Then and Now

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. They’re a blur. I slept half the week away. Its the anxiety medication. Its the depression. Its wondering what’s coming next. What I’ll have to do now that my marriage is over. For a man who wanted to live for a person, a person he loved with all his heart, the dark hole is deep and wide.

I drive without thought. The cars, lights and people are nothing. They could be robots or dreams for all I care. I drive empty.

-HarmonicaFTW, For the Love of the Game

That was me 7 months ago.

That was one of my more upbeat posts.

Holy shit.

I’m glad I started posting when I was at my lowest point. When everything seemed to grind to a halt and collapse in slow motion before my eyes. I had a blog before that one, but it lasted only a week or two before I shut it down when The Ex was becoming receptive to working it out. I was hooked on making it work. It nearly killed me.

I shorted out on working my mojo. I’d get visibly nervous when the chick of the time, LP, would call or text. Do I text back? Do I call back? What do I say? The fuck? Why can’t things just work out?

I was a mess. I cried more than she did. It was everything a Beta of the Month nomination would require, minus the begging on knees. At least I did put a hole through the wall during one argument.


I was on cloud 9 when I made smooth moves on a drunk chick at a club before I left. I rode that for a good week. Then, of course, it crashed. It rose with Maria. It crashed.

I got laid a few times. Had some experiences.

Then, it just happened. No more waves. No more searching for fulfillment. It was just there. No theme music. No moving ending.

Poof. You’re better. Move on with your life.

End of story.

Back to the Plan

I come to Salt Lake to visit friends, to relax, to see if I can get some club play, but, as is my 2011, things don’t work out that way at all. Less eating, memories, or whatever the cause, I was in a major funk. Anger, depression, sadness; it felt like I had never left. Three months had never past and I was still hanging on. The birthday night didn’t help.

Yesterday, I talked to my folks. While I was feeling much better than the days before, I was still feeling lost. I had the thought that while married and working, I had a path and a stability. Now, without either, I was floating. I have gained a lot of psychological and emotional strength in California, dealing with the great personalities of Californian women, uselessness and other things. But its only one piece of a very large puzzle.

California is fucked economically. I have a long history of hard work with several companies, working for them for years, but I can’t get hired. I’m on unemployment. I’m not getting anywhere in California with girls or friends. Except for my relatives and the friends I talk to over the net and phone, I am alone. This cannot go on for much longer. There has to be some stability. An ability to find connection.

This is why, despite my attempts at not having to, I am going to go back to my parents place. The Canadian economy is doing much better. I have the support of them, of my other family, my friends in the area. There is a lot there that I need right now, despite my stubborn, independent personalty. Its a great benefit to have, but sometimes you’ve just got to recognize when you’ve got to go home again and start from a solid foundation.

It won’t be forever. It won’t mean I can’t see friends in Utah or family in California. Getting a job in a better economy, feeling better and having being on my own, truly, will allow for those last pieces of the puzzle to connect to make the whole.

I’m strong. I am not afraid. I am willing to move to my advantage and move again to follow my wants. That’s something I wouldn’t have done before the Ex left. Or when I first arrived in California.

Things are always getting better.

Written at 1:54am

I tried to fall asleep early, but to no avail. I guess I’ll have to short myself some hours if I’m going to get on a schedule more tuned to day and night. I’m doing this because I need to get up and get out quick to exercise, walk and just let myself think my day through. I’ve never been a morning person. I’ve never been much of a planner person. I leave things to the last minute, create messy rooms and all around keep house like I was 4 years old. My uncle is correcting that flaw in me quickly. His own bedroom looks like its never been slept in. He expects the same from my room.

I signed up for UI from Utah yesterday. First time ever I’ve had to request state assistance. Luckily, I’ve thrown my ideology out the door and care about myself more than anything. Its needed. While I don’t pay rent and my relatives are kind enough to feed me most of the time, I need the money to pay down the debts I already have, to keep my car in my hands for future employment and for other things. I have no problem making business contacts. I applied to a dozen places on Monster a few weeks ago, none that contacted me back. Not even the TV guys are getting back to me. Its nasty out here, but I’ll make it. I have my insiders. I just need to bide my time.

Things on the Maria horizon are looking good. She picked her number, so the plan is set, she just needs to give me the data on what days she’s off. We’re taking a slow pace, but fuck me if that isn’t something I’ve never experienced. All my exs and my lays have been with girls who went down early or who I was extremely sexual with early on, usually over the internet. We are a generation of instant gratification. We forget what a build up feels like. Fuck, I have little experience in a real build up of human contact from day one. It is frustrating slightly, but I also think of the day I’ll be able to let it all go. I know I’ll get there. I know it’ll be great (for me, at least), so those thoughts keep me walking tall like I showed Rosie O’Donnell my pimp hand on live TV.

