Birthdays? Forget birthdays. Who cares? Birthdays are for pussies. Yup. I'm ok with that really. I really am, despite the fact that most people don't believe it. But, come on, not a single birthday present or dinner or at least unusual niceties in the past five years, Yup.. and into the 30s. Fuck! Is that what it was going to be like?

He dumped me three times.

I guess that's important.


added: 10/16/06

Three times.
It kind of makes a girl act funny.
Three times.
Do you feel me know?

Ok. I've calmed down a bit now and can respond more honestly.

Forget an all-out war. But let's lay the cards out on the table.
Let's begin easily and move on...

ONE:
Everytime I called Q at work, he would respond very rudely. Mind you, I am not one of those crazed women who call their partners 50 times a day. I am very respectful of people's work space. But... every now and then you have to call for information of sorts. His response was always abrupt and rude, as if I were committing some horrid crime. I wouldn't even question it if he simply responded that way to everyone. But why be more horrid to those you love?

TWO:
Whenever I am sick or laid out (I have a "issues" with my back.), Q bails. It's too much of an inconvenience for him. Go figure...

THREE:
Who the hell is Sandy?

No more mister-nice-guy...


Life has taught me many lessons. This is nothing new. But there is one that I have refused to learn — despite the numerous times it has been pounded into me. It doesn't pay to be nice. You see, I really don't believe this. And yet I continue to get my ass pounded to the ground, as I refuse to engage in petty evil wars.

My ex has a blog — perhaps a vlog. And he has somehow determined that this is a viable venue in which to air our dirty laundry. Not so cool. Insert (self) here. Yeah, I'll give you something to insert!

And so the war begins. I will not go down without a battle this time around. If I have no choice but to be exposed, then I shall respond.

More later.

Moving on is never easy.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for change, most of the time, and I've never actually had any difficulty moving on in the past. But things have changed.

What happens when you're not sure there's anything better to move on to? What happens when moving on somehow means moving further away from perfection? What happens when you find your perfect mate, and he's not so perfect — just like you? What happens when you just can't seem to live together, love together? What have you got then?

Nothing. Nothing at all. I am drowning in nothingness.

I learned, a very long time ago, that love is never enough. (I know. I know. That must certainly be the title of a very bad song.)

If I could work myself up into a man-hating rage, I would blame it on men, say that the men in life have shown me so — and then I might feel better — but I feel only regret.

[[Please tell me, by the way, how people that loved can hate so strongly. I've never understood the hatred or disinterest that follows most relationships. How can you determine that someone is good enough to build a life with, but not good enough to hold in your life when that doesn't work out. I mean, yes, there must be a period of absence in order to make the transition, but... There was something there, right? Why lose everything? I miss... so much.]]

Onward...

Love is never enough.

Sometimes... always.. there is more to it. There is day-to-day existence. And that, we know, is difficult. There are details. Details. And details build. And in the end, it's all details. There is no wholistic picture to be had.

I have spent a good part of my adult life (Let's just keep my childhood out of this for now. I don't want to get all Freudian on you.) loving and learning — as sappy as that sounds. And I have loved well. And perhaps even, I have been loved well (though this is up for questioning). But I have always felt that there is some part of me — an important part of me — that was never understood. Perhaps it's been a cultural thing. I'm sure it has at times. Perhaps it's been a gender thing. I'm sure it has at times. Perhaps it's been a personal thing. It's always been so. But... for once.. for once.. I did not feel so.

What happens when you finally find someone too much like you, when you finally find someone with the same world view, when you finally find someone who thinks and feels like you, lives like you — and still you walk away? What's left?

Nothing.

I feel empty.

I have never been scared of being alone. Until now, that is... until now.

And what I just don't understand, what I cannot understand, is how he swiftly turned away.

I hate to resort to alcohol. It's so trite — not to mention slightly stupid. But... yes, the time had come to go out and slap down a few. Times are tough, my friends. But I shall prevail.

I am not the best of friends; it is true. And I often neglect and even complain about my dearest friends; it, too, it true. But in the end, (yes, the love you take is equal to the love you make, but also...) the friends I have are true; tis true. Yes, after all is said and done, they are always there for me — sometimes with a slap or two, but always there.

So... on that note (and it is indeed a sweeter note than I am prone to)... I have taken Maria up on her offer of a night of debauchery. Ok, so that wasn't really the offer — see for yourself — but everything is up to interpretation. And, baby, that's my interpretation. So... onward we go.

Thanks, Maria. Thanks for being there. And thanks for being a friend. :-)
(Now stop gloating!)

I have to give credit to anyone who actually reads my bullshit babble.

