(no subject)
Today is my birthday.
I won't say how old I am, except that I'm finally starting to feel my age. I've felt so young for so long. And I had everything going for me. Almost everything. I had my career, for the most part. My love life has always been lacking and it has always been sad. Not to mention a joke to most people. Including me, now. I look back on all of my marriages with embarassment. All of them. Even the ones I went into whole-heartedly and moon-eyed, and thinking that it would last forever.
I just reread that last sentence and realized how jaded -- no pun intended -- it sounds, because I have always gone into my marriages hopeful and with good intentions. Sure, they always fall to pieces, and I can't ever say that I am free of blame. I hate that I've come to a point in my life where I can look back on my life and lump all of my marriages together as one big, giant failure. As if they weren't little individual failures themselves. But I didn't go from one to the next thinking it would end eventually and I would fall into the lovetrap again and realize, again, that it wasn't working out. I fall in love too quickly and too hard for my own damn good. Problem is, I fall out of it just as quickly.
I went out for coffee with Xander sometime last week. I thought about our first date, because it was also for coffee. I remember the passion starting to burn in my loins and I knew that I would absolutely have to seduce him. I don't know why I can't be satisfied with merely bedding men. I don't know why I have to marry them and think I can keep them forever. I was always one of those kids who chased fireflies and kept them in glass jars overnight by my bed, wanting their light to shine on me forever. And I would sob and sob every single time I woke up in the morning after I discovered them dead. I never did learn, did I?
I was trying to figure out if I still love him. But I soon gave up wondering, because I knew those thoughts weren't going to do me a bit of good. He's already remarried, and to the woman he talked about and sang about and dreamed about during our entire relationship. And I say, good for him. I wouldn't really want to compete with that anyway. Not again. Not when I failed the first time.
Instead, I talked about my job. I told him all about why it brought me to New York. I mentioned I'd been thinking about staying here permanently. I'm so sick of Hollywood. I'm so sick of the phonyness and the competition, of the silicone and the sun. And then I told him I had been daydreaming for so long about just quitting the company, and starting my own label. He said he was surprised, because he never knew me to be the type of person who just dreams about things, but someone who goes out and does them.
And that's when I realized that, no, I don't love Xander anymore. Not that way. I couldn't love someone who knows me so well, yet barely knows me at all.
I won't say how old I am, except that I'm finally starting to feel my age. I've felt so young for so long. And I had everything going for me. Almost everything. I had my career, for the most part. My love life has always been lacking and it has always been sad. Not to mention a joke to most people. Including me, now. I look back on all of my marriages with embarassment. All of them. Even the ones I went into whole-heartedly and moon-eyed, and thinking that it would last forever.
I just reread that last sentence and realized how jaded -- no pun intended -- it sounds, because I have always gone into my marriages hopeful and with good intentions. Sure, they always fall to pieces, and I can't ever say that I am free of blame. I hate that I've come to a point in my life where I can look back on my life and lump all of my marriages together as one big, giant failure. As if they weren't little individual failures themselves. But I didn't go from one to the next thinking it would end eventually and I would fall into the lovetrap again and realize, again, that it wasn't working out. I fall in love too quickly and too hard for my own damn good. Problem is, I fall out of it just as quickly.
I went out for coffee with Xander sometime last week. I thought about our first date, because it was also for coffee. I remember the passion starting to burn in my loins and I knew that I would absolutely have to seduce him. I don't know why I can't be satisfied with merely bedding men. I don't know why I have to marry them and think I can keep them forever. I was always one of those kids who chased fireflies and kept them in glass jars overnight by my bed, wanting their light to shine on me forever. And I would sob and sob every single time I woke up in the morning after I discovered them dead. I never did learn, did I?
I was trying to figure out if I still love him. But I soon gave up wondering, because I knew those thoughts weren't going to do me a bit of good. He's already remarried, and to the woman he talked about and sang about and dreamed about during our entire relationship. And I say, good for him. I wouldn't really want to compete with that anyway. Not again. Not when I failed the first time.
Instead, I talked about my job. I told him all about why it brought me to New York. I mentioned I'd been thinking about staying here permanently. I'm so sick of Hollywood. I'm so sick of the phonyness and the competition, of the silicone and the sun. And then I told him I had been daydreaming for so long about just quitting the company, and starting my own label. He said he was surprised, because he never knew me to be the type of person who just dreams about things, but someone who goes out and does them.
And that's when I realized that, no, I don't love Xander anymore. Not that way. I couldn't love someone who knows me so well, yet barely knows me at all.