I’ve also scaled back my going out massively. Instead of random days when I feel like it or feel shitty, I’m going to hit up two places or more on Fridays. There are a bunch of decent places on my roster, so I can switch it up quick if a place feels lame that night. The Sire will still be my HQ for a drink and relaxation, since they know me there now, but I can’t get drunk there anymore or go as frequently. That shit costs me a good chunk.

Time to try to sleep again. I’ll try the den room couch this time.

Game Review: Last Night in SLC

A retroactive review of what sparked it all. I thought about not doing it since I wrote a couple thousand words on the night, but then I realized I did make a ton of mistakes, so why the hell not?

For those who couldn’t be arsed to read my lengthy pontifications: drunk girl comes over to hit on my female friend/look at shiny things. Drunk girl teases male friend and I about being gay. I kissed drunk girl to “prove I’m not gay”. Drunk girl become enamored with me all night. Push/pull. Negs. I tried to placate the friend who was always at risk of major cockblock. Had tons of fun, but no notch.

What I knew:

  • I wanted to get laid. I wanted to have fun. Yet, I had felt no game and was targeting the wrong girl. I had no other path at the time, so I went with it.

What I learned:

  • Be forward. Always be forward. What got me this girl was taking a risk and it work out in spades. If I had ignored my instincts, I would have been pursuing the wrong girl the entire night. I wouldn’t of had fun or the motivation to keep my game going.
  • Recruit wingmen. I had C and M with me. C wasn’t bi and M was nerd-shy. With a decent wingman, I could of isolated my girl from her friend. The wingman I was looking for actually showed up much later in the night and totally outside my control. It probably would have been the perfect time to take the target away to some place quiet, but I didn’t jump at the chance.
  • No excuses. While I did amazing for what my track record has on it, I still pawned off indecisiveness as someone else’s fault. The friend, mostly. I could of gotten some. This chick came back 3 times, happy to see me. From the background, I cockblocked a couple trolling for a threesome because she liked me better than them. And this girl talked slutty all night. It was there to take and I didn’t take it.
  • Move quick. I lingered a lot. I didn’t get into the good parts of her until late when I could have been on it early on.
  • Be aggressive. I worried about her friend while her friend was being standoffish. I should of taken advantage of it since I already had her friend hooked.
  • Stock condoms. ‘Nuff said.

All in all it was a very good night that could have been better, but I’m not fretting. Abundance abundance abundance!

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 5

The first full day there was rest. Organization and rest. I repacked my bags so to make it easier for the long drives. Electronics here, clothes there, food there, and so on. It took me most of the day. I wrote, I read, I kept busy, but not too busy. It was relaxation after all. I had contacted Becky, a friend and former co-worker, and we set up a time to meet. I hadn’t seen her in three years. Her husband, Rick, was a good friend too, even our time working together was cut short by his unjustified firing. Such is the business of entertainment. She wanted to meet in West Hollywood. Left around eleven, missing the traffic from the Inland Empire streaming into LA.

I arrived early and had a smoke sitting on the edge of one of the flowerbeds, remembering all the times I had driven or walked to this place to pick up the Ex. She worked at the Best Buy. Sometimes I’d get mixed up and walk to it when I was supposed to be at the Bed, Bath and Beyond Store far down Sunset. I was fine with it. I liked walking. I began to miss Los Angeles.

It took them a while, but they arrived with their dog Debbie. I was surprised when both Becky and Rick both gave me hugs. I hadn’t known them that closely, or so I had thought. They looked excited, like I was a long lost friend. I felt close, like I felt with Adrian and Lana. I told them the story. I explained the money problems and even went into my changes from the two days previous. “I changed between ten pm and meeting a drunk girl,” I said, smiling. Becky smiled and slightly jolted in her seat. They knew me as timid and clingy. As a hard working kid, not as an adult. We talked for nearly two hours, grabbing drinks at Jamba Juice. They told me of their freelancing in television and film. Rick getting enough work for them to stay solvent. Becky pursuing writing and acting. They both had been part of the machine I was a cog in. When I got tired, when my kid brain had enough, I went to a new machine. They broke the cycle. I admired them greatly.

