[Originally posted here, on the UserFriendly.org web forum.]
(In Which The Author Laments The Dichotomy Of Virtual And Physical Life.)
It’s obvious that I don’t get along well in the Real World. If all you know of me is what you see here, it may be hard to understand why.
… I came into this world, kicking and screaming.
Actually, I think my mother was doing more of the screaming. (I was a big baby. 9 pounds, 6 ounces.)
Some time ago, one of the myriad antidepressants advertised on television—I don’t remember which—had an ad that stuck in my head. The part that stuck was an actress saying, “I used to be happy. I remember being happy.”
It struck me that I didn’t. I knew I was depressed, but I honestly didn’t remember ever being truly happy. Every depression questionnaire I’ve ever read asked if the symptoms had lasted at least a month: “Does since the day I was born count?”
Since, I’ve had a few times when I thought I was happy. I doubt I really was, but I had fooled myself into thinking I was. I’m not even sure what it feels like.
I’ve seen ‘counselors’ about this, who referred me to psychiatrists, who put me on drugs. They didn’t help much. About the only real effect of the antidepressant I was most recently prescribed (Lexapro) was a side effect that I shouldn’t discuss in polite company. (Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? The side effect was that I was practically unable to orgasm. It sounds like a good thing, but believe you me, going for three hours without a happy ending is a recipe for eternal frustration.)
Thursday I see yet another psychiatrist. (I could have gone back to the USF psychiatrist I had been seeing, but I really don’t like her; she basically didn’t listen to me at all.) I’m going to ask to be put on a different antidepressant. I need a massive dose of Lexapro to see any effect—while side effects set in at much lower doses—and Wellbutrin didn’t do much at all. Maybe this time I’ll find something that works.
I ran across this today, and while I guess it’s too late to repair the damage already done, this is my philosophy from now on:
“If You Forget Me”
I want you to know
one thing.You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.— Pablo Neruda
(Note: this entry is being written under the influence of a great deal of whisky and emo.)
So, a couple of days ago, Bonnie emailed me asking if I wanted to visit MOSI. As we had been planning to go for some time, I readily agreed. Frankly, I was looking forward to it.
I drove there today (it’s about 75 miles from my house, in Tampa) and we met up. As soon as we stepped inside, into the welcome center, we sat down and she started giving me the Friends Speech: I’m just not in love with you, but I hope we can be friends, blah blah fucking blah. I don’t remember much of what happened after that; I literally didn’t move for about ten or fifteen minutes, as I was still trying to come to terms with what I was hearing. She left early on.
Eventually I walked back to my car, by myself, and drove home.
I don’t really know how to feel. The usual suspects are all there—pain, anger, sadness—but, if I had to describe what I feel right now… it’d be emptiness. There’s a gaping hole. I really don’t feel anything very strongly. (That’s only partially due to the whisky.)
I still don’t know what to think, either. It came as quite a shock—I thought things were going fine—but in retrospect, I think I understand how she behaved at some points. She never seemed as ‘into’ anything we did as I was, and most of the times we went out, we went out with her friends and I felt like a fifth wheel.
In my more assholish moments, I’ve wondered whether she was merely keeping me around as an academic tutor, and now that she doesn’t need my help, she lets me go… though I doubt that. My guess is that she was in the same situation I was: lonely, desperate, searching for someone who would look past the physical attributes to see what’s inside, trying to find someone willing to accept us for who we were instead of who society wanted us to be. The difference is that I genuinely wanted to be with her. In a sense, I still do.
Despite this, I don’t think I could trust her enough to go back. She broke my heart already, and even if she did come back, I couldn’t imagine myself putting myself in that position again. I’m willing to be friends, and we’ll see what happens.
Sometime soon (probably next weekend) I’m going to make sauerbraten for Bonnie. [A friend gave me an excellent recipe for sauerbraten, which I have included after the fold.] However, there are quite a few logistical issues I have to work out first.
