To The Boys I Love(d)

I wore your sweatshirt today. I wore it yesterday, too. I also wore it three days ago, which was your birthday, but I didn't call you or text you or anything. I didn't even write on your Facebook wall, which is the cheapest form of a birthday wish. Instead I just wore your hoodie and reread all the letters and cards and emails I've saved from you. You gave me your hoodie the first time I flew a million miles to visit you, although I didn't know you placed it in my suitcase until I was back home. It's a like a hug now, worn and familiar and bunchy in all the places we used to be together. I had to sew the pocket back on after I ripped it six summers ago. There are holes in the sleeves where my thumbs fit, which I think is kind of tacky somehow, but I haven't sewn them back up because when I slip my thumbs through I try to remember what it was like to hold your hand. I can't even remember that sometimes, and I think I didn't call you on your birthday because the person I love doesn't really exist anymore. The person you loved doesn't either. You gave me my favorite nickname and I really miss it now that no one uses it anymore.

I loved you in a way I wasn't ready for, and that led me to ruin everything in my attempts to control what I didn't understand. We are friends now, probably better friends than we were then, but we don't love each other like we used to. I like us as friends. We understand that part of us and we seldom speak of the terrible things we did to each other out of misunderstood passion. You got mad once because I had a picture of me kissing Hoodie Boy on New Years Eve on my Facebook and I refused to take it down. I told you I never slept with him, which was then and is still true. You didn't care and you still got mad and we only officially dated for three days. I never slept with you either and when I started seeing someone else you said friendship was too hard and we didn't talk for two years. We're healed now in a way I don't understand, but I am trying very hard not to ruin it this time. Out of the three people to take me to prom, you were the only one to request a song just for me.

I loved you and I slept with you. We were good at everything except treating each other with respect and delicacy. I guess I didn't know lovers were supposed to do that. We could talk and listen to music and travel and play board games or even just do nothing, but we didn't know how to fight. We treated every hiccup like the end of the world, probably because we felt like it was. We learned so much, so many bad things. We learned loneliness and jealousy and betrayal. I don't mind having learned those things with you because I loved you and I slept with you. We would eventually grow apart, but you would get there before me, and when you left I didn't understand. I wasn't ready and it was the first time in my whole life I couldn't argue my way out of something. We're healed now, too, and we aren't great friends but we are healed. And we owe that to the second boy I loved and didn't sleep with because he's the one who taught me how to mend things with someone who once left you broken. You brought flowers to my work when we were fighting once and I made you leave and looking back I really regret that.

I didn't love you, but I thought I did. I slept with you and it was always good because I was always drunk. I was drunk for a whole year, I think. That's what we did. We moved too fast and stayed out too late and drank too much and had excessive amounts of fun and we did everything but talk about what was wrong with either of us for an entire year. I grew out of that but I didn't want to leave for fear of hurting you when you didn't really do anything wrong. Then you slept with someone else and that was wrong. Another year later, I forgave you and we were best friends in a way that would have saved us if it had happened while we were together. We aren't anything now because I have reviewed the evidence and decided that you don't deserve it. I don't regret our time of best-friendship, but it was more closure for me than it was anything else. I did see you vulnerable a few times (which is the part I love, because it showed me why you are capable of such cruelty) but I didn't call you on your birthday either because you are really just the same person who I didn't fall in love with in the first place. When the girl you left me for broke your heart in return it didn't make me happy like I thought it would.

I didn't mean to love you, but I couldn't help it. We both fought it. I was once faced with a decision that involved hurting you and you told me you just wanted me to be happy. And we both knew that meant hurting you, and that is why I love you. I'm still waiting for you to break my heart in some over the top way, because that is what I am used to, but it won't happen. It won't happen because the last time we saw each other we barely spoke and when you squeezed my hand goodbye, I was the first person to let go. I will eventually smash your heart into chunky gooey bits, if I haven't already, regardless of the fact that we are just friends. But as you can see, that kind of thing can be healed; never the same, but still somehow functional. I'm saying this because I am going to call you on your birthday. I don't know if you will answer. I always look for your corner in the Ybor parking garage.

