Sweet Dreams

I haven't dreamed about Chris in a while. A couple of weeks, at least. Last night, my brain blessed me with three. I say blessed because each one was really, really nice. After I woke, I laid in bed for another half an hour in a liminal state, relishing warm sensations that happily stayed with me in waking and didn't dissolve into sadness that it was a reality that cannot and very likely will not ever again be attained.

The first was an easy 50/50 combination of an ad in a magazine that I saw yesterday, a couple, sitting on the edge of a sailboat or other sailing vessel, her in a stark white bikini, him sitting behind her, holding her tightly against him, plus one of my favorite Chris memories, which was the last time I was at his place in early January. I was reorganizing my suitcase, sitting on the floor in his bedroom, when a wave of sad came over me and I poutily said something to him (he was in the living room) about how I just felt like crying. He stopped whatever he was doing and basically came rushing in to wrap his long limbs around me (we are the man and woman version of the same body; long arms, long legs, short torso) from behind, sitting on the floor with me, and he just squeezed me, his arms wrapped around my stomach and chest, and I wept a little, and then started laughing, and then kissed him, and thanked him. I remember even in that moment, I thanked him for being him, that that was the kind of thing he would do, and that I loved him for it. Had he not been so sweet to do so, it's likely the sadness would have lingered for an hour or two. He was always good at diffusing those feelings.

So in the dream, I was wearing white cotton panties and a white bra, nothing else, and he squeezed me like that from behind. It was a reunion moment, and as he wistfully laughed into my ear and my body tingled at his touch, he said, "I missed about 70% of you." I thought that seemed a fair enough amount to miss.

The next dream found us in college, and I received a phone call from the Dr. Seuss Foundation (yes, my brain made up a foundation that carries out the continuing publication of children's stories in a similar vein as Seuss) asking me if I had any completed work or ideas that would fit into their publishing schematic, as they'd seen some of my other work (?) and thought I'd be good in their company. I hung up the phone (a landline, like I seriously was in college), and came slinking into the dorm room (which I apparently lived in alone, as there was a single queen sized bed in there, with a man in it). I leapt on top of the half-sleeping man (the sheets, the comforter, were all notably white, as my bra and panties had been white, and the room was full of sunshine), and told him what had happened through the comforter that was draped over his face. I mentioned the book I'd always wanted to write, based on the first story I ever wrote at the age of four, called Robbie the Hummingbird (true story, and Chris and I had talked about working on this together), and I snuzzled into his ear, through his long hair (it wasn't exactly *Chris* in the dream, he was somewhere between Chris and Andy), and said, "But I'll need an artist to do the book with me. And where, would I find someone like that? I don't know any artists!" and we both giggled and pulled back the covers and started kissing. I remember thinking that something was off, that I didn't know this man in my bed, that his features weren't quite right, that he didn't seem connected to me, nor I to him. And then the hair shortened, the nose became smaller, and it was Chris. We attacked one another with love freshly renewed, and my lord, it was the sweetest, most sensual kissing and touching (but not exactly sexual). It was the sort of making out where you somehow feel clean afterward and almost feel you might never need to bathe again.

The third dream, a lady I've met recently who must vaguely remind me of one of Chris's exes (the only one I actually have met, who is a friend of Lindsay's), was courting Chris. I found a notebook with her musings on this (again, notable whiteness in the paper), and I was a bit hurt. This dream is fuzzy at that point. I know I confronted her, and she apologized and said she didn't know how much I cared for Chris. There wasn't much resolution other than that.

Still, I woke up refreshed, and that liminal half hour was like a milk bath. Would that there was a goddamned thing I could do to facilitate any of that feeling between us again...

Dream in which my ex introduces me to his girlfriend, "Randy".

It's narcissistic to be so awed by my own dreams, but I am. Particularly when they're so linearly constructed, so basic, so realistic, peppered with true behaviour (and internal monologue) from myself and others, by appearances of folks I'd be likely to see in such a scenario. It is genuinely hard for me, when I have dreams like this, which have almost no function of "dream" contained within them, to not believe I am privvy to some glimpse into an alternate reality.

I had one of these dreams last night, and I feel like something's been corrected in the waking by it, because of this real, basic quality it has. Namely, that Andy wanted me to meet his new girlfriend, in order to reduce tensions between he and I, and to aid me in facillitating less internal drama in regard to him. The logic: I'll meet her, like her, see that he's happy with her, and it will help me move on. And, if he were to do such a thing, that is exactly what would happen--the only major problem being that both of us are far too neurotic for it to happen (why make a situation easier when you can make it complicaaaaated?). Secrecy and distance only serve to make me feel I'm being lied to or treated like persona non grata. I thrive on inclusion, and while I understand it is not always, or even frequently possible, given that people do want to keep things for themselves, it does tend to grease the wheels quite a lot in my process of working through any situation which is of high emotional content.

In any case, the dream went thusly:

Andy picked me up, there was another girl in tow, a friend of the girlfriend (clever, no? Now I'm not only not alone with Andy, but one of her friends is there, so I can't even ask questions about her or show emotion toward him). Andy was wearing the shirt I first saw him in, and the shorts I last saw him in (clever, too, you silly brain). We drove through a college campus/New England-y looking area, where we stopped to pick her up; at this point I asked Andy what her name was, and he mumbled, or there was too much noise from the radio, so I barely got it, "Randy? Like 'I like to fuck?'" and he looked at me, disapprovingly, for my crassness; "You'll note that there IS someone new in the car." And there she was, and suddenly, I was sitting next to her in the back seat, and her friend was in the front (the one dream function that took place). Randy. She was like a plain-pretty version of Mila Kunis (Andy is fond of plain-pretty), long dark hair, olive complected, all slight of build, long-limbed, dainty, but with an obvious internal strength, and...a sweetness. She smiled, we shook hands, and I mentioned that she looked familiar; she said something about how that was possible, though she'd been out of town for the past three months off in Europe studying for her graduate degree (of course! My god, how cunning my brain is to provide the details for all the things which would be exactly what Andy craves in a woman; in a woman who is not me--though the only detail I do know is that he thinks she's "sweet"; her physical looks, her name, what she does, who she is, all unknown).

