She had told me that she'd never been lonely; a fact that she stated with some degree of lamentation. I had wanted to find this for her-- search back with her to a place and time in her life where she had felt this-- partly because she seemed to want it, and partly because I wanted her to be someone who had had this experience: someone more complete. It did not occur to me until years later that she had never felt lonely for the simple reason that she had never been alone. She had hopped from one relationship to the next, filling the spaces in between with flings. She pretended to covet her space, within this life of clinging to others, she often pushed away. She lamented that lack of time at home alone, the constant intrusion on her space, but even the times she claimed she was taking out for herself-- vacations alone, a few days with the house to herself-- she would find someone else to fill the vacancy, at least part time, in her bed.

She had never known the feeling of really being alone, of waling up morning after morning for months on end with no one in the bed but you, no one to talk to while you shuffle numbly through the apartment in your morning routine. Lonely showers, quick and efficient; meals eaten at work; deafening silences; solitude lasting long enough to bring you through sexual frustration to periods of deep longing just to be held, where your solitude is enough to make even masturbation too desperate and tiresome to contemplate.

It's this type of loneliness I've been battling off lately, where the rented movies containing plot twists of defeat and depression must go unwatched and the mere hint of heartbreak and cheating in a book I'd been previously enjoying cause me to put it down, dress hurriedly and walk down to my favorite restaurant for a small meal surrounded, at least, by others, choosing in my head the route whose roads are least shadowed and sad to spare my mood even this small, additional burden.

It this because of stress. Is it because I don't have anyone? Is it the psychic drain of the wildfires that seems to have this entire town groggy and hard to engage? Perhaps it is the ache in my hand from too much time at the computer and the resulting reduction in workout time that this, combined with the poor air quality here has forced upon me. I certainly don't want to entertain the possibility that it is because she has, however marginally, crept back into my life and seems, through the magic lens of the internet anyway, to be settling down and making roots with someone, where I have failed. I'm not jealous that she's not mine-- jesuschristgodno-- just that she seems to have done everything wrong and still ended up with more than me.

Then again she is a liar, and at least I don't have to live with that. Maybe things are OK after all.

You Know I Dreamed About You...

I missed you for.
for twenty-nine years.

Last night, I worked late, and went to the gym to lift heavy weights over my head repeatedly. This was more pleasant than it sounds. After, I had a Jamba Juice, and then a steak and a glass of wine at The Turf, and then stopped by the Whistle Stop, where there was a book release party and reading, for a whiskey. It is as though I am looking for someone who I should not be, but I need some answers. Life is solidly in the now, without any hooks into or windows looking out on promises, and I need these open roads, to know that I am going somewhere, even if they lead to dead-ends and I have to turn around and come back.

This morning, I finally found the secret yoga hideaway and saw my favorite hot yoga instructor for the first time in months, and while stretching and sweating in a room full of beautiful, lithe women while a one of them leans her body into mine and bends me in ways that I didn't think possible can feel like a new road opening, it is not. That one, is blocked off at the beginning and I am unsure of my willingness to walk down it, should it ever open.

Cravings

This weekend, tired of becoming sick from working out too hard, I started to do something very uncharacteristic: I counted my calories.

No. I'm not trying to lose weight.

I just couldn't figure out why, at 19, I could run 80 miles a week and lift weights for two hours, three days a week, and maintain a college student's schedule and pace and now, I can't workout 6 days a week for more than a couple weeks without getting sick.

I'm older now, I know, and I recover slower and injure more easily, but I also get more sleep and am generally less stressed out. I build into my workouts slowly-- I started way back at the beginning of the summer with two to three days a week. What was happening? I snooped around online and this is what I found:

The daily caloric expenditure for a man my age, hight and weight is approximately 1600 if I never even get out of bed. Add about 500 more for just getting up and having a normal, exercise free, day in the office. Add another 500 for getting a little bit of exercise. That's probably about what I eat in a normal day. In order to sustain myself while working out the way I like to, I needed to find room for another 500 calories-- more if I actally want to build any muscle. This is harder than you think.