Because I can't write anything without it being taken out of context by people who know me personally (and I don't even think that's your fault), this has nothing to do with Eric. He is asleep in the next room. I am typing on the couch even though he bought me a sweet desk and a cool chair. Putting the desk next to the bed was stupid on my part because I usually write at ungodly morning hours but I won't write there if he's sleeping because I love him. But for the record, we celebrate birthdays in person and then we sleep together. He doesn't get an italic inside joke because it isn't about him. 

I watched Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World yesterday and I have seen it a thousand times but yesterday it really bummed me out. If you haven't seen the movie I'm not going to explain it so Google some plot shit and come back. What would happen if the people I love (used to love? love differently now?) got together? Their ideas of me would be so different. Even if it were like the movie, if they united to fight my current love, they'd all be fighting for a different person. Or a different time. Or even a different version of themselves than who they are now. Or something.

It struck me all at once, how odd it is to have these people (and a few others who got close) walking around carrying parts of me with them. They know my secrets and my flaws and my fears and they have seen the scar that I never talk about and they could, at any time, use all those things against me. But they don't. Because they love me. (Question mark?)

I have decided a few things as a result of this.
1.) I need to sleep more.
2.) I need to listen to Taylor Swift and Lana Del Ray songs less.
3.) I don't mind letting you boys keep some things about me. Keep them safe. Keep them close. I'll keep your things safe, too. And if your exes contact me and want to start an evil league to fight your new lady, I'll politely decline because that seems like bullshit and I'm sure she's a nice girl anyway.

"This isn't high school" - Brand New

Breakups are hard. Ending a friendship is a whole different world of awkward clusterfuck. It's one thing to say, "hey, I don't want to bang anymore" and it's a different kind of devastating to tell someone you don't even want to hang out. Not even via social media.

Friendships ebb and flow in tidal ease; they take the shape of the vessel into which they are poured, evaporating over time due to work, school, schedules, distance, kids, relationships, whatever. Left untended, friendships will fizzle, so why is there the need to actively kick someone out of your life?

Because sometimes, people are assholes. And they deserve it. And it's not even really about that. It's about you deserving better.

Many moons ago, I was friends, good friends, with a nice young lad. We clicked instantly. It was that crazy "OMG I know exactly what you mean!" kind of friendship. It was fun and safe and warm and just super nifty. He was one of those genius types, and our conversations would meander for days.

When it all fell apart and I walked away, I was pretty bummed. Then, over time, I wasn't. Because that's how it works.

Years later (which is the same as a few months ago) I received the following message on Facebook and in a moment of weakness I found myself giving a shit again:

If I were to ask you to be my friend again, would you accept? You were one of the most important people in my life in high school. It was so long ago now but I still feel so ashamed over this. I'm so, so, so sorry I treated you this way. I read this exchange every now and then to just to remind myself of it, of you, and of the great wrong I did you. I know how fucking weird, or juvenile, trivial or downright unpleasantly surprising and erratic this might seem to you-I'm aware of the large probability of all those things- and I recall that we met at Steak and Shake and I apologized before, but a thousand apologies aren't enough for this bullshit, and were you to accept them all, this feeling still wouldn't go away. And I wouldn't want it to. I don't want to ever forget what I'm capable of. I don't know what sort of response to expect from this, I really imagine the whole gambit of possibilities, or perhaps there will be absolutely nothing. At this point, it'll be another lesson for me, regardless of what you choose. But I'm intensely interested to find out. I'll take whatever it is with a smile... I'll be thinking of way distant and fonder days, whether that smile be happy or sad. There's so many things I'd like to be able to talk to you about, and I'd really like to rediscover who you are, learn who you've become. Believe me, I know these are a lot of selfish requests I'm making, but all I can do is ask, and see. All my life I've moved around, made new sets of friends, over and over. But you really were one of the best I ever had. Guess I should have thought of that before I performed the greatest act of douchebaggery in my life. I have no defense for that act, but you were, and are, too important to me to not at least try and reach out one more time.

p.s. I'm not drunk or drugged as I write this. Truth is, I haven't felt this clear of mind for a long while. However this plays out, I'll always hope for your happiness.

Well...

First off, bravo. I have always had a flair for the dramatic and I am an absolute sucker for heartfelt mea culpas such as yours. I haven't heard your voice in years, but reading this brings your inflection up, clear as a bell.