We drove to a large, old stone building, where we were to enjoy various presentations on various things--it was some kind of multi-roomed conference on the campus of this university that both Andy and Randy were attending, which was of interest to all of us, where we'd wander at our leisure and listen to important people tell us important things about important topics, all within this large building, built somewhere in the late 19th century, with marble floors and long, echoing hallways. We split up relatively quickly, and I gathered info on the things of interest to me, but soon hours had passed and I was ready to reconvene with the group. I began to search for them, hoping to not come upon Andy and Randy having some sweet, intimate moment, seeing in my mind's eye how they'd look in an embrace. I eventually wound up in a student lounge (how gorgeous these old buildings are, with student lounges filled with large leather couches and velvet drapes over their floor to ceiling windows) where a girl I've known for years sat with a computer on her lap (she's one of a set of twins, and as always when coming across her, I looked for what makes her Lindsey and separates her from her sister, Taryn). I approached her, and she gave me a soft high five; I sat next to her and asked what she was up to, "Just email," she said, and closed the laptop to pay attention to me. There were other girls on the couch, and I noticed that Taryn sat at the opposite end; we acknowledged one another, and I moved to sit in a more central location on the couch. "Why are you here?" Lindsey asked, an obvious question, since we were not in Minneapolis (and yet why they were there seemed clear, though I know they're not anywhere but Minneapolis). I told them, and then lowered my head and voice a bit to convey the greater reason; to meet the girlfriend of the man I want to marry. An audible sigh/gasp came from the girls around me, and remarks of pity began to be made.

"No, no, it's okay," I said. "She seems really sweet."

I wandered back out into the hallway after a bit, and looked out the window (at a building, which I knew housed a woman on the third floor that I'd assisted moving a few months earlier). The trees were bare of leaves, and it was chilly, not cold, and there was no snow on the ground. I would guess it was November. I heard someone behind me; I turned, it was Andy, leaning against the wall. He looked crestfallen, and he was alone.

Something, I understood, had happened between he and Randy.

And that was where the dream ended.

See how banal that is? It definitely serves a purpose for me, because even though it didn't happen in any reality I know of, the effect is somewhat like if it had. Of course, if I ever do meet the girlfriend, it will be a total mindfuck because she almost certainly will be nothing like "Randy".

The Way The Cookie Crumbles

DATA

Employed: Working a secretarial gig at the management office of a property rental company in downtown Minneapolis with four crass, lovely women, ranging in ages from 26 to 60-something. F-bombs drop like crazy, and laughter is a constant. We have fun. It is through the temp agency, but it seems a foregone conclusion that they will hire me on full time. It is a good fit all around. The building is small, and used to be where coal was housed for the original properties on the lot, which were built in the late 19th century. I work 9:30-6, which is ideal. I'm a mere ten minutes away from home by car, probably less by bike once the weather warms. It's decent enough money to continue to get my shit together financially, while also being a stable environment wherein I can continue to get my shit together in all other areas.

In love: With a man who says he's falling in love/has fallen in love (that distinction was not clarified) with someone else. A someone else, who is, predictably, "everything I'm not", who is "sweet" (why does that word rub me so the wrong way, as if, in this kind of conversation, it's very meaning is geared to rub me the wrong way? Perhaps because that's its very design.), and who he can speak with on matters of art and music and literature without my platform of insecurity. An insecurity, mind you, that he brought about in me by treating each thing he wished to discuss like I had nothing to bring to the table. He says, now, that he realises he does want a wife and kids one day, a notion that he insisted was not even imaginable while he and I were together. All of this, despite his insistence that he's "over me" seems a fairly deeply subconscious psychological effort to stick it to me, which makes no sense, since I know, in my bones, in my heart of hearts, that the one thing he's wholly honest in every way about is that he loved/loves me less than I ever loved him. Why, then, does he feel the need for such a brittle distance, if my not being in his life leaves him so happy?

I can't help but believe there's still an us in the far-flung future. I'm a chronic romantic, you can't beat any sense into me there.

Dating: A fair amount. All of it dull. Even the ones who spark something in me initially turn out boring or flaky and while a different, more chaotic me would have welcomed the flaky if the flake himself were hot enough, this Sarah just cannot give less of a fig about you if you're not going to treat me right. I won't do half-assed any more.

Fucking: Getting none of that whatsoever. The last person I slept with was Andy, in October. Had a taste of the makeout flavour on Friday, and it was so hot I cried (being aroused, well, sometimes, I shed a tear or two it can be so intense), but I'm quickly losing faith that this will end in sexual intercourse for all the prickliness of the man it happened with. He's got no room in his life for anyone but himself and his dog. Which we knew already four months ago when we first did this pretty immediately post-Andy. Our attraction to one another is hella strong, but he won't even budge enough to give me a casual dating scenario, once, twice a week. You're 26, honey. Stop acting like you're 40 and have been living the bachelor life for two decades. Let someone in. Get laid. Have a laugh or two. Snuggle.

I promise it'll be okay.

