P's death.
Paul officially died on Monday, November 12, 2007. I totally lost it. I've never had anyone that close to me die before. He had a brain aneurism on the night right after we last spoken (Thursday, November 9, 2007). We talked on the phone that very afternoon. This was right around Veteran's day.
I didn't find out about any of this until 3 weeks after this had occurred (right around the end of November or maybe even Dec. 1). I was concerned because I haven't heard from him. His cellphone service had stopped working, cut off due to an unpaid bill. I thought maybe he tried to kill himself again or something and I started feeling so awful that I didn't pay more attention to him when he said he was more depressed than usual.
Since then, I've been spiraling down and seriously started thinking about killing myself. I couldn't stand the way I feel, how uncertain everything was, how unbearable it is never to hear his voice again. When we parted ways forever, we had a tentative standing with each other. We were kind of bickering with each other over kind of trivial shit, which wasn't so trivial at the time, but became trivial because it had been drawn out for like close to a year or so.
I was hurt over some of his actions. Towards the end of the year 2006, he seemed to want a relationship with someone my age rather than me and I was confused as to why he denied a relationship with me in the first place. I didn't care if he wanted to fool around with other women, but when it came to a RELATIONSHIP, that was something that really mattered to me. As it stood at the time, I was slowly getting over him anyway and I got over him even more when I started dating B mid-Feb. 2007 (shortly after Valentines' Day). After a while, I started putting Paul on the back burner for B because it was obvious that I was nothing more than a plaything with him and my feelings were going to be casualties more often than not.
2007 was such a shitty year. Not only have I lost a lot of money over stupid shit, I've also lost one of my best friends. Okay, so I was angry at him, but I was so ready to get over it and he was still holding on to some hard feelings. That part I felt awful about. I tried to get him to get over it, really. But I played it sooo cool, like how he used to play things so icecold with me. I even stood him up because my priorities laid with B and not with him.
I loved Paul so much, but I can't stand his crazy, unstable moodswings and indecisions. He stood me up so many times that I felt it was finally fair that I did it to him. How could I have seen his death coming? Paul and I were supposed to go somewhere (anywhere) for a weekend and fool around because it must have been a little over a year since he got laid. I should know, since I was the last girl to do it.
It's strange to know that I was the last girl he's ever been in bed with and even stranger to think that if I was with him that weekend (which could have very well happened except that he had to go see his father for Veteran's Day weekend) he might have died in my arms or something insane like that. How would I have handled that? Probably badly.
I just can't get over how much I love him now because I miss him so very unbearably much. We used to talk every night in the beginning, which dwindled to every other night to every third night. We started talking 6 years ago, when I was 21 and he was 38. This was 2003 or 2004, mind you. The age difference was tres hawt.
I don't miss him because of the stupid attraction thing, although that was nice.
I miss him because he knew exactly what it felt like to be fucked up like I am. We were so much alike. We both share this same terrible history.
We talked at least once a week. I called him EVERY TIME I had a problem. EVERY TIME. And without fail, he was always there to reassure me and not judge me. He made me feel better about my situations because he knew that only time could heal my problems and that all I needed was to vent. He took me out to movies, dinners, long walks, and drives. He took me to 7/11. He let me in on his lonely, daily, old-man routine. He taught me that sex was not a race to the finish line. He taught me that there is no finish line. He taught me that there was no winning in life, only degrees of losing.
He helped me avoid confronting my problems by distracting me with shit like literature, movies, and even boring politics. He connected me to this fast-paced pulse of the modern world because all he did was sit at work and pretend to work while what he really did was jack into the internet and into modern culture. He made me mixed CDs and it took him forever to perfect his mixes. I have never put as much time into making a mix for him as he's done for me. Not even close.
Paul revealed to me his vulnerability (which is extensive). I will never forget his sad, soulful, blue-green eyes and silver hair and rubberducky in the bathtub. Okay, so he never had a rubber ducky, but I totally intended on buying him one. Yes, he took baths every night for a very long time when I first knew him.
Paul taught me how to be modest in my dress and manners. I learned not to cuss so much and to dress more conservatively because he hated sandals and strange outfits. Simple elegance is the key. He always wore jeans and a polo shirt, so I don't know how that quite worked out, but it did. I guess he just critiqued me.