I was riding a high from the night at Area 51. I was riding high from being in the sun, the clear blue sky, the swagger in my walk and the confidence of my talk. I felt the third eye scan the world around me, judging, watching and targeting. I tingled all over, underneath, vibrations so slight I had to stop to feel them. Everything had gone right. Everything was good. What felt right was right and what felt wrong was wrong. There was no questioning. No choices. No debating. There was just what I wanted and that was it. I called my dad and told him I’d be staying in California, not coming back to Canada. I’d be staying with my uncle. I’d get work, pay off my debts and make my life, alone but not lonely, out West, as I always said I would. I was home and I was being told it was by the little motions of the universe. I imagined real cowboys, gunfights, world saving and honor and nations for years. Politics and history and morality. It was all bullshit. The West called me out to do this, to write, to have fun, to be big and be bigger. I called my mom that evening and I cried to her. I cried simple tears. Real tears. No anxiety. No shaking or fear or Hell. These were the tears of five months of suppression crashing down around me. The realization I’d spent half a year dealing with the end of my marriage. The midway of 2011. The peak of the hill is coming up. I was scared shitless of what I had done, but I was also supremely excited. Deep down, I felt as I feel right now, like the certainty my uncle and his family have of God’s will in their lives, I have the certainty my life will blossom here. That alone, with each step taken and without looking back, I can walk down the street, the pier or into a room and I am the motherfucking man. No bitch, no boy, no chav, no cunt… no one can tell me any different.

God likes playing tricks. He found me the perfect woman and made her fat, stubborn and impulsive. He made her barren. He made her annoying. He made her mine and then he made her leave. He made me cry. He made me timid. He made me question myself and bring me to edge a dozen times. He made a sure thing into a throwback. He taunted me with rabbits, pussy and the loving arms of family thousands of miles away. No more. No rules. No ways. No fear.

God’s not going to like what I have in store.

My sins are just the beginning…

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 4: The Resurrection, Part 4

He drove us back to Lana’s place, and his place now that he had asked for Lana’s hand. My opportunity to actually feel the alcohol I consumed instead of slight blips of taste. My chance to brag and regale and unwind from unwinding. My chance to slow down. My expectations were delusional. When we arrived, Paul was seated in the single seat couch, otherwise known as a chair and ottoman, playing Mass Effect 2. Paul was a glorious nerd of massive wit and eternal kindness. He could cuddle his son one minute, work his ass off another and bust a very gross joke the next, all while getting all 95 achievements in Red Dead Redemption. Paul was a giant kid. A thirty-something bic-ed loveable kid. Immediately, Adrian gives me a Hops Rising beer. Bitter, dark but 9% alcohol and locally brewed. A good start.

We watch Paul bust through the plethora of talking in the game, waiting for Lana to return. Soon, Orange and Rex came in. I had met both of them once or twice. I never met any of these brothers-in-arms much. I was happy to see them. Orange was a DJ and had just come back from a birthday party. A great looking woman, her friends and her daughters. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, black suit jacket, black tie; the formal ten. Always with a smile, he recounts the story of his night. The woman is pointing out everyone there. Orange saw two drop dead, boner inducing women, mouth slightly opened. The birthday girls leans over to him and says “And those two are my daughters. They’re off limits.” My first thought was he should of went for them anyway, but a good man knows that pay trumps women, especially the disposable kind. A lightweight redhead became extremely enamored with him during the night. She “guns” were used, over and over and over, until she tipped over. An ex even shows and he has to escort her out. “I’m working,” he said. I listen closely.

It became my turn to tell my story. I should of felt overwhelmed. I should have been overshadowed by Orange. I’d heard several of his stories, but I was still high off the simple things I had done. It was basic game. It was below basic. The men I read on the net – Dagonet, Willy Wonka, Roosh, Roissy – that was their light breakfast, if they felt like it. But, for me, it was the start. It was winning the playoffs, even if it was the pee wee leagues. I was happy. That’s all that mattered. I went into the story. Lana returned, hands full of bags and clothes. Quickly, after hearing the conversation, she backed me up. “She had great tits.” We went into the kitchen. Paul broke out his smooth, licorice tasting Columbian liquor. We all shot and talked. We all told stories. Rex about the gray-haired hippie lady he drunkenly hit on. His band mates watched from a distance and laughed as she tried to pick him as he desperately tried to find a polite out. Orange talked about giant clits. I told a very short version of a girl I worked with at Denny’s and fucked twice after I quit, both times in public parks. Without the shots, the laughs and the barbs between us all, I may have remembered how half the time her dog cockblocked me. It didn’t matter. It was the best time I’d had in a very, very long time.

