I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Of everything I've ever said on the Net, everything I've read, and the thousand stupid surveys I've filled out, one from '02 or '03--I distinctly remember it being sometime during My Great Depression--told my story before I'd even dipped my quill into the ink.

52 to 48. That was how much love won out over lust. And that explained everything, and continues to now. Do I ultimately believe in the concept of love, of finding the recognition of self in someone else and having the cliche with the gated community/2.5 kids/dog/white picket fence/PTA meetings? Sure. But the 2 percent margin of error? That means a good pair of pants, hearing the right song, a stiff breeze, and it's all thrown into reverse. I shift from being the patriach bumbling in at 5:28 to hang my fedora on the stand and yell "Honey, I'm home!" to just wanting to hit, quit, and take them to IHOP. It's a large part to do with my inner turmoil, as if I'm in relationships all I see is the freedom I'm missing, and when I'm single, all I can think is how fast I'd throw this all down and bury it seven feet under if I had a counterpart.

There is a point to this, so let's get to it: I got Liz, but not enough to move in a different direction. I'm meeting Rebecca for lunch Sunday, at which point I expect to get dumped or, given the situation, the closest equivalent to.

With it being Liz's last day, I had to go and give it a shot. It worked, mostly; I turned her cheeks red, and she didn't seem horrificially offended about me making the move. The last club I want to go to in downtown she's been and loves, and upbraided me for being around so much and not going. So I promised post-Vegas (since the savings begin nowish) we would go in together. So that's something, probably.

As for the Rebecca thing, the guilt's been weighing on me the past couple of weeks. But I think due to my own arrogance and stupidity, it wasn't going to work. She was clearly more into me than I into her. And the galling part is nothing she did turned me off; I just saw an opportunity with Liz, and I met Leslie (because, really, psuedonyms undermine the whole idea of keeping things real; let us hope she calls not my bluff) while she was off at her brother's graduation, and there was trouble. She started staling off in my mind, I'd had a crush on Liz for months, Leslie's Leslie--it was just a big train wreck looking for a spot to crash. I feel guilty now, of course. I didn't get the whole full-shouted go ahead from Liz, so now of course I think about the cute blonde I could've had had I used some more foresight and intelligence. The problem with the potential of having everything, especially in my case? You remember the very recent past when did you not only have nothing, but nothing was going to be coming any time soon.

Now I have confidence, and hit a couple inches, and that's changed everything. The world brims with potential, and that's one of the up points of singledom--every moment could be The Moment That Changes Everything. Everything's more acute, you pay more attention, the brain's more alert and your eyes barely pause to blink. It could happen at any waking moment, and wouldn't it just be awesome if it did? As the DJ ripped through every old school track outside of "Whoomp! (There It Is)" and Humpty (seriously, this man played "Walk This Way" into that Quad City DJs song) I found myself preoccupied and grinding against a brunette. And that could've been it, I could've been talking about Nicole or Anna or whatever her name happens to be. It didn't work besides a good kiss, but I had to try to find out.

I'm not wholly racked with guilt over the Rebecca thing, though I do feel guilty. I wish I was a little more mature, or had better responses earlier in life, or wasn't such a giant twat, or had listened to everybody when they waved their arms and went "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!". Even moreso, I'd love to say this was some sort of brilliant plan of mine to absolutely clear the docket before Vegas. But it wasn't, I didn't, and here I am.

I had to know. Now I know.

Time to brood for 48 hours and then start from scratch, I guess...

We have met the enemy, and they is us--Walt Kelly, "Pogo"

This post brought to you BAH: "Be Yourself" by Audioslave