Second, I only have a vague idea of your "greatest act of douchebaggery" filed away in my memory. I remember there was a falling out. I remember having a half-assed reconciliation. I think it was a over one of those "my-girlfriend-hates-you-so-I-can't-be-your-friend" things. But then it wasn't that either because you lied about something I think. I had to reread our thread of messages from 2006, the "exchange" you mentioned, and I'm still fuzzy on the details. Unrelated: Facebook saves messages from six years ago even if you have deleted that person. Weird but slightly helpful in this situation.

That might be your answer. I was indeed surprised to hear from you, but I had no idea you'd dug yourself a hole, filled it with anguish and decided to dive in occasionally for the last six years. Why? Because I didn't. I almost feel bad that you feel so bad and I don't feel bad at all. I find it interesting that I haven't thought about this at all and you seem pretty hung up on it.

I am not going to forgive you because I don't think you need it. Once upon a time when you were 18, you decided to end our friendship in favor of getting your dick wet. If that's truly the worst thing you ever do to someone, you are in fact a better person than most people, myself included.

But I hope you forgive yourself. Admittedly, I don't remember all of what happened (which still makes me think it wasn't that bad) but whatever you said or whatever you did couldn't have been that devastating. And if it was, I'm okay now. So you can totally climb down from the cross on which you've hung yourself. You can stop with the Hail Keris. I think the statute of limitations is up on kicking yourself over high school drama.

I hope for your happiness as well. I'm just not sure I'm an ingredient in that recipe anymore. And as far as rediscovering who I am, I am still the queen of second chances. I'm just more of an asshole about it.

Everyone needs (and sometimes deserves) closure. I hope this was yours.

The Scariest Thing That Ever Happened To Me

I don't even know where to start. My brain is still all "holy crap, really?" about this one.

I was drunk. Shocking, right? The kind of drunk where I could smell the alcohol seeping out of my pores already. I hadn't slept yet. Maybe I had, I don't know. The sheets on the surprisingly comfortable hotel bed were glaringly white. Afternoon sun poured through the open window. I thought hotel windows didn't open so people don't jump? But they were swung wide open, sea breeze tangled in the white curtains. I could smell the ocean. When I stumbled out of bed, a fine layer of sand seemed glued to me, mixing with my tequila sweat. Where was Paul?

I heard his voice then, coming from the other room in the suite. We had a suite? The lights in his room were on, I could see the four globes lined atop the mirror-sink hotel combo deal. You know, the counter where the coffee pot sits. Coffee. I was thirsty.

Paul was talking, saying something about the beach. Laughing. I couldn't see him, but his voice made me feel safe and less dizzy. A door slammed. Silence.

I thought the lights in the room were getting brighter, but it was really the sun dimming, sinking behind the hotel next to us, diving to meet the ocean. I flailed around in bed, my ankles bound in the seaweed sheets again. How did I get back here? Fuck. THIRSTY.

I made it into the hallway, determined to find Paul. Why did we even come here? I brushed the sand off my arms in the elevator. Paul told me once that he loved the beach but hated the sand. No kidding. It gets everywhere.

I tore through the lobby, shot into the restaurant only to be met with darkness. Heavy curtains kept the dazzling sunset at bay. Candles on the table made each place setting its own little barely lit bubble in the blackness. The brown and gold marble floor chilled my bare feet.

WHERE. THE FUCK. WAS PAUL. A waiter came rushing to me, asking if I needed to sit down or if I wanted water. He had a white linen napkin draped over his left arm, in his right he held a silver pitcher. I pushed him. Hard. He must have pushed back or maybe I was just that drunk but I started falling backwards and in that moment I panicked and screamed for Paul and in the same instant I realized I must be dreaming because Paul died in Afghanistan in 2010.

I waited to hit the floor and wake up. Nothing, just the sensation of falling. I think I fell for hours, thinking about the dream and Paul and how the curtains looked so real when I was lying on the bed and how I felt the slight pull in my belly from the elevator and how the sand made that gritty crunchy noise when it got caught between my teeth. I thought about old times with Paul, about the real life time we went to the beach one night. He told me then he hated sand. He told me the same thing before he deployed. I thought about lunch with him at school and going to watch his band play and being at Dan's house for practice and the time Eric got pushed in the pool and the way he would crack this shy smile that made me laugh uncontrollably. I thought about riding the bus with him and I thought about his twin brothers and I thought about the time we got kicked out of math class. I thought about how it got harder to stay in touch when he went to college, but not impossible. I thought about the last time I saw him, which was an accident, when we ran into each other at Target. I thought about our best friend secret and how we said we'd take it to our graves and how he did and now I'm waiting for my turn to keep that promise. Why hadn't I hit the floor yet? 