It rolled around five and Orange had already went home. I was pretty drunk and I had to get up early enough to make it to my relatives in California at a decent hour. We all had a last smoke and went to sleep. Only Orange was sober enough to drive home. The rest of us scattered around the condo. I got about five hours of rest before Paul woke me up as he promised, the sound of coffee being made and I enthusiastically took a cup. I could feel the Columbian devil water still in me, but I had no choice. All my shit was in the car. All the shit I thought I needed. All the shit I thought I didn’t have the balls to throw away. Things I may do or may want. It was all things. The Exs storage closet held enough require five of my cars, if you packed it tight. I gave a handshake to Paul and we said our goodbyes as he went off to work. Then, as requested, I knocked on Lana and Adrian’s door. They came down and Lana gave me a giant hug, wishing me the best and headed back up to sleep. Graveyard shifts. Adrian went outside for a smoke and I joined. We talked for a bit about the trip and smaller things. I only had half my cigarette. I needed to space them out if I was going to make this habit last an entire carton. We shook and I left. Some Marylin Manson on the stereo.

I felt excited. I felt ready. I hit the road and realized I was still drunk. The intoxication fell off around southern Utah where I stopped for Gatorade and a smoke. I pondered on what Kay had told me about an hour earlier. The Red Cross in Tuscaloosa was slow and inefficient with the tens of thousands of volunteers helping. I had taken over the conversation. I wanted to expose it. I know people. Benefit of big family. I went on and on and on. Then, when I gave her a word, she reminded me that the problems happened days ago, not currently. All she wanted to do was vent about the past problems. I jumped on it like I jump on a lot of things. Like ideas. Like feelings. Like my marriage. It was a kick to the ego. One needed. The humbling ying to the alpha yang.

At the station, after pondering, surrounded by new condos in the middle of the parches desert, a jackrabbit burst out of the brush and stopped dead in the middle of a clearing no more than 20 feet away from me. I stared at it for several moments. It didn’t move. For years, I had tried to hunt jackrabbit in Utah, the only animal you can kill without a permit due to its massive population. I was told they were everywhere. I had even seen them on hikes. Yet, every time I took my .22 with me to hunt, they were never there. Any rabbit I did see either was too far, ran at an insane speed directly left or right, or popped up when I was out of ammo. Now, for whatever reason, God or whomever had decided to taunt me a dumbass rabbit, as he did with a drunk girl. It was at this time I concluded that it was God’s plan to prank me as much as he could, and that I needed to start pranking his ass back in whatever way I could.

It took 11 hours to get to southern California from northern Utah. Traffic jams from Vegas straight into the Valley. Agriculture checkpoints 100 miles in the California border. Dumbasses galore. I was home, again. God pulled another prank on me while I was stuck on I-15 with thousands of others: Osama bin Laden got capped. I had thought about that moment for many, many years. I wanted to be at a bar, or at home with family and friends, or be able to be able to join in the celebration. Fucker died while I was squinting into the brake lights of some soccer mom’s minivan, waiting for my turn to look at a pulled over sports car. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn’t it have been yesterday? Why couldn’t it have been with Seasons’ tits in my hand? If anything would of pushed me to take her into the bathroom that night and carve my name into her thighs with my dick, it would have been that. Even goths hate terrorists. I called my mom about it, she being a political person. Her reaction was, as I used to be, as Spike was, a downer. It didn’t matter. Who cares if he’s dead? I cared. I was happy. Some people need to die, no matter what. Its in male genetics to murder our enemies. The yang returned. Embrace the animal. The nature of man. Quit fucking downing yourself. I turned on Queen and belted my cracking voice.

When I got to my uncle’s place I was drunk on fatigue. It took me three hours to fall asleep. Something still wasn’t right. My mind still having insane thoughts at insane speeds like it did in Utah. I popped a Xanax, knowing it was the second to last one, knowing that if I was addicted it would be a very bad thing to run out. I didn’t want to be. This was supposed to be a rest. Something still wasn’t kosher, but I pushed it away. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep was short. Sleep was restless. The only thing that still ran well was the ego.


The finale, tomorrow.

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

Part 1Part 2


The night before we flew back to Utah, I got loose. I found myself feeling better. Convincing myself that it was all a loaded dream. There were problems, of course, but not the end all be all. Tim was cooler, Mike less odd. Jokes and fun all around that last night. We said our goodbyes. Then, as before, as I was waiting, the disappeared again. I thought I heard I voices. I thought I heard a kiss. Like green skies over Kansas, I saw it. The storm came.