Do you know how many calories are in a salad without dressing? Less than 30. I need my veggies, but on this caloric schedule, how can I possibly spare the room in my tummy?

It's been an interesting experience-- and one that I hope not to do for more than a few weeks. Once I get a sense of how much food I need, I'll stop and take it from there.

FUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKK!

Fuck!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck.

1 fortnight= approximately 14 days.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck fuck fuck.

Yeah.

Fuck.

You Know I Dreamed About You...

For twenty-nine years before I saw you.

I feel like this sometimes. Somewhere out there is a dark haired girl. Somewhere north, I feel, though I don't know know why. She's calm and strong and full of life. She makes me laugh. I can feel her in the back of my mind-- I always have. Maybe someday I'll meet her. Maybe not. This doesn't matter now.

I've been drinking (and can you tell?). I've been trying to get over a cold all weekend and today, feeling a little bit better, and a little bit cooped up, I decided one drink at the bar on the corner couldn't hurt. That one drink was so good, I had it three times. Don't worry, I mixed and matched a bit. I chatted up the bartender. I chatted up the cocktail waitress. I made eyes at the pretty ladies. I spoke, briefly, with the women beside me when they asked me why I was out alone. I came home by myself. This is best. My dark haired woman was not there.

Today I

Attempted to find a hidden yoga class and failed.

Called it off and worked from home again

Counted my daily caloric intake for the first time ever (turns out I don't eat enough).

Insulted a friend by accident, albeit with something I had said deliberately, some time ago.

Shuffled a lot

Listened to music

Wondered

Fretted

Had some tea

Wrote this list

and now I'm going to bed.

I am standing now, on the edge

And here, on the edge, a little tickle that formed in the back of my throat last night has become a deeper scratchiness and my body can't quite decide what temperature it wants to be, and all manner of horrible things are threatening to happen elsewhere, but mostly I'm together. I feel OK. Cracks are forming along the ledge and soon I will tumble down, down down, but for now, I am standing on the edge.

Here on the edge, if one looks over into all that blackness, it is unclear what will be on the other side. The only certainty is the fall, and that it will be cold, and sometimes scary and uncomfortable. It is not horrifying. I have, after all, been to the edge before, many times. Sometimes I have fallen and sometimes I have turned around and wandered for a while first. It's merely something that has to be done.

I am standing on the edge. Soon I will wrap myself in blankets and sleep for as long as I can, and when I wake, I will have fallen.

When I first moved to San Diego

I was lost under it's endless sky. I met a woman here and fell in love, but this is not that kind of story. Let us get back to that endless sky...

Falling Out of Touch With All My

Friends are somewhere getting wasted
Hope they're staying glued together.


Who needs a drink?

I do, I think. Actually I don't know what I need. Week two (or is it three?) of the 6 day a week workout schedule. Didn't I used to do this all the time? Wasn't it twice a day most days? Sometimes three? What happened? When did I become such a weenie. Is it the full time job that's f'ing me up? Maybe I'm not eating enough. Lately, I don't know whether I'm not or cold, hungry or full. I know I'm tired though. I know that.

(I'll sleep on the floor if I want to. You can't stop me. It's my floor. I'll sleep on the kitchen floor even. I'll do it. Just watch me.)

I used to finish a run and go eat and shower and then sit up in my dorm room on the couch and feel just... powerful. I felt like I could run through the fucking wall. Now I feel like the fucking wall ran through me. Subtly different, yet worlds apart.

I got back from yoga class and, for the first time, felt more constricted and sore than when I went in. Maybe it was the new instructor. Maybe it was my bad attitude. Nah, fuck that. I'm blaming the instructor.

Incomprehensable to Me

Now, I'm not a sports guy, let's get that straight. Eight years ago, at the start of the Superbowl, I asked my friends "so... what exactly is a 'down'?".

