purchased the best phone my wireless provider offered: the new Motorola E815 with Jabra BT250 bluetooth wireless headset), or check my email, or anything. I think paying my rent, ordering pizza online, and occasionally going to Blockbuster Video if I couldn't wait for my Netflix movies to arrive were my only interactions with other people during that month. I found myself looking at a lot of internet pornography. I noticed that I had the "Speed Channel" playing on my television during a lot of the time too. At times I'd find myself masturbating to the Speed Channel and not even realizing what I was doing. It all became pornography to me. Speed Channel, the Food Network, G4tv, etc. I was more of a mindless, emotionless monster than ever. The only things I felt were hunger, my natural gross human sex drive, and the desire to race cars and shoot people on a video game console.
How did I snap out of it, you ask? I think it was a combination of things. First of all, I came to the realization that my savings account was dwindling rapidly and wouldn't be able to support me at my current disgusting pace for more than another two weeks. Secondly, I thought of a whole bunch of stuff that I really wanted to buy, and to do that, I would need a job. Thirdly, dfjlal;ksdhtal;hdkf;ha dl;khtealkhe hfdnadgj;yepauh3nadn adgashdfasddaken
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