Then I was awake, shrouded in darkness. Not the restaurant kind of darkness, but a thick, choking black nothingness that pressed on my eyelids. I felt the dream melt around the edges and evaporate the way they seem to do upon waking.

And then, terror. Sheer terror like nothing I have experienced before. The dream was gone and I was awake and the only thing I could feel were my eyelids, squeezed shut. I tried in vain to open them. In my head, I yelled for my arms or toes or anything to move. Nothing worked. I tried to force my eyes open by picturing the contents of my room, the color of the walls, the shape of the window, but all I could feel was the unrelenting heaviness.

I thought of Paul and of the white room and it occurred to me that I was already dead. I tried to suck in a deep breath, to prove somehow that I was still alive, but nothing happened. I can't think of words to describe the level of panic or fully convey the weight of that fear, so I am left saying simply this: there is nothing more frightening than being conscious and unable to move.

It was my ankle that twitched first. Then I became aware of my body, ankle on top of ankle, knee on top of knee, wrists tucked beneath my chin, left ear against the pillow. Feeling flooded back into me the way cold water hits your empty stomach.

Thirsty. My eyes shot open and I swear to you, I have never been so relieved in my life.

I usually try to wrap up blogs with some lesson to be learned or some take home moral or even some witty commentary on the human existence, but I don't have any of that this time.

Now I just think "Rest In Peace" is really strange thing to wish for the dead.

Maybe it's not for them. Maybe it's for us.



More about sleep paralysis.

The latest on Paul. 

On Being Rejected By My College Crush

I develop "crushes" on people of a purely intellectual nature. I have no desire to sleep with these people, but I become consumed by the frantic urge to know them, to befriend them, to find out what makes them tick. People are my addiction, and when I stumble across someone worthy, I binge to the point of overdose. From the other point of view it must be kind of creepy. In fact, I've been told that I'm creepy. That's okay with me. You don't have to fall in love with me. You just have to let me in, let me poke around for a while. It doesn't hurt, I promise.

I developed one of these crushes on a college professor once. I had him for Social Philosophy and I thought he was just the bees' knees. So after I'd earned an A in his class, I asked him if we could get drinks and I could pick his brain for a while. I think I told him I was thinking of being a Philosophy major. My boyfriend at the time was in the class with me, and as we were both good students and cool people, Professor obliged. I think my exact request was something like "we think you're cool, and we wanna hang out outside of class. Will you go on a date with us?" See, I am creepy.

It was incredibly exciting sitting and bullshitting with him. His "professionalism" kind of melted away and he became this metal rocker who only shaved because capitalist society dictated social norms and hierarchy based on appearance... or something. He introduced me to IPA. He reached across the table to light my cigarette. More than ever, I was smitten. We hung out a few times, always at the same cute restaurant. He said he invited me out for good conversation, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was anything besides vapidly idiotic.

I went to his house once after drinks once. It was a creaky old bungalow in a cute historic area of Tampa. The hardwood floors moaned with my every step, his couch cradled me as I lounged in the heat. His air conditioning was broken, and the open windows offered a modest breeze that only served to fill the living room with waves of humidity. I remember how my cheeks felt flushed.

Over a bottle of wine and many more cigarettes, we talked about music, argued whether or not punk was dead and compared venues and bands we'd been to and seen. I noticed that night how his smile curled up and then over when he is genuinely amused. His hair fell in messy disarray, such a stark contrast to his slicked back appearance in the classroom. Our conversation was easy, ebbing and flowing gently through stories about teachers, students, family, lovers. I was desperate to know everything about him in a few hours, I demanded to know his opinion on anything from The Food Network to Marx to the New York Dolls. He obliged, and I devoured all of it, drunk not on wine, but words.