Right.

Not a sports guy at all. As a result, those friends of mine, mostly female, who are also not into sports often feel it necessary to express their disbelief-- and often mild disdain-- at how into sports some people can get. These are people I respect, mind you, but what I find quite a bit more incomprehensible than how involved some folks can get in their teams, is how some folks can be so completely out of touch with the rest of humanity to not have an inkling as to why this might be. It doesn't put you ahead of the masses to not share their sports mania, it puts you aside and, perhaps, behind.

Sorry. I'm not a sports guy, but I'm a people guy, and if you can't understand the desire to become a part of something bigger than yourself-- the joy of sitting on the edge of your seat at the bottom of the ninth, one run behind with two outs, two strikes and one man on base; hearing your whole neighborhood go nuts while your QB runs 65 yards for a touchdown; watching a three-pointer fly through the air as the final seconds run off the clock-- then I just don't know what to tell you.

Got A Light?

I want to sit on the steps leading up to my apartment and have a smoke. This is very odd since I don't smoke. This is, excepting, of course, the pack I split with Austin Bauer in his parent's garage at age 12. I didn't inhale. At any rate, it's odd. It's the first day of Autumn and, even in San Diego, despite the sun, there's a faint chill in the air. The sky is clear. It feels a little like everything before today and everything tomorrow is collapsed into just today-- the first day of Autumn always feels this way-- and I'd like to sit out on the front steps and stare out into the street and think about that. I guess I'd like to have something to do with my hands while I do that. Something to fiddle with.

I can be a real asshole when I talk about smoking, but I suppose I do understand the appeal.

Phone in The Microwave

It's late and I can't sleep...

Actually, it's not that late, but that's hardly the point. Point is, it's been a while since I've stayed up at night against my will. Usually, I sleep the sleep of the dead, of the just, of the just dead? I don't know... Someone has started to creep back into my life again and I'm nervous about what that might imply. I don't even know if it's something I'm interested in allowing to happen. Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I should. I don't really care about that, but I promise you this: I will confront this situation head on and, while I'll protect myself, I won't lie to myself or you, or anyone, about anything. I won't allow myself to get into the murk again. I won't allow myself to be treated badly. My friend has already promised that she'll microwave my phone if I do, and we can't have that.

Small and windowless...

...and cold.

These are the properties of the office I'm currently sitting in. Also, dark. I can not tell if the headache and fatigue I'm experiencing are tied to the cold I'd been fighting off this weekend, or if they are a gift of this office. I felt fine this morning when I left home.

That's not entirely true. I felt tired then too. I slept in and took a later train to LA and I barely made that. The morning was grey and heavy-- typical San Diego-- and I slogged through it-- typical me. I'm huddled now in the corner of this space, my sweatshirt wrapped around me, tea at hand, wondering if I should go check into the hotel early. I'm seriously considering it.

I do need to get some sort of workout in today, so I'm going to try to make a yoga class at 5:45. Logistically, for reasons I am too tired to delve into at this moment, this will not be easy.

Maybe I'm so lackluster because of the recent need to sever the ties with yet another failed relationship. I hurt her, and for that I feel badly, very badly, but I also feel free. I don't think this is loneliness that I feel... it's too early for that. I have been a little put off, of late, by a friend up here who tends to overstep her bounds. I casual remark on her part about how "a road trip would be fun" has turned into a fully planned out trip to the hot baths as Esalen with a stay already reserved at the Madonna Inn. Why does this sounds more like a romantic get-away than a spontaneous road trip?

Why do I sound so god-damned whiny?

I should write more, I know....

I had one of those Sundays that are very much like... well... Sundays. I slept in. I cleaned a little. I skipped my workout. I called my mom a day late for her birthday. I went grocery shopping, and got a birthday present and went to a birthday BBQ for a couple hours, which was about as much social interaction as I can handle. Mostly, I just enjoyed being alone, not being responsible for anyone else's happiness. I watched movies in my apartment while I balanced my checking account spreadsheet. I walked to the corner cafe in the early afternoon and got a late bagel to go, and was pleased by the sound of the paper bag crinkling as I walked home.