Pets: I have four cats. I took in two baby kitties and they're...sickly. One just spewed a LOT of pus from his useless, cataracted eye this morning, and, well, it seems to be for the best, his eye looks a lot better now and he's acting fine. I really, really need to get them well and find a home for them. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to get them to a vet to expedite this process. But, as my dear friend Leland said the other day, "You've done right by them". I fret because people tsk tsk at me when I say I can't take them to a vet. I can't. They're not dying. They're happy, they are living super fun lives, and despite their fucked up eyes and the day they shat out worms all over my apartment, I'm taking care of them the best I can, on the cheap. If I hadn't taken them in from my parents' place, they'd surely be dead by now. Coyote food. Instead, they sleep, they play, and they are as loved as the best loved kitties in the whole world.

Peace out.

The Fall & Bad Dates Before Bed (And Val Kilmer & The Mini Deer)

Last night's dream brain produced the following:

Washed up on the shore, floating in the water of some large woodland lake which felt Lake Superior-ish, fifteen or so dead mini deer (think about six inches tall) plus one regular sized deer, their legs chopped off, their stomachs lacerated with short, deep cuts. I spoke with the forest creatures, who were all afraid; "Who did this to the mini deer?" "Well, you know about Val, don't you?" said the forest creatures' spokesperson, a large, upright rodent-like creature (capybera?) with a white belly. I nodded, and looked at my human companion (who had heretofore been the forest creatures' translator, until they realised that I was not in need of an interpreter and then won their trust), "Yes, Val Kilmer. He's in town to do an episode of Law & Order: SVU." The forest creatures' spokesperson nodded, "Yes, we think he's done it."

I investigated the situation, finding that the regular sized deer had been found like that and was used as a prop in the episode, but that Val had an alibi (he was shooting) when all the other, miniature, deer had been murdered. Val Kilmer was not responsible for killing any of the deer, mini or no.

The mystery of who had so brutally killed the mini deer remained unsolved.

This dream segued into a large house, where I lived with a woman who represents many qualities I'd like to have; physically athletic of build, with olive skin, dark, wide eyes (doe eyes? This idea was not unnoticed even in the dream), effortlessly beautiful, stylish, confident.

(It should be noted at this point that I had a date last night that went very, very wrong; the first two hours were fine, even great--talk of our various approaches to various art mediums, life goals, how we'd watch any movie starring Vincent Cassel or Vincent Gallo even if they were largely featured stapling papers or watching paint dry, tattoo ideals, my pulling away entirely from Facebook and text messaging, which he soundly commended and said he respected, and the various strangenesses of people we know mutually.

It was after I'd said I'd just watched The Fall with a friend, and had made dinner at his place that things took a dark turn. He asked what my relationship was with this friend, and when I explained we'd dated but had broken up over two years ago he started to grind his teeth. He went into a lengthy monologue about how his brother [his twin] had just broken up with his girlfriend of six years and how he [happily] felt he'd had a part in that because she was a "cold bitch" to him and "bad" for his brother. This segued deeper into how this girl withheld sex from his brother and that it was probably because she was cheating on him and didn't want "two cocks in her holiest of holies". His language veered consistently toward crass and I calmly expressed my discomfort at it which only incensed him more. He said something about how I'd "already told [him] about everyone [I'd] fucked" [untrue; we'd talked about one person we know mutually that he's been aware I dated since the night we'd met, and of the aforementioned friend] he couldn't be "worried about all my exes showing up at my door" when he and I were together and when I said that 90% of my male friends are exes, his eyes quite literally bulged at the news. Conversation continued to grow darker and it ended with him informing me that he'd been attracted to me but there was now no chance [as if any interest in him lingered other than in psychological case study on my end at that point], and he then spat out several invectives including belittling all the people we know mutually [insinuating some of them had herpes, implicating that I probably did too] and calling me a bitch, then said that he "disagreed with almost everything" I'd been saying including distancing from Facebook and texts. He quoted Oscar Wilde to this end. He seemed to want to make me feel pointless. I found myself acknowledging the futility of the situation and despite feeling actual fear [there were two points at which I thought he might hit me], I laughed lightly and told him it was time for him to leave. He told me to "continue with the popularity contest" [a reference, apparently, to my earlier statement to him that I have little drive to make myself successful artistically, unfortunately, despite having made many helpful connections the eight plus years I've lived in Minneapolis] and got up from the table. He went to the bathroom. Then he stood at the bar, awkwardly, for a couple of minutes. I busied myself signing the credit card slip for my drinks and didn't watch him go.

To his credit, and oddly, he stated several times that he knew he was being an asshole, and when I said that he was behaving a bit crazy, he agreed with me. He seemed incapable of stopping himself once he'd gotten started. He never raised his voice, and was polite to the server when he asked for the tab. I told him he seems to have a hair trigger when it comes to trust and jealousy with women and he agreed with this too. And yet he was still conveying to me that his action was my fault.

All of this is a damn shame, of course. He's a very, very physically attractive lad with perfect fashion sense [last night's outfit: pea coat, light long sleeved v-neck tee with navy stripes with a white thermal shirt layered underneath, dark grey jeans with belt, and tan loafers]. He's about 5'11", slender, but not thin, with slightly shaggy dark hair, intense blue eyes and thick eyebrows. By and large, he's a darker, Slavic-looking version of Lee Pace [a fact observed while watching The Fall earlier]. And until things took their dark turn, we were aptly flirtatious and got along quite well [it should also be noted that we'd kissed several times at the bar on two previous occasions, but in our relative sobriety last night were enjoying flirtation mixed with the proper kiss pre-cursor of staring briefly at one another's lips instead of actual kissing]. It seems charmingly fitting that the entire time we were being serenaded by live music called the Bookhouse Trio doing string/brass versions of Twin Peaks songs at Café Barbette, a candlelit and intimate setting.