And on that note... one of my readers left a comment I liked the other day, so I clicked over to his blog — a vlog in fact — and found some very amusing clips. Check them out. Johnny Goldstein is definitely one amusing man — probably a nut, of course, as that seems to be my thang. But see for yourself.

And if you're up for some absolutely brilliant, more academic reading, check out Esoteric Rabbit by Matthew Clayfield. I'm telling you, this shit makes me want to pack my bags and move to Australia.

Is it a product of my masochism — this attraction I have for unstable individuals?

It seems sometimes that the only people I find interesting enough to want to get to know are totally wacked out. And while this does, indeed, make them quite interesting, it also makes them quite impossible.

Look, I'm not looking to spend time with suburban housewives here — not that there's anything wrong with it (Yes, I stole that one from Seinfeld.) — but it would be nice to engage someone "normal" for a change.

Don't feed the bears. That's my motto. Once you feed them, you open your door to all their shit. And believe you me, a bear does shit in the woods — even when there's no one there to hear it.

And yet... I love those damn bears. Love them.

What is up with this new prescription culture? It seems no one can fend off a diagnosis these days. As long as it has a name, we'll diagnosis it. And if it doesn't, we'll make one up. ADD, ADHD, OCBD, QQQQ. Fuck! Why can't we just feel the way we do... and deal the way we do? What ever happened to working through our problems. No. It's all meds now. Just pop a pill and heal. And then "they" wonder why we search for an escape, why we aim to numb ourselves. We've been taught so.

Aren't we even allowed to feel anything anymore? What's wrong with being touched by the world around you? If you're too high, you need a tranquilizer. If you're too low, you need something to get those endorphins up again. Whatever! We're ruining the rollercoaster ride, man. Isn't life all about feeling and dealing. I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all. Right now... well... I grow more numb every day.. except for a dull throbbing pain that reminds me I'm alive. I treasure that pain. Why would they want to take it away from me? I might then be dead.

Fuck psycho-babble-bullshit. Fuck the M.D.s and and all other initials and anagrams. I've had about enough of floating letters.

Did you know that George W signed a new Federal Regulation — called the Child Nutrition and WIC Reauthorization Act — that stipulates that no goods baked at home will be allowed for any school events? All foods must be prepackaged or cooked in a "licensed kitchen," meaning a restaurant, grocery store, or bakery.

So, basically, it's ok to buy some crap-ass Ho-Hos, Twinkies, and Ding-Dongs, or some nasty stale pastries from the SuperAmerica bakery (which, by the way, everyone has already sweetly carressed), or even Dunkin Donuts. But God forbid you bake your own cupcakes for the school bake sale, or Janey's birthday treat.

Makes sense to me. I mean, pre-packaged foods are so healthy! And I'm sure the obesity problem in this country is the direct result of home cooking. And what better way to teach our children the value of purchasing things we can make for ourselves? And we can spare our little tikes from the kitchen, and from those god-awful fractions used in baking. Yeah, nice going, USA.

I am a criminal.. or at least well on my way. (Should I not be writing this? Maybe I'll skip the details. Sorry.)

I have been asked — or rather, guilted — into... well... insurance fraud of sorts, I suppose. What's a girl to do? What IS a girl to do? What won't we do for our friends? Where do we draw the line?

And can someone please tell me why I have so many "shady" friends. Damn! I must be drawn to it somehow. Again... my masochistic tendencies grab hold.

And again... I pay for feeding bears. (No, my darling M, you are not a bear. I just couldn't resist.)

addendum: Talk about coincidences. This in today's local news. Urgh!

Man is the only being this being knows of in which the whole cannot contain its pieces. It is illogical.

Genuine coexistence lives only as a whole. It’s not utilitarian. It does not weigh parts against parts; it weighs parts against the whole, which can only ever be interpreted one way, only have one outcome.

Space is something we cannot share.

The very notion of life is a destructive farce that keeps us from it. It is a separation from life, hence the end of it, which has nothing to do with death because that is just another farce based on the false premise of life.

Ultimately, when you choose to take it, is it because it does not exist in the first place? Or further still, to defraud it, to confront it head on in order to challenge it, to eliminate it, to renounce the illusion, and perhaps even denounce it? Is there pride in this space? Even when you dismantle it, or when everything falls apart, a few random stone are always left standing.

Is it a passive or active task? Is the dismantling inevitable? Do we reach out for the stones and pull them out one by one? – With or without a purpose? – With how much awareness? – Or does it simply fall apart? If the foundation is unsound, it must inevitably crumble. That is logic, but must it be so? Must it be logical? And is the foundation only unsound if you dismantle it? A first stone must be removed.

I don’t know, man. If it’s unsound, it’s unsound. But who the fuck cares? If it holds up your illusion, then it stands. What’s the difference? That’s what keeps us from real consciousness.