It was one of those days that feels a little lonely around the edges, but in a distant ad not entirely unpleasant way, like the knowledge that much loved, but often annoying family members will be visiting, but that their trip is some time off.

I had a Sunday, I suppose. My Sunday, and that was that.

All Mine

I came home from LA, this time, to a house that was empty. The art was gone, save for the few pieces I own, the extra stuff from the kitchen. It was, at last, again, my space and my space only. To get it back, I had to give up someone to hold me when I was tired, someone who swam with me and who was brave when bravery was needed, so that I didn't always have to be. At that this someone, in the end, made me feel more lonely at times than walking into my empty home, and that giving up someone to hold you is a small price to pay for getting back the ability to be you, rather than someone's idea of you, are stories for another time.

For tonight, I walked through the door alone, into an empty apartment, and it was All Mine.

Night Run

It was well after 11 by t he time I headed out for the run. This would be the first thing I did for myself all day, the pool having been closed by the time I arrived this morning for a swim. I'd accompanied my sister on a long bike ride at a leisurely pace at her request, and when we were done, she wanted me to cook dinner and asked that I wait to run later. She was hungry and didn't want to wait. I was here to take care of her after all, so I agreed.

The night run was probably better. It doesn't get dark here until after eight pm this time of year-- something that I've just started getting used to-- and I wanted to perform this one little ritual, the pilgrimage of sorts, with as little fanfare and attention as possible. I was still slightly embarrassed by the idea of it. Twelve years ago it would have been one thing. I was younger, more easily given to romantic notions, and a real runner back then. Now I'm not even a has been; not even a wanna be; just a never was.

I headed out the gate and took two quick rights to head east on fifteenth street. I remembered the hard concrete surface from my last run, but this was the direct route and would take me everywhere I wanted to be, past the house parties and drunken college students. Past restaurants bikers: by Friday, Eugene was finally showing itself to have a nightlife, albeit one consisting mainly of frat parties and dorm room keggers. No one shouted though, no one stared or made rude comments about my too short shorts or my too skinny legs. They were used to the runners, no doubt. This was Track Town USA.

Up the hill and into campus... I hadn't looked at this part on the map and didn't realize that 15th street dead-ended at a campus building. I had to loop around the place, then cut diagonally across the field past he library and back out to 15th on the other side. Buses lined up outside the athletic fields, maybe dropping athletes off from an away meet-- I'm not sure. They were empty and still no one paid attention to the lone runner. Here, especially, they would be used to it. I am doubtless not the first to take this pilgrimage at night.

I came up upon the stadium and rounded the corner to the front entrance, hoping, at least, to get a glimpse inside through the bars. I was surprised to see the gate open, even the inner fence to the track itself unlocked. Hayward field for all to use... and it was empty. I walked in and leaned my arms over the gate, giving my out of shape legs a little break. In the distance, down the track, I saw two figures walking-- security guards perhaps. I decided I'd better wait for them to get a little closer before I went onto the track itself. I was half expecting them to shoo me away angrily, but when they got close-- a man in a security guard uniform and a woman in what appeared to be a janitorial outfit-- he merely greeted me in a low, booming voice:

"Beautiful night for a run."

"Yes. yes it is."

"We decided just to walk."

"Well, that's probably better for you."

He laughed, "I doubt it! But it's better to us."

"That is is. Have a good night."

"You do the same."

and with that I turned lightly away and ran off. He would have let me on the track if I wanted, but running laps there was a conceit I couldn't permit myself. I wasn't a runner anymore, was never a very good one, and that track held the sweat of those far greater than me. It was enough just to see it. I wouldn't be coming by on my way back.