A damn, damn shame.

And, in writing this out, I now feel less completely shaken by the experience. So, I shall commence with the dream [if you're still with me].)

This girl and I were not friends, just housemates. I'd just slept with The Mexican Who Does Not Want Me (a frequent topic of this blog, who at this point I am over but apparently my brain likes to use him as a dream archetype), and I think he lived with us too. Knowing what was going to happen, I went upstairs to clean and hours later, I found them together lying naked under a blanket. I attempted to explain to them why this was a little fucked up, but they just laughed coy, post-coital laughs. Things jumped to TMWDNWM coming downstairs with a slightly decomposing, bloated rodent corpse, which he said his mother had found in the ducts. He looked at me pointedly, as if it were my fault a thing like that had gone unnoticed. (His mother, notably, died recently.) The girl took this corpse, and we determined that it was a ferret. She skinned it, and we found that it was possessing a biomechanical jaw (I recently injured my own jaw with an electric drill). Through an elaborate process, she removed the bones one by one for me and placed them in a bowl. Then she replaced each bone with a metal, mechanical counterpart. I could smell that the ferret's flesh was rotting. I got the impression that the end goal was to bring the ferret back to life.

Dream jump to a Gothic architecture version of The Fall's Labyrinth of Despair (where everything had a blue tinge like we were in Underworld) and me being a 22-year-old me in Paris; long dark blonde hair, ankle length beautifully tailored black wool trench coat, Doc Martens with black jeans and black sweater. I was being chased by a very strong vampire (who feels like a proxy for last night's date); there were trickeries with an elevator, and when I finally reached the highest point of the Labyrinth, where, in The Fall, the woman trapped there realised she could only escape by jumping and therefore killing herself, I jumped and found that by grabbing the voluminous lower portion of my coat and flapping, I could fly. The vampire was bound to the Labyrinth of Despair and thus I was free of him.

I landed safely on the ground, next to a very nice dog I know named Oxford (who, incidentally, could also fly). Oxford is owned by a pretty incredible fellow I was dating briefly a month ago. Ox and I went off down the path to find him, together.

Scrabble-less

This gal can't play Scrabble anymore. It was such an intrinsic part of mine and Andy's relationship, it feels like a betrayal to engage in it with anyone else. He beat me every time of probably a hundred games in a year, excepting four. He was a shitty loser, blaming bad tiles or a failed strategy for his loss, which pretty much made my wins moot since it had nothing to do with my own skill and everything to do with his lack of it, obviously. But I went into every game with him knowing that's the way it would be, and I didn't play to win, I played to play with him. Because it was two, three, four hours of listening to records, sipping coffee or wine, with breaks for lingering love looks and smooch breaks.

He's got in his custody our Scrabble score book, which has the scoring of each one of our games since mid-October, 2009. Sometimes, while the other would be taking his turn, the other would start a drawing, and we'd take turns adding to it. The book is full of our insane doodles, some sweet, some creepy, some a commentary on the relationship at large. Last we discussed the book, post breakup, he said he'd been playing Scrabble with friends, but hadn't, and wouldn't, use the book with anyone else. I hope that remains true. In that book, and its designated use, and the fact that he's still got it in his possession, even though we currently cannot bear to be around one another, well, in that book is something akin to hope.

I miss Scrabble so much. And by Scrabble, I mean Andy.

Housewife, Sans House or Husband

As my brownies-from-a-mix were baking (sub olive oil for vegetable oil, add peppermint bark chips) just an hour ago, a thought occured to me:

Perhaps I am not meant to have a career per se. Perhaps all this beating my head against the wall, all this existential ennui is just silliness, like women in the middle of the last century getting Home Ec degrees at Brown to pass time until they got a husband. Maybe I'm just biding my time until marriage.

Of course, this is complete rubbish. Well, except for the minutiae which are not. Facts:

I am an incredible cook.
I keep a clean home.
I am organised, and detail oriented.
I am terrific with children.

In short, I could quite excel at being a housewife.

That is, were it not for a persistent gnawing at my gut for change, for personal control, and the fact that I know ennui, existential or no, would not fully abate, then I could quite excel at being a housewife.

What I could be, though, is a woman who works from home in the sort of job that would not need to be relied upon wholly for stability, or to do something in which I was relatively autonomous. Carpentry, I think, could fulfill this need, both as personal fulfillment, as well as providing finances to the home.

I think a lot about marriage. I just got out of a serious relationship, or at least a relationship which seemed more serious than any I'd been in previously, and most definitely one I'd wanted to turn toward marriage, and thus am currently in no position to be handing over that level of commitment to anyone. And yet, when I am out and about, I'm looking at people no longer as potential playmates, but as partners. Given my lifestyle, there is a dearth of options.

A friend joked last week, "You're going to have to spend a lot more time at Target Field."

All The Things She Said, Running Through My Head.

Could the internal monologue just shut up?

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

And then I'm crying, sobbing, in my car with my head against the steering wheel.

What do you do to get over the best thing that's ever happened to you? What do you do when the person who seemed to have read the manual on how to love you, make you laugh, talk to you, be there for you just up and runs? How can you move on from that?

Everything in the opposite sex pales in comparison. I lose myself for a few hours in the Gilmore Girls and swooning over Milo Ventimiglia and then it's all stabby stab in my heart because he's not the face I could or want to wake up to every morning, which is to say nothing of the general populace, who actually make me feel without hope. Andy came into my life and it was a god damn pop song. Halo, by Beyoncé, to be exact. My walls came crumbling down. I let him in without any hesitation.

