What the world needs now . . .
No, not love, sweet love . . . but Sex, fucking sex! And love.
Seriously.
There's a couple I always see sitting in front of the UT Tower having lunch together. When I pass them they are always smiling. It makes me smile to see them smile. They pack lunch and share. I've watched them from a distance. Their conversation is always a gentle affair; no bombastic gestures or loud laughter. Simple, solid, and persistent. Sometimes they hold hands. It's the company they keep that matters most and it's visible in their interaction. It appears they are good friends as well as comfortable lovers. I like this. I like this very much. I aspire to it myself one day. Or not. I'm aware (as I've made it plain) that the key is for me to make myself my own friend and then I'll be good for someone else's lunch. In our beginning, Andrew and I used to share lunch and have very engaging conversations about the most useless things. But I would not have had it any other way. Toward the end, the bitter, crippling end, I could hardly get him to look me in the eye and the silence was a palpable blockade between us. He always thought I believed him not to be smart or quick enough. Looking back it makes me feel so small and sad that he honestly believed I would judge him on the basis of his education or lack thereof.
I have said it before but shall say it once more . . . I wish I could get back that part of my heart which he so eagerly took from me. Andrew continues to be my deepest emotional wound and he hasn't a clue. Not one clue. It's not unfair, not his fault, it's just the way things go. Let go. I tell myself as soon as a thought of him comes to my mind; but it ain't that easy. So I've definitely not been willing to deal with what it's meant to hurt still, three years later. Bottoms up! The result? I go back to Ms. Knapp, "But one of the sick things about being drunk and confused all the time is that a good thing can be staring you in the face and you really can't see it. So many other things cloud the picture." Yeah, this happened with Morgan (a lover), and now it's happened with (Mookie) a dear fucking friend.
I still have my Andrew thoughts only this time I'm not reaching for a bottle. I'm reaching for my pen, my paper, and maybe my walking shoes to try and get some air and clear my head just that much more.
I think, after I get out of this hell-fucking-hole, I shall turn in my movies and I shall go watch a movie. Surely there can't be a ton of mo-fockas at a movie theatre on a Tuesday. Surely.
Seriously.
There's a couple I always see sitting in front of the UT Tower having lunch together. When I pass them they are always smiling. It makes me smile to see them smile. They pack lunch and share. I've watched them from a distance. Their conversation is always a gentle affair; no bombastic gestures or loud laughter. Simple, solid, and persistent. Sometimes they hold hands. It's the company they keep that matters most and it's visible in their interaction. It appears they are good friends as well as comfortable lovers. I like this. I like this very much. I aspire to it myself one day. Or not. I'm aware (as I've made it plain) that the key is for me to make myself my own friend and then I'll be good for someone else's lunch. In our beginning, Andrew and I used to share lunch and have very engaging conversations about the most useless things. But I would not have had it any other way. Toward the end, the bitter, crippling end, I could hardly get him to look me in the eye and the silence was a palpable blockade between us. He always thought I believed him not to be smart or quick enough. Looking back it makes me feel so small and sad that he honestly believed I would judge him on the basis of his education or lack thereof.
I have said it before but shall say it once more . . . I wish I could get back that part of my heart which he so eagerly took from me. Andrew continues to be my deepest emotional wound and he hasn't a clue. Not one clue. It's not unfair, not his fault, it's just the way things go. Let go. I tell myself as soon as a thought of him comes to my mind; but it ain't that easy. So I've definitely not been willing to deal with what it's meant to hurt still, three years later. Bottoms up! The result? I go back to Ms. Knapp, "But one of the sick things about being drunk and confused all the time is that a good thing can be staring you in the face and you really can't see it. So many other things cloud the picture." Yeah, this happened with Morgan (a lover), and now it's happened with (Mookie) a dear fucking friend.
I still have my Andrew thoughts only this time I'm not reaching for a bottle. I'm reaching for my pen, my paper, and maybe my walking shoes to try and get some air and clear my head just that much more.
I think, after I get out of this hell-fucking-hole, I shall turn in my movies and I shall go watch a movie. Surely there can't be a ton of mo-fockas at a movie theatre on a Tuesday. Surely.