The most important issue is that cooking sauerbraten is an extremely pungent process; you’re cooking meat in simmering vinegar. Bonnie’s sister (who she lives with) has strong reactions to some odors. I certainly won’t be able to cook it inside her house. This leaves two options: my house or a grill outside. I’ve never tried using a dutch oven on a grill.
That still leaves the issue of transport: Bonnie lives in the Tampa area. I live close to Orlando. It’s a hundred miles, doorstep to doorstep, which translates to at least two hours of driving. I don’t want to risk food poisoning from having uncooked meat sit in an un-cooled trunk for two hours. If I cook it at my house, it’ll get cold by the time I get there, but there’s less risk of illness. On the other hand, it tends to get gelatinous and less than pleasant when it’s cold. On the other hand, I can put the entire thing, dutch oven and all, into one of the plastic tubs in my trunk and pack it with ice. This should keep it cool for a few hours, but it introduces the risk of having meltwater run into the dutch oven and contaminate the meat.
I could buy the ingredients down there, but since I have to marinate for three days, I don’t think the timing would work out. Marinating for more than three days results in something inedibly sour, and less than three days results in a bad-tasting pot roast.
Right now I’m leaning toward cooking it here and bringing the finished product with me, but there’s still some time to consider this problem.
Yes, that’s right… Bonnie and I went to her doctor, and it’s conclusive: we’re going to be parents.
Update [1 Apr 2006, 21:45 EST]: This has been a regularly scheduled test of the Emergency April Fool Pregnancy Scare Test. If this were an actual pregnancy scare, I would be planning a wedding right now. (Yes, I still have some semblence of honor.)
Nice guys finish last. That’s still true.
However, when we finish, we finish forever. We’re more likely to be Mr. Right instead of Mr. Right-Now. Don’t make the mistake I made of assuming women can’t see that.
I know it hurts to watch others having fun while you feel left out in the cold. But when things change—and they will—it’ll be better than the jocks can even dream of. What you’ll have is true love, not just the series of flings jocks get.
I know. I’m in the same situation. And things just changed for me. I’ve never been this happy before.
I love you, Bonnie.
I’ve never been one to have a great deal of faith in the supernatural. I’ve always been raised to trust my own senses and my own logic, and most importantly, to keep my mind open and working. However, every theistic religion I’ve ever been exposed to has demanded that I shut my higher brain functions down and accept their message without question or thought; I should trust the Bible/Quran/Bhagavad-Gita because the Bible/Quran/Bhagavad-Gita says I should trust the Bible/Quran/Bhagavad-Gita.
For a while, I was able to fool myself into believing that I believe, and fool others. Somehow I kept open a loophole in my logic to allow the existence of a self-contradictory and nonsensical deity, and I was able to follow along in hollow, meaningless rituals to please others. Only recently have I been able to admit that that loophole has closed, and now I can say that I see things as they truly are.
I am an atheist.
(Entry reposted from the User Friendly message board.)
I’ve been hanging out with a girl I know (I’ll refer to her as Bonnie, because that’s her name) for a while now. We’ve seen movies together, gone to clubs together, and we see quite a bit of each other over the past few months. A couple of months ago, I told her how I felt about her. She basically gave me the “let’s be friends” speech, with a side of “it’s not you, it’s me”… but I believe it because of her situation. (She’s significantly overweight and it has given her some self-esteem issues.)
Last night, we went out to a club to celebrate the graduation of one of her friends. Things got a bit wild. I was the designated driver, and somehow even I became much less inhibited than usual… more significantly than when I do drink. (Even drinking doesn’t usually reduce my inhibitions by much… either that or it takes a lot more alcohol to get me drunk… or both.) A few times, on the dance floor, we engaged in some… ahem… less-than-FYOSS dancing. [”FYOSS” is a concept used at the UF message board. It refers to things that are “Fourteen-Year-Old-Sister Safe”; in other words, things you wouldn’t mind your proverbial little sister seeing.]