Driving back to the cabin on the mountain, the reason we came to Arkansas, I did everything I could to provoke her. I was angry, but I was chickenshit. I pissed her off and I liked it. I was hurt, real or imagined, and she wouldn’t budge. Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you. Back at the cabin, she slept and I tried to. I went to the couch instead and cried. The crying you do when you lose your parent to a horrible car crash. It had been a very long time since such emotion burst from me. It went on until the fire I built died. She woke me, concerned. Funny. We packed up, said goodbyes and went to the airport. Flight pushed back. Waiting. Waiting. Silences and breathing. Indecision. Waiting. Pictures uploaded to Facebook. Tags and smiles.

Days went. Days and days of fog and shit and hell. Fighting often. She was unhappy. I was confused. Over and over the same issues and she was a stubborn one. Stubborn beyond reason. Stubborn to the core of her being. The choice was made beforehand. I could see it and smell it and taste it. This, if not on the tip of her brain, was something made a long time ago. My paranoia and anxiety aside. This was something I had no control over. And that was a killer. Copulation was unknown. Touching, yes. Kissing. Sucking. Blowing. Backoor. But nothing that said, I miss you. Nothing that said, I’m still with you. At first, I wanted it to mean something. Second time, I just took the everything but pussy. Defeated and horny.

The first of the month of love, I lost it. I grasped at every straw. Felt every emotion. Pushed and pulled and stood up and gave in. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last, but it happened. Thrashing around like a wounded animal. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and you and you and you. I wanted her to stay so badly. I wanted her to be with me. I was better. I was amazing, yet I was begging and crying and unable to control myself. I was on the mend and swinging from the noose made by my own hands. I had to get out of there. Concerned for me, she agreed. Concern for the heart she’s breaking. Indeed.

Called in to work. Flew out on to the road. South. Mind wanting Vegas or some far away spot. I only got as far as Draper and In N Out. Called my dad. Told him the news. He was shocked. Me too, Dad, me too. I reached out and found ears. I felt like it was 4 years previous, her previous strike at me. I felt like I was a teenager. I felt like they needed to pick me up and put me back to sleep. Shhh, son, it’ll be okay. But this wasn’t Glendale. This wasn’t my bed and drawers. The one taller than me that I climbed like a monkey. This wasn’t our old, but safe home. This wasn’t memory. This was today. This was now. This was my life choices staring back at me like hungry bats in the night. These were my failures. I went to see a movie, The Fighter. I like boxing movies. I like Marky Mark. I came out of it a little better. I saw my mom had texted, offering her support as well. I called and it all returned. I drove the streets, talking, sighing, making excuses and hiding the full force of it all.

Days went by. Still fighting. Still sucking. Still. I couldn’t break her like she was breaking me. I couldn’t make her stay. I couldn’t do anything, but lose my heart. So, I did. Piece by piece, hour by hour, game blog after game blog, I just shut down. It wasn’t a change, it was a suppression. It was taking emotions and hiding them, not destroying them. I could stand tall. I could say the words, but I still shook at times. I still felt my heart race and my mind go insane. I slept away from her. The couch, the futon, the recliner. Not the bed. Not that it mattered anymore. Game didn’t apply when it was all over. Now, it was just making it through until I made it home. I knew it, but I didn’t believe it. Still fighting. Still wishing. Still.

March. Her trip to see her friends. Wish I could do that. Fucking city work. Got you money up the ass. Yet we never had enough. No savings. Fuck, whatever. I would be on my own for the first time in a long time. For the first time in this marriage. Truly on my own. I came home sad. I got drunk. I waited for return. I started disassembling. I started what I thought was to be a long process. A week went by. I talked to a girl. I flirted. I gamed. I missed parties and tried to set things up. Things were looking good. Things had a purpose. Then, “If I didn’t come back, what would you do?”… sleep, bitch. I’d sleep. I need to sleep. Oh, you’re serious. Fine, stay. Fuck you. I’ll take the car. I need a road trip. I need to clear my head. I need to escape from my escape from what I thought was oppression. Turns out it was just reason warning me. I tried to sleep after that. I couldn’t. I took pills. I turned over and over in bed. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! I called the family. I called my dad. The fixer. The man. I had doubted him previously. I made excuses of why I was based on him. I was 100% wrong. Dead wrong. He gave me advice. He got my shit together. A day of no sleep, drugged up and I did what I had to do after her impulse. He had the clear head. I defended her as she killed me. He told the truth. It didn’t sink in just yet, but it was breaking the wall put up by idealism and naïve, sex driven opinion. It was falling, one brick at a time.