I can't stand going on without him. He was such a big part of my life. I always feel this urge to pick up the phone and call him, especially when he died, because I thought, hey, there's no better person to talk to about death and difficulties than Paul - but wait, he's dead.
I want a tattoo of his dates, but I can't afford that right now I really do need to make sure of the dates. Uhm. God, I love him so much. I fully expected to visit him in a nursing home and help change his diapers once in a while.
I had this dream that he wasn't really dead, but that he was in a hospital because he lost one of his arms. In my dream, his prosthetic arm was dangling, being held on by the elastic of a long sleeve shirt. He had this roll-eyes/zombie/sarcastic look on his face. I woke up and thought, Perhaps Paul is better off dead than without a limb. He was never a whole person to begin with. I can relate to that. I don't feel as if I'm a whole person myself.
Drifting off to sleep with him in his room was the best thing in the world. Being in his room was like visiting his childhood because it has not been changed since he was 9 or something crazy like that. I slept on the couch because his childhood room had one small bed and his feet dangled off it. His couch was actually more comfortable than the bed, which was why I slept there. It was almost like a campout adventure for children. We were the children. In the fucking 1970s, no joke. He had the '70s carpet and yellow fabric couch. Even his tv was old. The only new thing there was his computer and the table. His closet had the director snapping thingy (it's late so words fail me, stfu!!!!, nevermind that I never actually knew the word to this thing). Uhm. He had two shelves stuffed to the brim of books and DVDs. He had a playstation (okay, that's another new doodad that slipped past my memory). He also had some colognes and many, many pills. He had two small cylindar night stands with tops that were eroded away by the wetness from his many diet Coke drinks. He was a diet Coke FIEND.
I should go to sleep.
I never want to forget Paul. He meant so much to me. He was always there when I needed him and we were so much alike. He was almost like a fatherfigure. That I fucked. It bothered him to know that, so I made it a point to bring it up as often as possible and cackle insanely at his cringing discomfort. Yeah, he was Woody Allen, except he LOATHED that comparison. That and the Jerry Seinfield comparison. But he was. God, he was, but he was so much more.
I miss my best friend.
I didn't find out about any of this until 3 weeks after this had occurred (right around the end of November or maybe even Dec. 1). I was concerned because I haven't heard from him. His cellphone service had stopped working, cut off due to an unpaid bill. I thought maybe he tried to kill himself again or something and I started feeling so awful that I didn't pay more attention to him when he said he was more depressed than usual.
Since then, I've been spiraling down and seriously started thinking about killing myself. I couldn't stand the way I feel, how uncertain everything was, how unbearable it is never to hear his voice again. When we parted ways forever, we had a tentative standing with each other. We were kind of bickering with each other over kind of trivial shit, which wasn't so trivial at the time, but became trivial because it had been drawn out for like close to a year or so.
I was hurt over some of his actions. Towards the end of the year 2006, he seemed to want a relationship with someone my age rather than me and I was confused as to why he denied a relationship with me in the first place. I didn't care if he wanted to fool around with other women, but when it came to a RELATIONSHIP, that was something that really mattered to me. As it stood at the time, I was slowly getting over him anyway and I got over him even more when I started dating B mid-Feb. 2007 (shortly after Valentines' Day). After a while, I started putting Paul on the back burner for B because it was obvious that I was nothing more than a plaything with him and my feelings were going to be casualties more often than not.
2007 was such a shitty year. Not only have I lost a lot of money over stupid shit, I've also lost one of my best friends. Okay, so I was angry at him, but I was so ready to get over it and he was still holding on to some hard feelings. That part I felt awful about. I tried to get him to get over it, really. But I played it sooo cool, like how he used to play things so icecold with me. I even stood him up because my priorities laid with B and not with him.
I loved Paul so much, but I can't stand his crazy, unstable moodswings and indecisions. He stood me up so many times that I felt it was finally fair that I did it to him. How could I have seen his death coming? Paul and I were supposed to go somewhere (anywhere) for a weekend and fool around because it must have been a little over a year since he got laid. I should know, since I was the last girl to do it.