But no, it didn't last.

And so, when a 23 year old texts me some nasty things after he's been out with me and I've been a bit coquettish and something of a tease and the texts go on about wanting me wrapped around his cock and how someday, he's happily going to listen to me scream, yes, I get turned on, and yes, I imagine him touching me and yes, I rub one out and it's perfectly sexy, but then it just turns terribly sour and I'm feeling ill in the morning (just like when this charming child and I kissed two weeks prior), and the VERY SIMPLE FACT is that the only person I have any interest in is Andy. I can't just fuck someone anymore, no matter how dirty they talk to me. I never was very good at it to begin with, I don't fuck to fuck, I fuck to feel, and what I want to feel when I'm fucking is LOVE.

And my god, Andy loved to fuck me and I loved to fuck him and he made me feel amazing, like the sexiest woman to ever cross his path, and he touched me better than anyone ever has, and he cared, he cared to make me happy, not only in bed but in every way, and now it's been almost two weeks since I've heard a single word from him and it's not okay. I'm not okay.

I found one of his hair ties on my desk last night, and it's been a rapid degradation ever since, I have it wrapped around my fingers, I slept with it last night.

Hence, head against the steering wheel, sobbing about half an hour ago.

And I found a band I love. Liars. Oh, how I've taken to them, like Dirty Projectors a couple of weeks ago, and what do I do? Andy, Andy, Andy, you're the one I want to gleefully present this music to, to talk about it, and maybe you've heard them already and have an opinion to present, and maybe, like we often do with music, we will have completely different ways of appreciating it, philosophising it, and then there'd be laughter and kisses and love making and sleep.

I love you Andy and god damn it, I just don't think that's going to change. In fact, distance, this time, instead of bringing me to a point where I can breathe and pull away from you, is in fact, making the heart grow fonder. I can breathe better now that I'm not in a constant panic spiral, and I'm thankful for the realisations I've had (that I want you, that I'm bored with Drunk, Slutty Sarah), but I want it to be over now. I miss you. I remember the few annoying tics you have with ardor now. I want to kiss every square inch of you and read books and make dinner and go for walks where I complain about how cold it is and you smoke your cigarette, always blowing the smoke straight up, away from me because you're sweet and polite like that, and you make fun of me because I'm cold, and I want to sip whiskey with you, and get into arguments that make me realise I'm being an ass. I want to love you, actively.

I never needed you, I never felt panicked about you. Do you realise how different that is for me? And I know I was different for you, too. I made you feel strong, like a man.

But baby, you let the chaos win, and it scares the hell out of me.

Chad.

On Wednesday, I went to the airport to pick up Chad. I don't talk about Chad enough. I don't give Chad enough credit. Every now and again, I mention Chad to people, and they look back blankly. "Who's Chad?" Who's Chad. hm.

Chad will be my Dude of Honour if I ever get married, and this is why: On Wednesday, in the first five minutes riding to my place from the airport, Chad boiled down the Andy situation in a manner that pulled me back from the ledge, soothed me, and gave me hope all at once. When Chad and I have conversations, I always feel that my heart has opened up and positivity, energy and love have crawled into spaces that had previously been dark. And maybe most tellingly, despite Chad and I being very attractive, interesting, exciting, sexually potent people, we've never been interested in one another. After fifteen years, unlike a single other male in my life that meets that criteria, we remain, simply, 100% friends.

After detailing the nutshell version of the Sarah Andy saga, Chad put a spin on it no one else has. My friends, lovely people that they are, can be jaded, bitter, and distrustful of those around them, and often do not take what a person has to say at face value, looking for the lie in everything. Some of the people I've looked to for comfort and support the past year have in fact done the opposite by inspiring fear and paranoia in me, by tearing down the person I love in the hopes that it will make me feel better. It doesn't. Chad, on the other hand, immediately identified with Andy's struggle, and felt, emotionally, that Andy must be quite like him. I was terrifically amused by this because on my first date with Andy, I commented (or maybe just made note to myself, I'm hazy on that) on how Andy's hand gestures reminded me of my friend Chad, and then once I came to know Andy, I found his emotional spikes and fluttery way of panicking and letting things get out of control to be reminiscent of a young Chad as well. And while that emotional opera still exists within Chad, he's harnessed it, and he's settled into a beautiful life in Portland with his wife Junie and their two gorgeous children Ariana and Jarvi.

What Chad had to say about Andy's actions took all of my anger away. Instantly. As I rambled about how angry this all makes me, how it's unfair and how it's unecessary, Chad stilled me by saying, "Sarah, be angry if you want, but I think what Andy's doing is brave. He sees what he has to do, and knows he has to do it without your needs or influence getting in the way, knowing that in the process, he might lose you." This, and a few other well-put observations just took the piss right out of me.

So now it's been six days, almost, since I've had any contact with Andy. I want to text him, to say I miss him. But I don't want to disturb whatever bubble he's made for himself the past few days and I don't want to do that to myself either; no response would be upsetting, but a reply of "I'm sorry, but I don't feel the same way" would bring immeasurable ruin to the current state of my mind palace. No, best to just let things alone. I don't see myself contacting him at all, frankly. Even a month from now, any rejection would set back my emotional progress by weeks. I'm now in the position of pointedly avoiding bars or events he might be at. I hate this phase.

God, is it really the end? Please, no. I've done terrible things to people over the years, and I believe in karma, and I believe my romantic troubles the past five years are an atonement for all of the wrong I did before. But I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not. A little peace, in a time of war, Universe. Please.