He got up from the couch a few times to turn the TV off or get us glasses of water, and when I watched him weave around boxes of books and stacks of ungraded papers, I found myself wondering what it would be like to be naked with him, moving to the bass line of some obscure metal band we both saw months ago at the Brass Mug. He caught me in my reverie and I blushed fiercely. I hoped he attributed it to the sweltering Florida summer or the alcohol, anything but my ridiculous (and looking back, obvious) school girl crush. Of course, part of me, a very deep down secret part, wanted him to notice and pounce on me, our bodies tangled and sticking to the leather couch. But Professor was a gentleman and I was undoubtedly, severely awkward, so nothing of the kind happened.

I learned about his family, his upbringing and his love affair with academia. I asked questions that made him wince, but he answered with eloquent candor. I toyed with his real sense of humor, something I'd only seen glimpses of before. I saw him as a real person, not just Professor, but a man with strong ideals and wide-ranging opinions, a passionate man with confidence and charisma. He was hopeful, but jaded at the same time. I relived some of his heartbreaks as he retold them, and seeing both the smug playful Professor along with the bitter broken Professor was what sealed the deal. I saw honesty and balance and misguided ambition that made no apology for itself. I could have loved this man forever.

We met for drinks and good conversation a few more times before he moved out of state to teach elsewhere. We kept in touch through Facebook "likes" and links and casual posts, but it was nothing like we had before.

Last weekend he was in town for a conference, so we exchanged numbers on Facebook (I still had his, and I can't decide if that's endearing or pathetic) and planned to catch up. I was ecstatic. I sent one text message which garnered no response and fell into tragic self-loathing. I cursed myself for wanting to see him again so badly. I hated that being ignored perturbed me so deeply. I felt that our short but intense friendship demanded respect and a nostalgic drink for old time's sake. I listed to Clapton's "Layla" on repeat for the better part of an hour. The unplugged version. Yes, it was that bad.

Fiancé tried to console me, urging me to call him and when I refused, he made logical excuses that the conference ran late or Professor was catching up with colleagues. I pouted, made plans with other friends and got over it.

But I can imagine my 45 minute drive to St. Pete, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety. I can picture walking into a strange bar, sipping on a beer, making awkward small talk because it's been three (or maybe four) years now and it's hard to just jump back into things sometimes. I would have had fun, but I also would have resented that we weren't sitting on his couch in the summer heat, drinking wine and making sweet intellectual love for hours. I would have driven 45 minutes back home, only to cry on Fiancé's shoulder about how Professor was different and I am different and everything is different and now it's all tainted and I'm stupid for thinking anything could be as perfect as that one night a few years ago when I was innocent and curious and a man I fell for pretty hard didn't take advantage of that.

I'm glad now that I didn't go. Trying to chase something that once was might have also shown me what it really wasn't, and what it will never be. I am still irked that I got blown off, but this way I can keep some fond memories of a guy I thought the world of safely intact.

This way I can love him forever.

"This is war. Every line is about who I don't wanna write about anymore" - Brand New

I get off on good song lyrics. Wrapped up in a driving bass line or a haunting melody, concise lyrics that nail my thoughts exactly will stick with me forever. I can't help it. I think most people match music to their moods; I tend to match up the lyrics to what I'm feeling, no matter what the song sounds like. It all builds up to that moment where I sing someone else's words and it says what I feel better than I can and in that moment I feel this connectedness with people and pain and love and loss and victory and release and joy and then I feel okay about whatever is going on. Because someone else gets it too. And I'm not a shitty person for thinking it first.

Video Killed the Radio Star

On my "about me" page I wrote the following: "I host the Thursday Night Threesome on The Sports Explosion Network on 1010 AM CBS Sports Radio. I talk about sporty things and I like it, but that show and this blog don't really have anything to do with each other. I guess they're like half-siblings who don't get along but play nice at Christmas and Thanksgiving." I will be deleting that after I post this. And this post is pure TSE.

"Please remember that it's flesh and bone"

Have you ever been into a pawn shop? I went into one for the first time ever today and it was quite possibly one of the most depressing experiences ever. Those barred windows and glass cases held a museum of unwanted items, sacrifices, and promises of return that went unfulfilled. Maybe it's just a pawn shop. But then, why did I start crying?


I guess to tell that story I have to tell this story: my room is a constant mess. The rest of my house maintains a steady level of presentable at all times (I frequently throw last minute parties or have unexpected yet always welcomed guests, so I like to be ready) but my room is pretty much always in chaotic disarray. And you know what, I fucking like it that way.