Category: Words

Poor little girl
Ran away for good
I try to explain
Why she won’t say a thing

Sad, sad thing
I’m so far away now
How can I say
Why she won’t talk at all
–X/Poor Little Girl

I have always been fond of explanations. Because I tend to go from zero to wild ass speculation in some situations, I end up needing to explain myself on a semi-regular basis. Maybe “fond of” isn’t exactly what I mean. “Required to” might be a more apt description.

I have also been known to put myself in situations where I need to explain myself because I’ve been an insane dumbass. (Aaaaand, so much for the positive self affirmations!) That’s slightly different from wild ass speculation, because it involves being a lunatic. With wild ass speculation, I am being rational but imaginative. When I’m an insane dumbass, there’s no pretense that I’m sane. Still, points for being imaginative, right?

Positive self affirmation: I am imaginative and only occasionally a dumbass and some people like me!
That needs a little work.

A lot of the time, though, I find myself explaining myself for no reason at all. Justifying a feeling. Over-documenting something I did at work. Offering a rationalization for my behavior when no one has asked. Why is that?

Self confidence? Well, since I don’t have any of that, I doubt that’s the problem.

Oh.

For someone who is as bright as I am, and I am pretty bright, I am seriously lacking in anything like self confidence in some areas of my life. Work? Mostly OK. Anything that involves academic work. Mostly fine. Wander over into the areas of feelings? So not OK. For a long time I even worried about whether or not my female friends liked me. If I don’t hear from someone for a few days, I am still very prone to thinking it must mean that they don’t want to talk to me. Maybe they’re mad? Maybe they’re offended by something I said! Maybe I did something stupid?

Maybe I’m being irrational?

That’s likely.

But, hey–I’m imaginative about it.

The alternative is that I not talk at all when I’m irrational. If I’m talking to you, and I’m acting like a crazy person about something I imagined that I said or that I think you meant, it means I love you and am trying really hard not to REALLY be irrational and stop talking to you entirely.

Except when I do elements of both. Once a good friend and I stopped talking to each other for a very long time because we each thought the other was made about something each of us had completely imagined. That takes a certain about of creative insanity, don’t you think?

I think I’m a little saner than that now. Maybe. Mostly. I try really hard to talk about things instead of. Sigh.

Well.

Work in progress.

I’m sure I’ll explain later.

P.S.
You know what? I really meant to talk about how I like it when people actually tell me what they are thinking so I don’t have to guess, because guessing makes me crazy due to my over active imagination. It didn’t work out quite that way.

He drinks a whiskey drink
He drinks a vodka drink
He drinks a lager drink
He drinks a cider drink
He sings the songs that remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that remind him
Of the better times
–Tubthumping/Chumbawamba

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in bars over the years, but I’ve never been a barfly, really. I might have been if I were a man. It’s hard for women to spend the required amount of time sitting alone in bars to qualify. Well, that’s not quite true. It’s just that if you’re even moderately attractive, you get hit on pretty constantly if you’re alone in a bar. I hear. So if you don’t mind that, it could work. Maybe if you’re a real barfly, going home with a fellow barfly is part of the code. I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t ever been a real barfly.

To qualify as a barfly, it seems like there has to be a not only a certain amount of time spent alone in a bar, but also a certain level of heaviness to the drinking. Not just the quantity of the booze consumed, but in the intensity. It can’t all be light recreational bar time. The fun bar time, just there for a pint or two with friends. Or even getting good and hammered with friends. There has to be some dedication. Some desperation. Being a generally cheerful person, I don’t think I am equipped for it. I’m not damaged enough. Or maybe I just can’t accept the necessary amount of physical and mental degradation required. I hate a hangover, for one thing. And I personally vain enough that I don’t like that I look like I’m 87 on the day after a huge bender.

So, I’ll never be a barfly. Knock on wood.

Still, I am more than a little fond of bars.

One of the things I like most is going out with a girlfriend for food and drinks. With a good friend, and enough drinks, a bar is like a confessional. You get all the good stuff out. Or is that all the bad stuff? For a secret keeper like me, that’s important. Some of us need a little more encouragement than others to be candid about the realm of the personal and obviously alcohol does loosen the tongue (in several ways) for most of us.

In a lot of bars, even the environment is like a confessional. Lots of well worn wood. Dim lighting.

Then, there’s the whole bottle aesthetic itself. Bottles are beautiful to look at. They have a pleasing shape. Whiskey and rum are a great amber color. Red wine has that whole blood red thing going on. The glass reflects the light nicely.

When you’re out with just a friend, you don’t have to filter things out that a guy would get all squicky about. You don’t have to worry about behaving any certain way. I would guess that women are a lot more candid in their discussions than men are. Of course, I’ve never been a man. You men will have to let me know what you think about that. Women talk about everything. Everything. Men would be appalled. If your wife or girlfriend has at least one close friend, believe me: that friend knows about pretty much all of your kinks and how good you are at them. There are things we don’t share out of loyalty, but women are raunchy. At least the women I know are.

Maybe you aren’t as lucky as I am.

You probably aren’t.

We should have a drink and talk about it.

Cheers!

Love ain’t on my side, love ain’t special, love ain’t great
Lost in a fog, amusing spite to find my way
Where did you go? I still curse you to this day
–Josh Rouse/My Love Has Gone

Sometimes love can be hard.

Yes, it’s wonderful
Yes, it’s the most important thing in life once you’ve got your survival basics covered.
Yes, it’s even a many splendored fucking thing.

When all the puzzle pieces are put together properly, and the heart and soul unite, there is nothing like it. I think descriptions of Heaven are based on how you feel when you are in that phase of love where it’s perfect, including the radiant glow. There’s total trust and faith, total love and total belief in each other. Throw in sexual compatibility and you’ve got one powerful feeling.

So what’s the problem? Love is love. It’s patient and kind, right? Not so much. Not always.
At times, love is a badass motherfucker who knocks you down, steals your wallet and then kicks you in the head just because it can. Then, just to fuck with you some more, it runs off with your husband and keys your car. On a really bad day, it also knocks up your daughter.

Love is sometimes a real bitch.

When it’s all good? It is. It’s all good. Then…when it’s gone for one of you, what happens?
Even in a good breakup, one where neither of you is a bad person. One where no one means to hurt anyone When one person stops loving the other one, it’s never the same again. Especially for the one who gets left. The one who leaves has at least the benefit of choice. The one who is left is…left. Even if it’s for the best, it’s never easy to be the person who gets left.

Instead of having all of the pieces of your heart neatly assembled, and going through life in that radiant loving glow? You’re no longer part of that. It’s not that people are different from how they were yesterday. It’s not that life is really any harder than it was before you fell in love. It’s like being cast out of Paradise. Real life is colder and harder than Heaven, and colder and harder than being in love. So having the same sort of life you had before doesn’t feel the same because you know what perfect is now. And it’s gone. You’re back in the cold, empty, rainy Default World again, and it feels like being in Hell, but only because it isn’t Heaven any more.

It sucks.

And there’s really no way around it except to avoid having your heart broken. Which is impossible. I would guess that almost all adults have had their hearts broken at least once. You can avoid falling in love, I suppose, but there’s a pretty huge downside to that.

You don’t get to be in love.

Being in love like that is amazing. I think it only really happens once. After that, we don’t have the same faith that we do that first time. Is it worth it?

Walking in Heaven, even for a short time?
Wouldn’t you want to?