Chad and I sat by the river in Montevideo and chatted whilst drinking chai tea. He says I've taught him more about the female mind than anyone else has. It makes me chuckle to hear this, since he's been with me for the bulk of the development of my female mind. He has born witness to nearly all the phases of me which were important as a woman coming of age. He's been through the giddiness and love and heartache brought on by probably one hundred boys over these years. Which made it particularly telling when he said this:

"You talk about Andy differently than anyone else."

I know Chad. I know.

R.I.P. Drunk, Slutty Sarah

This is the time of day I miss him most. About two hours after sundown, until about midnight. The time, if things were not as they are, that we'd likely be making dinner, drinking tea, having kisses, embraces, flopped on a couch, lazing on a bed, listening to music, reading books, gabbing about music and books and pop culture and the lives we live and want to live and the people we love and have loved. It would be nice. It would be cozy. It would be the life I want to live. But, this is not the life I am living. Well, I am, but it is without him. Without Andy.

It has been five days, two hours and eight minutes since I last contacted him. Obviously, since I know this to the minute, it has not been easy, and the time has moved with something of the quality of sludge. But he asked this of me, and it's necessary. The level of drama was driving him insane and he couldn't sustain it any longer. I don't blame him, nor do I disagree with him. After this request and the subsequent indignation/fear of losing him that completely sent me into a fever pitch/tailspin/feedback loop of my own--while at work which actually makes it much easier to manage as I've got something physical to focus on and thus cannot curl into the fetal position and give into the feeling as I would likely do were I not at work--a very clear voice in my brainpan gave me what I recognised as my only two options, of which only one was viable: 1.) Continue falling apart, letting the beams holding me together and all the work I've done the past year to be better at this than this just crumble to nothing, refuse to stop contacting him, allow sheer panic to make me behave like an idiot, driving him further and further away, or 2.) Calm the fuck down and just let the boy go because I HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE.

I chose number 2.

And my lord, I'm a good decision maker. Seems I couldn't sustain the drama any longer either. The nausea is gone. I can drink coffee again without the caffeine making my heart thump directly out of my chest. Hell, my heart isn't even trying a little bit to thump out of my chest, it actually appears to be in a resting state! I mean, there are little spikes of fear, but mostly, I feel good, I'm no longer feeling like a crazy person, and logic has found a roost once again.

Other realisations come to based on my fruit loop actions the past two weeks: 1.) I don't give a fuck about either of the residual crushes/loves that were doing a bit of haunting me while with Andy. The first showed up at the bar the night of my previous blog. He started texting me at 4 a.m. about how we should talk. The next day, we "talked" via text, as that's really the only way he knows how to communicate with any profusion and even at that he's terrifically poor as nearly every emotion he manifests is somewhere along the rage-fear continuum. He wanted to apologise for accusing me of raping him, isn't that nice? You see, he'd felt "trapped" before, and that seemed a truly logical way of pushing me out of his life and so he's sorry! It was just a whoopsie. He also made horrifically disparaging remarks about the girl he was supposedly in love with while he and I were "friends", and claimed that she'd made him a misogynist. Of course, he always was. But... turns out I didn't really give a shit about any of this. Sure, I appreciate the apology, however weak it is, but mostly I didn't care to engage him in my life, felt no pangs of anything other than knowledge of the past and indifference. Huh. And here I thought I'd be stuck with that one for another five years before I muddled through it completely.

The other one, the Mexican Who Don't Want Me, well, he popped back up on my facebook friends last week. After I'd deleted him a month ago. How this internet chicanery went down I do not know, but it was as if the Universe had decided to say, "Hey, are you sure? You think maybe you wanna write him a 'Are you sure you don't wanna fuck me?' letter? Or perhaps something brief and witty about how you'd deleted him but hey, there he was again, what an amusing thing!?!? I mean, we have the same birthday, so probably there's some kind of cosmic alliance, right?" Nope. There was confusion and mild revulsion. Delete button pressed again, this time, hopefully, for good.

2.) In the same vein as the Mexican Who Don't Want Me, the Universe also put a tiny, baby crush dating back to August in my path again. I, shitfaced Drunk, Slutty Sarah, smooched on him and it was lovely and all and he and I made plans to canoodle and fuck about in the near future. Except the next day I just felt like puking (a combination of the act and the liquor, but psychologically, the act). And I went over to Andy's that night to drop off some things I had for him, distraught, not wanting to see him as I knew my then-tenuous equilibrium would be smashed, but he insinuated we should talk, so we did, and lo, equilibrium decimation, with a mother fucking boulder, anvil, Mack truck, a dumpster and a small handful of metaphorical coffee beans.

Andy misses me! Andy's uncertain about his decision!

FUCK.

My brain does some serious spiraling out of control and by the next night, I'm texting him about how he's robbed me, how he's shitting on love, and mostly, how it was completely fucking UNFAIR of him to say that to me without having any intention of acting on it. My panicked rage via text, email and phone call onslaught led to last Tuesday's request that I just leave him alone. Which, as previously stated, I have done, and it's been good.

Anyway. This brings me to 3.) I have zero interest in being Drunk, Slutty Sarah anymore. I reverted to her last week, and despite being greeted with applause by everyone who has been lonely without me during the past couple dating Andy months, I find she really fucking sucks. She has to sleep 'til 2 to get over the bulk of the drunk, and then she feels like shit the whole god damned day. She acts without thinking, she speaks without thinking, she is a lot of fun to be around, but she is not who I want to be. Not anymore.

Which, while with Andy, I lamented her passing. Was uncertain I was ready to throw in the towel on her. Felt a little trapped not being her.

Turns out she's quite the bore to be anymore. Not interested.