I sped out the gates with a little renewed energy, and pushed East. I must be getting close now. The lights grew further apart, the street more remote and after a few blocks, I saw my turn off. Even before I saw a street name, or the "Dead End" sign ahead that indicated where I was, I knew this had to be it. It has that feel to it. I turned right and tried to remember the name of the next left I had to take, running by it a few feet before I realized my mistake. I doubled back and started up a long, dark hill. This was going to be rough. The woods closed in on me, dark, almost a little spooky. I was going to a place of death, I thought. That is a little scary, but no this was Steve. It wasn't that type of place, not that type of death, solemn, I'm sure, but not scary. Along the road, laughter and clicking of glasses seemed to come from every other house, perched above me on the embankment. This was the fancy part of town. These were not college parties-- professors perhaps, or rich benefactors of the university and town? Their merriment cheered me on. Up I ran.

I am in no shape for this. My calves ached by now and my hip flexors still had not recovered from the run a few days before. I had had a mild side stitch since a few minutes after starting. I thought for perhaps the tenth time about stopping to walk. There was no reason for me not too. I was training for nothing. There were no races left for me to win. All that was over. I pressed on as the road wound, through alternating patches of light and dark under streetlights and trees. A sign pointing to my destination confirmed my next turn and I headed right again, still twisting uphill, past more parties, up far further than I had thought from the map, the road getting smaller, darker and scarier, undulating up and down, the sounds of parties further away, until I had looped full circle and found myself on a stretch of road I'd already run on before.

I must have passed it. I ran all the way back down, passing party goers calling cabs, still paying me no heed. Especially here, they must be used to it, I thought. Especially in this neighborhood. I ran all the way down, back to the sign, staring at the embankment inside the road, trying to find it. Nothing. I stopped, running, turned back around and walked along the other side, and a few feet in, there it was: A rock wall with a small plaque on the ground in front of it. There was Pre.

I crouched down in front of it and read the inscription, though I already knew what it said. In front of it, runners had placed their bib numbers under rocks. Roses had been left by many, as well as other offerings. I searched through them, trying to be respectful, but curious at the same time. I almost threw out what I thought was a cigarette butt, till I realized it was hand rolled, just for him. Not quite the right idea, but somebody's gesture nonetheless. And what had I brought. I searched my person, but had nothing on me but my clothing and the key to my sister's house. I had nothing to give. On the way here, I had considered taking some stones or pebbles from the site, but after scratching about in the dirt and finding only lumbs of asphalt, I realized that I shouldn't take something from Steve without leaving part of myself behind. I whispered a few words to him there in the dark, stood up, my shadow from the nearby car lights casting long over embankment, and looked once last time into those haunting eyes, before stroking my hand across the top of the marker and heading back home.

Out Running Somewhere

I left the house sometime between 5 and 5:30, heading out the Pre's trail. I was in Eugene after all. I'd measured the distance to the trail on an online map, and the trails themselves were already measured. I'd be running just under five in the steady, but light Oregon rain.

Everyone bikes here and at 5:00, it seemed, rather than a rush hour of SUVs and BMWs, Eugene's is one of commuter bikes and rain slickers. College students, old couples, middle age women, grandmothers, they all drove past me in the other direction on the damp streets leading up to my destination. There's a gentleness here that one feels is inherent in this sort of lifestyle. It speaks of farmer's markets and recycling and community projects. Nobody honked. None of the cars tried to cut me off. The rain softens the hard edges of normal life.