Accepting instinct works only if we fail to consider that all animals use their set of particular characteristics to ensure their survival. They do not use tools, but exploit every advantage they own. If our consciousness does not work to this end, to ensure our survival – coexistence – then it is not consciousness at all. It is absent, nonexistent, yet another false illusion.

You cannot eschew the standing stones, the ruins, which being what’s left of your ethos, you quickly swallow so that when they take you for a witch and put you to the test of drowning, you sink swiftly to the bottom, proving your innocence, and your wisdom because there is no death to fear.

Or perhaps pride is the key. Perhaps our fragmentedness threatens our wholeness too much for us to bear. Why should we care?

The point is that we NEED to be a part of something anyway, so here it is. Here it has always been.

Ye of little faith, who have been confused by false idols! It’s not that we’ve become a part of a machine; it’s that we’re a part of the wrong machine. Why did we build it? Because we could? Yes, and one can also choose to end it. Why? Because she could.

In all the uncertainty, we gravitate toward certainty, but that certainty is a noun, not a verb. There is always a verb. There can be no sentence without a verb. It’s our very foundation – life. It IS the glue, nothing else. And we do not have it; it has us.

In Search of the Rib

Man is on a constant mission to recover his rib. And since the rib was originally his, she who dons it belongs to him. Nevertheless, if he feels he has finally recovered it, or she who dons it no longer possesses it, then he must seek it elsewhere. He suffers from a sense of ownership without possession, a type of impotence, because he cannot control that which is his. It is also essential that she who dons it, merit it somehow. But this only augments the difficulty, since the more she merits it the less he can control it. This, of course, is in keeping with the existentialist notion of master/slave relationships and the Hegelian Master-Slave dialectic.

Woman is also on a quest to find the original donor of her rib, but only he who will not rob her of it, gutting her and yanking it out in his final possession. Perhaps what she truly seeks is to recompense him for his donation, without giving it up completely. This is a type of exchange. But one in which men seek to take, while women seek to give, both guarding from each and resenting each step along the way, rather than ceding to its sheer inevitability. This, of course, while truly noble, would preclude respect.

MADAM, I AM ADAM

I am a walking contradiction. I am an Idiot. I am a nut.

I have just been called on my bullshit.

How can I ask people not to talk about Q, when my fucking blog is called Q-less?!

True. True. But...

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.0.1) - Cite This Source -less 
an adjective suffix meaning “without” (childless; peerless), and in adjectives derived from verbs, indicating failure or inability to perform or be performed (resistless; tireless).

So.. let's just go with that, eh? ... just for mental health reasons.

Why is it that everyone assumes that I WANT information about my ex?

I'm trying to move on with my life, people! And while I do think about him far too often and wonder how he is, I am all too aware of the pain it causes me. I live with this daily. I live trying to fill empty spaces without slipping into the void myself. I don't need reminders — reminders of his absence.

Why is this so hard to understand?

Is it odd? Perhaps. I know there are women out there — and men as well (some of which I've even experienced first-hand) — who obsess over their exes with random stalking rituals and friend-probing. But I am not one of these. I do not understand these types. This surpasses even my own masochistic tendencies.

So... I am sorry, folks, if what you want is to feed me information. I will happily hear your stories about yourselves and others I don't know. But please don't hurt me so.

I once heard someone say that what defines blogging is its many layers of linkage, its ability for direct references which can subsequently be explored by the reader (assuming one has readers). As such, I have yet failed to blog and will now make my first attempt.

The world is far too small. Yes, trite, but indeed true.

While I do not care to reveal personal facts about myself, I find at present that making my point is more important.

I have recently come out of a difficult longterm relationship. And as those who have done so know, it can be quite unpleasant to cross paths with a recent ex too often. What is too often? That's a personal matter. For me, it means at all.

Yet I am finding the world a bit too wee and strange coincidences far too creepy. I am also finding that mnspeak can be a dangerous place to be.

On Tuesday, I was commenting on a Haunted House thread, when some guy named taulpaul asked me if I knew Q. (There, I said his name.) Clearly, I logged out immediately, without responding.

Then, today, some guy named Sam left an odd comment on my blog, something about calling his own blog "Q-full" — whatever that means. I believe this Sam to be the same Sam I talked to on mnspeak another day on an issue of public morality. It was quite curious, in fact. He claims to have a relationship with Baron Samdi, otherwise known as Papa Gede. Interesting. I have yet to meet anyone in Minnesota who knows anything to speak of about Iwa, or Lukumi, or Voudon. But let me not digress. The point is, after a bit of investigation, I have discovered that he is, in fact, Q's new roommate! Jesú!

Yes, the world is much to small. And while I regret that I will now never sit down with this interesting fellow and hear his thought on the mighty Baron, I fear far more the isolation which I must endure in order to avoid hearing of this ever-elusive, thoroughly-pervasive ex.