All of this information just comes back to the same spot.

I'm in love with Andy. I am comfortable with Andy.

I hope like hell his path brings him to the conclusion of the same toward me. And if he doesn't, then I've made some solid progress on myself that I will continue to build upon. I'm starting therapy again. Something has rattled loose these past couple weeks, and while I could parse it out myself, I'm certain an impartial party can only be beneficial.

It's all good, it's all growth. And little of it would have happened if Andy and I had remained together, awkwardly dealing with separate but equal panics.

/end blog

Dream in which I am a nascent badass

My dreams the past few days are really giving me quite a show. There is a school I often dream of which has parts of Sioux Valley (a building that is elementary, jr. high and high school in one, and where I attended sixth through ninth grade), parts of my elementary school Henry Neill (which has been torn down and now the lot is occupied by an Arby's and a video store; gross), and nothing of my high school in Montevideo. Mostly, though, it is not like these places I know at all. Great arbors of trees, long perfectly angled sidewalks, impeccable green grass. In other words, the school is far more well-to-do than any place of education I've ever attended.

Of course, I was thinking about matters of learning and inferiority yesterday; I come from such a working class family (my father's side of the tree is significantly more middle class, but I was not raised with their artful, intellectual pursuits, I was raised on fart jokes, mockery and bigotry; well-mocked for my own, independently artful and intellectual pursuits [I remembered the other day how I read The Age of Innocence and a biographical book on Anton Mesmer when I was fourteen and felt I deserved a metorphorical pat on the back for that]), that recently, with my accumulation of a small cadre of friends who come from a far more leisure class existence, I think it's bothering me significantly. I was raised on Velveeta in the spaghetti sauce (sauce made from a packet and home-canned tomato sauce), Cool Whip or pistachio pudding made up the bulk of desserts at holidays, and I didn't have butter until I went to college. I used to be amused by this, but lately I feel sick. But then that thought makes me sick. My childhood, my upbringing, with it's glorified white trash dichotomy of love and fucked-up-ed-ness, made me who I am. And I love who I am. I am comfortable with me. I suppose I'm just engaging in some useless, fruitless, frustrating "what if" thinking. I think I'm just angry that I keep hearing about the tween-aged versions of people I know galavanting about Paris with their only marginally older siblings and no adult supervision, getting drunk on rooftops eating McDonald's (yes, in the last month, I've heard this tween-run-free scenario TWICE).

The idea of meeting Andy's family fills me with a powerful dread; my ex, Dan, came from similar background and his mother absolutely HATED me and let me know exactly how inferior I was to her son every time she saw me. I get the impression Andy's family is wonderfully warm and lovely so I'm not sure why I'm wrapped up in this right now, especially since it's highly unlikely it'll ever happen that I meet them. And then there's the idea of Andy meeting my family; it makes me feel like it would be like stepping into an episode of Roseanne for him, which also fills me with dread. My family has done increasingly well financially over the last ten years, but I'm sure they're still eating Velveeta. We do have butter now at holidays, though.

The dream I started to speak of, well my intent was to simply describe how there was a taco bar on the lawn in it. And that one of the girls I used to date was there, and when I undressed her, her breasts were impossibly long, flat, pointy pancakes that tasted like sweat. I had to apply some decorum to the situation and not gag.

Because really, I came here to write about another dream. Which now seems less important.

Suffice to say I was a man wearing an oil cloth duster and I had a collection of various sizes of crucifixes under this coat, one of which was a silver-plated filigree shotgun that I'd "rented" and showed up to a college lecture with it in tow. There was murder on my mind. But I was a little dorky. Probably wasn't gonna murder nobody.

(post-posting editorial note: obvious as all get out, but everything in the crucifix and gun dream is an item of protection. I'm a man--strong, theoretically impervious; I'm dressed basically as a cowboy; I'm covered in crucifixes, and I have a fucking GUN that's a crucifix too. I know Andy was in this dream, I can't remember where or why. It wasn't him I was aiming to kill. I knew I wasn't going to kill anyone.)





I miss you Andy. I think you're in a place now which means we can never return to the place that was ours.

A Blog That Was And Is Just A Comment On My Friend's Blog, But I Think It's a Pretty Good One So Shut Up

(In response to the ever-lovely Sweet Bird of Mischief's blog on lametards)

I have found the most perfect man I have ever had the pleasure of having, purely by accident, that is, by galavanting about in the exactly the same manner as you have with the craptardedest dudes (but having fantastic sex all the while because you and I both know what's how these douchebags really lure us in) and lamenting to the heavens that I have poor taste.

Turns out I don't have poor taste. I just had to weather some bullshit (and fantastic sex) for a while. My god, this boy makes me full of swoon. He's already made me a hand painted mix cd with a picture of a cemetery on the front. He's told me I get more and more beautiful every time he sees me. He puts his hand on my knee when he's driving. He wants to see me as often as possible, but it's not clingy or intense or weird. Our second date was his choice; an art gallery. He sings like an angel. He isn't an alcoholic, has a Lit degree and works with autistic kids in the same job he's had for four years. I could go on and on. It's been nearly a month since our first date and he still shows no sign of being a shitprick even a little bit, nor does he show any sign of boring me even a little bit anytime soon. Plus, he fucks like a champion and has one of the most beautiful dicks I've had the joy of fellating.