I found the bicycle bridge across the Willamette-- a fine river to have running through your city; wide and dotted with rocks, trees and islands-- and crossed it into Alton Baker Park and onto the footpath that cut through the trees. The path connected with another layered with soft wood chip-- just as Pre had envisioned it. I'd run just over two miles at this point on roads that were mostly concrete slab-- murder on my joints. My knees quivered slightly and my right hip was aching worse than usual, but I swear I heard them breathe a collective sigh of relief when I set foot on that surface. There was a subtle energy to this place that was undeniable, even to me who tends to deny things like places having energies to them. I pressed on with improved stride and strength.

at the first fork I chose left, trying to remember the trial map I'd viewed online before the run. Seeing something in aerial view and actually being down upon it are two different things entirely. I'm usually good at navigation in the wild, unless it's navigation over man made trails running in arbitrary directions. I got lost several times, but somehow ended up at a map at one of the mile-markers, trying to piece out how I got there and which section of my planned run I had skipped. It was raining harder now and I could only stop and read until my body heat started to dissipate. San Diego has made me soft and it's colder on this June evening than the deepest winter night in Southern California. My hands ached a little from the shock of it. I chose a direction and carried on, across a small tributary

I wound up back near a familiar intersection of the path. I'd run through here before. This was not necessarily a bad thing, as the trial is a series of 3 interconnected loops that I'd plan to run through in figure eights. I was where I was supposed to be and there was another mile marker and sign post to confirm this, but when I arrived at the same place a third time, I knew something was amiss. I had traced the path along fields, past a stadium next to an oddly colored building-- a science center that I'd stopped to investigate before moving on. Mustn't stay still too long in this damp. Need to keep running to prevent chill. I'd taken a small shortcut through a natural tunnel formed by the interlocking branches of trees that I'm sure my friend could identify, but I knew nothing about them, only that they trapped the warmth and steam from the earth and the temperature rose slightly, but perceptibly once inside. I don't think the shortcut was the issue, I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere and missed the big, two-mile loop.

I stared at the map for a while before realizing that this was a good thing. I had underestimated the distance to the trail, and also forgotten to account for the run back in my mileage calculations. I could walk back, but in the cold rain, it would be more miserable than running, despite my aching joints. I had been feeling it in my hip since I hit the trail. My calves were bunched in knots and I'd had a cramp since early on. I was winded, wet, and muddy. Even my knees were beginning to ache. I hadn't run much more than four miles in over two years, and this run would total nearly eight. I was terribly out of shape and smashing myself to bits. No matter. It wouldn't do too much damage in the long term, and I could still, even after all these years, pull a long run out of nowhere and survive, even if it was on pure mental energy and memory of faint glory. It was worth it. This was Eugene. This was my time. It was what I needed.

I took a right at the next fork and headed home.

When I first moved to San Diego, I was lost under its endless sky.

It was the end of what was already a very long week when my sister called. I'd been house-sitting for my friend and taking care of her dogs in her filthy condo across town. Now usually, even if you don't so much care what people think, you clean up a little before you have someone over-- especially if that someone is doing you a favor. She'd left a full garbage bag on the kitchen floor along with scattered papers, the vegetable crisper and a used litter box. The counters will cluttered with empty food containers, used paper towels, glassware, make-up containers, pet snacks, candles and two fish tanks all of which spilled over onto the stovetop, slimed with food. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. The bed was unmade, the laundry left out on the couch, the bathroom dingy. Dirty underwear lay strewn about the floor. The place smelled like cat piss and dogs. It was almost like the was thumbing her nose and politeness and convention deliberately.

I was headed back there for my last, reluctant overnight stay from Saturday to Sunday, when my phone rang. It was two am. I was tired and wanted my regular life back. My sister was sobbing so much I could barely understand her. Words trickled out between burbling and tears, "don't want to die," ... "can't take care of myself" ... "fired from Grad school." ... "Need you to come up." We talked for close to an hour. I was already exhausted. It had been enough of a trying week at work, followed by some difficult conversations with the woman I'd been dating, who turned out to be an alcoholic with a penchant for poor decisions and drunk driving. I was looking forward to spending Sunday night largely alone. I agreed to fly up to Oregon. She's my sister, what else could I do?