Oy!

Amber says...

I've never been a big supporter of the general act of blogging. Tis true. But... my friend — or rather, my aquaintance, but we'll get to that later — says it's great therapy (and a great way to meet people, though I find this highly suspect). So... blame it on Amber! (I have a strange feeling this may be a default statement in my life over the course of the next few months. After all, Amber — in my friend Maria's words — is my replacement, and one never cares to be replaced.)

Amber is my friend Maria's friend. How's that for stupid explanations? When — as Maria so sweetly puts it — I abandoned her for "insert nameless man," she turned to Amber for companionship. As if she ever lacked companionship! Maria is never one to be alone. I don't know what's worse, being accused of abandoning your friend, being forced to eat shit to compensate for it, being replaced, or being called a replacement. Funny thing is Amber didn't seem to mind. I think she's better than I at dismissing Maria's sharp tongue. After all, Maria's just a softy inside... and we ALL know that! Yes, Maria, your secret is out, posted to the world. Oooh. maybe I'm going to like this blogging thing after all — despite the fact that I suck at it.

Do not. Do. Not do.

Do not minimize it. Do not use it To support generalizations, Pains and scars That you only see Reflected In this mirror. Look only in this mirror When you look at it at all. Do not diminish it, reduce it To a shadow Of some larger truth. You abuse it, Use it For a faulty purpose. It has no purpose. It has no moral, no lesson, no explanation, no reason. It just is. That is the beauty. Hold it. No matter where or how it unfolds. Hold it. Don’t force meaning on beauty. Don’t rape beauty with significance. Ravage it. Hold it. Consume it. Be consumed by it. Hold it. Suck it. Avail yourself of it… For what it’s worth, For all it’s worth – Its beauty.

What are the fears, The real fears? What are the needs, Those that are real Rather than self-imposed or habituated? You have the love. You will not lose it. You have the affections And the intimacy. You have the desire And the reciprocity. You have all of me As an abstract notion and a promise in my eyes. You have as much hope as you feel comfortable with And as little obligations as you need.

What more could you want? What could be as honest and as noble in the end? What could better nurture faith?

Shit happens for a reason,
Perhaps.

Everything ends, but sometimes you end first.
It’s a fact.

In the end, the things that matter Are the ones that move you. In the end, the things that move you Cease to move.

But we must yet be moved. We are compelled to it. We need it. We demand it. We need our morsels, Our food, our fuel, Our purpose.

In the end, We just don’t know What petition moves us, Or if we simply move ourselves.

Faith is a difficult word. Have faith in someone. Have faith in something. But how do we pledge faith In ourselves?

This does not define us. In the end It can only add form To that which we already are. This does not define anything. Nothing but itself, If that. Do not abuse it. Do not use it To define anything. Do not cut away at it For scraps To feed anything But the hunger By which it’s yet provoked.

I do not exist in scraps. I am whole. I give you all Or nothing, Though it may feel like nothing In the end. I give you all, Though I may not complete the play. I give you all, Though I run scared away, Always looking over my shoulder. I give you all, Though you may lament my absence, Though you may resent my presence. I give you all To fill you so completely While your hands are yet so empty, Empty so that you may reach out And grab for what you want, Anything you want, Despite my hands, Which reach for you. I do not restrict. I do not define. And I decry your definitions. But I give you all, All that I can, All that I am, All that I can give. I give you all.

Take all of me. Do not reduce me. Do not restrict me. Do not condemn me to an unbefitting box. Do not categorize or define me by convention Or by perfidious postulations. Do not… Or do not take me.

Do not formulate. Do not extract. Do not expect. But do take this for granted: You have all of me, In whatever form that may be.

Do not concern yourself with form. Respect mere function. Respect form Only as it feeds you Function. And when it fails to feed you, Stroll away.

Do not taunt me with farewells, With reason, Or with cant. Do not define the dearth, And please do not recant That which has passed.

All is as much as you let it be. And in the end, That’s all we have.

I have spent far too much time -- over the past five years -- apologizing for myself, so I shall not do so now. But I must point out, before I begin, that I am quite aware of the inherent contradiction of my engaging in this blog endeavor. I have wasted many an hour complaining about the sheer vanity of blogging... as if every trite thought we all have is indeed worthy of publishing. Urgh! It pains to me to even say it. And yet, here I am. And it is ever so fitting that I begin with such a completely inane post. The most common post of all in the blog-o-sphere is, after all, the apology.

The worst thing about the miracle of modern communications is the Pavlovian pressure it places upon everyone to communicate whenever a bell rings.
-Russell Baker, No Cause for Pain, "Times (London)", November 28, 1991