In other words, just do what feels right, your various kinks that make you a potentially suck girlfriend will work themselves out as you continue to date retards, and then one day, you'll be sitting at your favourite bar and see a lad so overwhelmingly magnetic to you all you can do is stare at him for two hours. And then, to continue this "theoretical" scenario, you'll see him again two weeks later and stare at him another hour before enough whiskey is in your system to get up the gumption to hand him your number, hastily written on a bar napkin. You'll chuck said napkin at him, tell him you find him attractive, shake hands, then run away, assuming he'll never, ever call you and the only relationship you've got in the future is the complete avoidance of him the next time you see him a month later, both of you knowing he wasn't interested in calling your weird napkin flinging ass. But he'll call. And you'll go on a date to your favourite little dive bar that the hipsters honestly haven't discovered yet, and everything that comes out of his mouth will be kind of like looking at a list of all you've ever wanted, checking items off one by one, to the point that it's like somewhere, there's got to be a manual that was written about you and this dude read it cover to cover. And then when you go outside with him so he can smoke, you'll tell him you want to kiss him because you know that's the last checkmark and you assume he's gonna be an awful or dull kisser or it's just not gonna spark, but it does, and it does in a way that's like crashing planets and Jerry Bruckheimer explosions, and a pleasant little voice in your head will say, "My, you're a goner; you're done for," and you'll give that voice a smirk and a little nod and go home with the boy, absolutely hating that you've got to remove yourself from his embrace to drive the mile to his house, and you'll get to his house and it's an honest to god adult house that he lives in with two other dudes and the place isn't trashed, and he'll take you to his room, and though he's got a twin bed, he makes self-depracating mention of that fact immediately, and then puts on some absolutely lovely music you've never heard. So it stands to reason, then, that he's gonna fuck up somewhere in the making out process, pull some shit you don't like, but he doesn't. In fact, his caresses are heated and passionate but not pawing, he's graceful and purposeful and treats you like you are a woman to be treasured. And then, you've got to assume that no one is this perfect, so he's definitely gonna have a small dick. But shit son, he doesn't! Aw hell. Hell hell hell.

And yes, you'll be a goner too and you'll have nothing for that little voice in your head but a smirk.

Manizer

I'm a Manizer. But I'm not. The term Womanizer implies, to me, deceit, manipulation, bullshit. Doing anything one can to get into someone's pants. That ain't me, babe. But I will be completely straightforward about my intentions, and I will be trying to get into your pants. Those are my intentions. I generally also require some kind of emotional attachment, but it is by no means emotional attachment on an exclusive level. I am capable of loving, and giving love to many. Okay, perhaps "many" is a bit much. Two. Three people at a time. Maximum. Minimum, really. Which does not negate the previous blog's statement about seeking a committed relationship. Until that happens, this is what happens: I collect, sample, discard, compute, understand, probe, adore, worship, obsess, roll around in, burrow, lick, suck, sniff, compile, arrange, make mental spreadsheets, love, hate, like and enjoy the presence of people I want to enjoy the presence of. It's not complicated, but for some goddamned reason, everyone wants to make it complicated.

It's science, it's biology. Just roll with it.

On How I Am Hilarious

Text from last night, not from Texts From Last Night.

"I found a replacement crush. You're off the hook."

See... I write shit like that when I'm shit-bombed and some people get it, some people don't. I suspect the lad who received said text is in the latter party.

HE HAS NO IDEA I GIGGLE LIKE A SCHOOLGIRL WHEN I WRITE SHIT LIKE THAT.

lulz.

Short blog, said shit three times.

Good work, me.

Fuck microblogging.

Let's see if I can do this anymore. Twitter and Facebook updating have wreaked havoc upon the long-format thought. I ponder in 140 characters, or in witticisms or charms that might cause clever jabs and parries. I need a typewriter and a week long stay in a remote location. Before wifi is literally in every god damn nook and cranny of this planet...

Leaping in--

I've been thinking a lot about the nature of masculinity and how terrifically hard the balance must be. The alpha male. The leader of the pack. I have some experience here, as I am often the alpha in situations, co-ed or no. That comes with its own problems, but as a woman, my concerns are not with how blunt, vulgar or brash I am--all that's implied by this is that I have masculine qualities, which are dominant, in control, strong. But for a man, especially one who wishes to be in control, and to give the impression of stoicism, the opposite is true; show emotion, give insightful commentary, and suddenly you are not viewed as much as the Lothario, but as something soft, weak, feminine. I think this may be the hardest thing about being a man. It takes a truly confident male to strut about like a peacock giving off heady fumes of lust, but who can also meaningfully impart his thoughts, unabashedly displaying emotion, daring anyone to question the veracity of the meat dangling between his legs. In truth, of the men I have the fortune of being close to, I can think of only one who has achieved such a thing, and I know it's been a hard road for him to get there. I'd put money on him in any bar fight, but he cries like a bitch (See? Cries like a bitch; even I do it) at the Notebook. He'll be there for you for any genuine need, but he will not hesitate to tell you you're actin' a fool. He inspires strength of all kinds because he is offensive, sensitive, loving and cruel. Spending time with him is always fulfilling. Our relationship is not sexual, but our interaction is sexually potent, a reminder of our youth and fertility; I feel healthy and... yes, I think engorged is the right word, in his presence. I recently told him I wanted to find someone to love me the way he does, except, you know, with all the boyfriendy parts.

Which brings me to my next thought:

I would like a boyfriend. I want to be in love.

There, I said it. Now, the disclaimer: The above statement is not technically true. What I want on that front is still in the gestation phase, and after months now of being casually, but emotionally involved with one to three people at once, I think I'm ready for a committed phase. I miss having someone to cook for. I miss the assumption of someone next to me as I sleep. I miss the tedious things that are part and parcel of a romantic, one on one relationship. But, like many things that are a big step, I've got to say it out loud, talk about it, if you will, in order to become comfortable with it.

It's all a work in progress.