Thursday, December 22, 2011
There are times where you are just really sad about someone who didn't work out in your life. There are other times where things are different and you're glad (i.e., Cactus Man) and life gets richer and better.
But there are some lost souls, mentally-damaged people, that when it doesn't work out with them, you're not devastated, just very, very sad.
The Invisible Man finally contacted me. Outta respect for him, I'm not going to use our other nickname for him because while it's funny, it's not nice. Of course IM didn't TAlk TO me. But he left me a message that he wanted to get his stuff back because he'd be in town.
At first, my friends and I were just disgusted. "He just wants his shit back. What a shithead. You don't mean crap to him," said JJ. And many others.
I felt I should oblige. After all, YES, I did have an expensive first edition of a book that was his and other stuff. After all, I was of the understanding that we, over the summer, had become a "we." So we exchanged lots of stuff--as couples often do. In his voicemail, he said if I didn't want to see him, that was fine and that I should do "the right thing" and leave his stuff on my porch in a bag. So I did. And I called his landline and left him a message saying, we were adults here. We didn't need to pretend to be friends and have a conversation that was all fake, wishing each other well wishes like teenaged campers at summer camp. So I left his books on my porch with a note. Not a "Bette Davis-ripping-your-head-off" style note, just a very honest SHORT one.
Then the axe fell on my heart.
He'd left me a lovely Christmas card asking to be friends and if I could meet him in the future, a short letter, a gorgeous piece of artwork and four antique casters for my Victorian chair. As I pretended to not be home, I watched him out my curtain, his shoulders sagged. Each step of his feet looked like someone dejected.
I felt, in short, like a fucking asshole.
So I called his landline and thanked him for the gifts. Then said I hoped he would have a good holiday.
It was, in short, the toughest thing I have had to do.
There's a difference between giant raging assholes like Cactus Man, and someone with mental illness and fears where a r healthy relationship/friendship just wasn't possible.
Regrets. Man, I have 'em. Don't you?
Ho, ho, ho. I was feeling the merriment, but not so much right now.
I had to be mean to a friend over the holidays but for only one reason. Her husband is an asshole, and I didn't want to, under any circumstance, want to be around him.
In a way, I can understand her position. Say it worked out with me and Cactus Man. Say he moved here.
ALL HELL WOULD BREAK LOOSE.
I would lose all my friends. JJ, Paulie, Leslie, Rob, Dooooder, Bassy-gas, everyone would be like, "I cannot stand that asshole she's with, and he's ALWAYS around." Consequently, if I stayed glued to his side, I would imagine everyone would start disappearing.
Which leads me to this philosophical concern.
Do you have to accept all of your friends' spouses? If you do NOT, where do you draw the line?
Pretty much nowadays, ALL my friends are single. Even Dooooder, is going through a divorce. I don't have any friends, other than my sister who are part of a "we," "couple," "ONENESS."
But what do you do if one of your few married friend's spouse is a real asshole? I don't mean just a buffoon, but someone who's aggressive, nasty, unpredictable, mean, and disagreeable? Add to that, gets even worse when he/she drinks?
What do you do?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
All Hail to Agnes Morehead.
You know, I always looked up to her. I loved the way she'd rip off Maurice's (her ex) head, or tell Derwood to step off. As a little girl watching this show already in syndication, I'd clap my tiny hands in glee while she turned Derwood into an ass or ape.
Speaking of apes, asses and turds.
Cactus Man wrote me.
But you're saying, "He can't. You blocked him!" Well, not apparently on Myspace, which I hadn't checked in so long, I was suprised my password still worked.
He asked something to the effect of how was I doing. I didn't answer that but simply wrote, "I hope your grandma is doing well."
He wrote back all whiney. "How come you never ask about me?"
My inner Endora came out, and while I would have taken great pleasure into turning him into a giant cactus, or something you'd find at the bottom of a toilet, I simply wrote,
"Because, Cock-knocker, I'm sure you're doing well enough chasing the ladies and building them false castles in the air. Best, Natalie."
Then I laughed, hit "send" and then deleted his email.
I mean, really?