Life, too much like a penis, is short, hard, ugly, and irresistible.
—adam-garden-city (via adam-garden-city)
—adam-garden-city (via adam-garden-city)
For anyone who’s life is easy, I do not envy you. All the happy, shiny people, I do not envy you, either. Life and me, we don’t have things figured out yet. But that’s life - it’s messy and it’s made in that. It thrives, it evolves, and it becomes something more when the perfection is muddled in the madness. Happiness is born from the imperfections of life’s jagged edges. Not the illusion that life is perfect. Live as life is not how you want people to perceive it. Disillusion is the biggest lie of life.
The other day, I answered an unknown number only to spend five minutes on the phone with a debt collector spammer asking them to take me off their call list. The woman on the other end kept asking if I was the person she was seeking, which I kept saying I was not (even though I was.) After numerous attempts, she kept convincing me that she “had this listed as a possible number for him.”
I then said, “Yeah. It was his number. But I killed him, stole his identity, and his cell phone. I can do that with you, too. Then I’ll have two phones.”
[Looking at the mess at work.]
GRACE: What sort of dick made this mess!?
CHASE: I can name a few dicks!
GRACE: Yes, Chase. We know you can name a few dicks.
CHASE: That is an attack on my homosexuality and I do not appreciate it.
GRACE: Well, when you run into a wall…
Last night during work, I went to check my Snapchat for unsolicited kooka shots to get off to under my apron. Just kidding (I’m gay, I hope for peen!) Instead, when I looked down at my phone, I found an e-mail from my ex, ex-boyfriend whom I haven’t really “heard from” in over four years. My college sweetheart, he was the man who broke my heart into a million little pieces that formed a monument of a million little regrets that took nearly three years to tear down.
While I have long since moved on, I didn’t know whether or not I should ignore it like I have all the other attempts he’s made over the years to connect with me, give it a rubbernecker’s gaze, or simply respond. I had no reason to respond to his note but I also had no reason to rebuff it, either. I contacted one of my best friends, Danielle, the only person left in my life who was present during the years we dated, to see what she thought. I showed her the message, which she said was simple, sweet enough, yet with a bit of bragging, but that I should. Though I put forward a bit of demur, I responded anyway and my response couldn’t have more affected by an uncontrollable bout of verbal diarrhea. In repose to his exuberant travels, which has taken him from Stockholm to Moscow to Maui, I think I said something a foolish like, “you must be a world class hooker or work for an international drug cartel (with an on the side job as an interior designer like you always wanted), to be traveling so heavily for work like that.” And then made some hideously flat quip about how I travel, too; sometimes to the grocery store on the other side of town. And since all his messages ended with “Sent from my iPhone,” I ended it with “NOT sent from my iPhone.”
At that point, I definitely started pounding back Patron and softly begun weeping what-the-fuck-did-I-just-say tears, tears so hard after I clicked send that my liver slipped out of my asshole. I’ve heard from my alcoholic friends half in the bottle that drinking to forget is supposed to be good for you, so I decided to do that. Apparently, before and after I sent that e-mail smeared with potvalency.
I have always lived by the mindset that, depending on the nature of the relationship and reason for its demise, you just have to abide by the art of moving on and move the fuck on from it. Get a knife and cut it all out, no matter how hard it will be for you or the other person. Everything about holding on is mind numbingly torturous, like a Michael Bay film. I mean, come on, we’ve all been addicted to the crack pipe that is “Let It Go” from Frozen for the past couple months, so haven’t we learned anything from the song by now? You regret, you feel ashamed and downtrodden by guilt. You recycle it all, you obsess—it’s all an exercise in self-inflicted suffering, which in turn, is insufferable. The only way to feel complacent with yourself is to hush the very thoughts that could possibly threaten it. When you’re holding onto something, something forever unattainable that’s lost to the gray, you’re less open to giving and receiving anything else worth your happiness’s while.
By being this way for nearly four years now towards him, I was eventually able to move on and accept a new love. A new love that unfortunately wasn’t meant to be. As there are so few things in life that lasts forever, every experience and relationship eventually runs its course. Until you find that one that doesn’t. Life is a series of adventures. It’s the highest of tides and the lowest of tides. It pulls you in, and just as quickly, pulls you back out. It’ll flood your shores, every breath you breathe, and we have no choice in the matter. The best way to embrace impermanence, to come up from the bottomless sea, is to translate it into the willingness to trumpet forward. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck braving the pain, waiting for an ambulance that’ll never come.
What good was I doing, I realized, by ignoring this man who no longer is the person that he once was to me? He’s no longer my boyfriend, he’s no longer a love of mine, and he’s not currently the void that fills my heart or the cause of its great discomfort. Our relationship wasn’t even as bad, now that I look back on it, as I’ve made it out to be. Save for the horrendous manner in which he broke up with me. I only thought it was because I was so young when we dated and I was filled with an innocent’s naivety. Time has made him someone totally different with its passing, as it’s made me. Why not take this bad and make it good? Why not let him and I be something different than ghost in life’s shell? Why not answer? Because sometimes, sometimes the rules aren’t worth following and connection has its own time line. Even when the rules you’re breaking are your own.
Thus, I responded. The lines of communication are now open and we walk the line. If only for a message or two, and hopefully we can move on from talks of Jem and the absence of Emma Frost in X-Men: Days of Future Past, or never an e-mail more to be exchanged between us again. At least that road is clearer. When I stop to turn around and look behind me, I’ll no longer be a slave to the wrongs we made in a wasteland under a concrete sky that once was.
It is then, when you begin to talk to someone you’ve closed off for so long, that you truly begin to let go. Do so on your own your own timeline, though. Only when you’re both ready to walk that line together. It’ll take time, perhaps even years, but it will eventually come.
But the question remains: when’s a good time to mention to him the only picture I have saved from our relationship is a picture of his dick?
Why is it every time I see an unattractive, low-level employee dancing around like an intoxicated hobo holding a “We Buy Gold” sign on the street corner, I can’t help but blatantly stare at them?
And think of what they look like naked.
“Baby Got Back” rapper Sir Mix-A-lot entered his name into a Game of Thrones name generator. He got Ser Pounce-A-lot.
I had a dream that actor Brad Renfro was fucking a horse in the ass while said horse was giving birth to a dead Bengal tiger that disintegrated into squid ink upon delivery.
Welcome to my nightmares. A Lars von Trier film.
Whenever I pass a dead animal on the road that has been run over by a careless driver, I never think about how sad it is an innocent creature died.
I’m too busy trying to figure out what animal it used to be.