I've always liked airports. They are the in-between places. I like to sit in the terminal, reading all the departing flights on the big board and imagine myself getting on one of them and not coming back. This habit started when I first moved out west, but wasn't quite ready to accept it for what it is. I didn't like my job. I didn't like strip malls and driving everywhere I wanted to go. It was a string of one bad relationship after another. I wasn't making good decisions. I got over it, but the love of airports stuck with me-- places where you are forced to unplug. Where you no longer have to be accountable for lateness or stupidity, because the ineptitude is casually handled for you by the airlines themselves.

For a time, I was able to convince myself that this was such a trip. Though I no longer wish to flee my home in San Diego, I have been feeling like I needed a vacation and, hey, this was a free day off, after all. I read my friend's book on the first leg of the flight and didn't really mind when I found the second leg had been overbooked. I had a story, and time to kill. The women here in Portland were more fun to look at then in San Diego, there clothes were darker, makeup too-- if they wore any. They looked more down to earth. People watching was good.

It wasn't until much later that it hit me. I had made my flight to Eugene and my sister picked me up at the airport. It was pleasant enough at first. Things started to go south when I realized once my work phone had fallen out of my bag on the plane. I made calls and scrambled to find it, but my sister demanded my attention. We had lists of chores to go through and she needed me to prioritize them for her, but of course, she was going to argue with me about the importance of each one, every step of the way. A ten minute task would take nearly two hours. By the time we were ready to leave for dinner, it was clear. I was here, basically, to do my sister's bidding, under the auspices of her fragile mental condition, I would need to take care of her, but she wasn't going to make it easy. I would have to do it exactly her way, and any arguments would result in, at best, threats to burst into tears. This wasn't going to be any fun at all. I hoped I wouldn't kill her.

***

I left to buy paint for her spare bedroom and check in at the airport about my phone (they said it would be there at eight, but it was not) just before eight, having wasted most of the productive hours of the day with her lists. As soon as I was away from her, I felt a little better. I love my sister, and in the best of times we get along great, but she could be incredibly emotionally draining, and I was already pretty low by the time I'd left. It was nice to be somewhere green though. I was unused to a horizon broken my trees. It used to make me feel protected and safe. I'm not sure what it made me feel this time around, not uneasy, but definitely like an interloper in a strange land. Funny how things change.

Well Speak of The...

Just got a phone call from the pokey in... god knows where...

She went to the hospital, which is good. Her nose is broken, which is not, but hey, noses heal. It's not the first time.

She's a mess, of course, doesn't want to see me, wants to run away. She's embarrassed as all hell, probably still in shock, manic, crying and possibly still drunk and or high. I re-extended my offer to go get her, but she refused. I think she wants to spend the night in jail, such is her guilt and self loathing right now. She says she's never drinking again.

I hate to tell her she's half right about the not seeing me. Not like we were before, and not when she's been drinking, that's for sure.

Sleep well, my friend. You're safe in there. At least there's that.

No *Really* I've Got It All Figured Out

I'm in another woman's bed, but she's not here. I've got a Collie mix a house cat and a deaf Chihuahua though, which has to count for something.

It's late, and I should be asleep, but I just got out of the shower and I still haven't washed off the day. Work felt bad and then came the phone call from the woman I've started seeing. She was calling from the backseat of a police car, hand cuffed behind her back (no idea how she was able to work the phone), still incredibly drunk and possibly even blacked out. They told her she rolled her car three times on the highway somewhere north of Los Angeles. Her nose was broken. She doesn't remember.

As my passive aggressive friend so astutely put it (being snide and insulting was her way of telling me she was upset because I forgot her birthday), "You sure can pick 'em".

Yeah, well, I knew getting involved with a woman two weeks after her separation from her husband didn't sound like a good idea. I just couldn't put my finger on why.

Oh, yes. There it is. Thank you.

I may not have learned how to prevent myself from getting into trouble well enough yet, but I sure as hell have gotten a lot better at getting myself out of it. I think we're cutting her off. Gently, and with a promise of sober friendship, cutting her off.

And how was your day?