It's strange to know that I was the last girl he's ever been in bed with and even stranger to think that if I was with him that weekend (which could have very well happened except that he had to go see his father for Veteran's Day weekend) he might have died in my arms or something insane like that. How would I have handled that? Probably badly.
I just can't get over how much I love him now because I miss him so very unbearably much. We used to talk every night in the beginning, which dwindled to every other night to every third night. We started talking 6 years ago, when I was 21 and he was 38. This was 2003 or 2004, mind you. The age difference was tres hawt.
I don't miss him because of the stupid attraction thing, although that was nice.
I miss him because he knew exactly what it felt like to be fucked up like I am. We were so much alike. We both share this same terrible history.
We talked at least once a week. I called him EVERY TIME I had a problem. EVERY TIME. And without fail, he was always there to reassure me and not judge me. He made me feel better about my situations because he knew that only time could heal my problems and that all I needed was to vent. He took me out to movies, dinners, long walks, and drives. He took me to 7/11. He let me in on his lonely, daily, old-man routine. He taught me that sex was not a race to the finish line. He taught me that there is no finish line. He taught me that there was no winning in life, only degrees of losing.
He helped me avoid confronting my problems by distracting me with shit like literature, movies, and even boring politics. He connected me to this fast-paced pulse of the modern world because all he did was sit at work and pretend to work while what he really did was jack into the internet and into modern culture. He made me mixed CDs and it took him forever to perfect his mixes. I have never put as much time into making a mix for him as he's done for me. Not even close.
Paul revealed to me his vulnerability (which is extensive). I will never forget his sad, soulful, blue-green eyes and silver hair and rubberducky in the bathtub. Okay, so he never had a rubber ducky, but I totally intended on buying him one. Yes, he took baths every night for a very long time when I first knew him.
Paul taught me how to be modest in my dress and manners. I learned not to cuss so much and to dress more conservatively because he hated sandals and strange outfits. Simple elegance is the key. He always wore jeans and a polo shirt, so I don't know how that quite worked out, but it did. I guess he just critiqued me.
I can't stand going on without him. He was such a big part of my life. I always feel this urge to pick up the phone and call him, especially when he died, because I thought, hey, there's no better person to talk to about death and difficulties than Paul - but wait, he's dead.
I want a tattoo of his dates, but I can't afford that right now I really do need to make sure of the dates. Uhm. God, I love him so much. I fully expected to visit him in a nursing home and help change his diapers once in a while.
I had this dream that he wasn't really dead, but that he was in a hospital because he lost one of his arms. In my dream, his prosthetic arm was dangling, being held on by the elastic of a long sleeve shirt. He had this roll-eyes/zombie/sarcastic look on his face. I woke up and thought, Perhaps Paul is better off dead than without a limb. He was never a whole person to begin with. I can relate to that. I don't feel as if I'm a whole person myself.
Drifting off to sleep with him in his room was the best thing in the world. Being in his room was like visiting his childhood because it has not been changed since he was 9 or something crazy like that. I slept on the couch because his childhood room had one small bed and his feet dangled off it. His couch was actually more comfortable than the bed, which was why I slept there. It was almost like a campout adventure for children. We were the children. In the fucking 1970s, no joke. He had the '70s carpet and yellow fabric couch. Even his tv was old. The only new thing there was his computer and the table. His closet had the director snapping thingy (it's late so words fail me, stfu!!!!, nevermind that I never actually knew the word to this thing). Uhm. He had two shelves stuffed to the brim of books and DVDs. He had a playstation (okay, that's another new doodad that slipped past my memory). He also had some colognes and many, many pills. He had two small cylindar night stands with tops that were eroded away by the wetness from his many diet Coke drinks. He was a diet Coke FIEND.
I should go to sleep.
I never want to forget Paul. He meant so much to me. He was always there when I needed him and we were so much alike. He was almost like a fatherfigure. That I fucked. It bothered him to know that, so I made it a point to bring it up as often as possible and cackle insanely at his cringing discomfort. Yeah, he was Woody Allen, except he LOATHED that comparison. That and the Jerry Seinfield comparison. But he was. God, he was, but he was so much more.
I miss my best friend.