Writing is one of my all-time passions. Presented here for your perusal (no WAY I'm going to say "enjoyment") are commentaries by me about whatever the hell I feel like writing about. Please feel free to comment, critique, or reply.
I recently was refferred to the following page by a friend. If you wish to read some incredibly well-written commentaries, with razor-sharp logic, go to this link. Only after you read some of them, reflect on the fact that these were written by a young lady who is now 22, but some of these articles were written when she was 19. This girl can write. While you might not agree with what she has to say, but you can't deny she knows how to say it. The Misanthropic Bitch
When it turns around so fast, I get dizzy.
I really wish someone up there would quit pulling my petard. I really, really mean it. After my last column about all the troubles in my life, and the final acceptance of those troubles, and the lonliness I prepared myself for, to have such an incredible 180 hit me in the face has left me dazed and confused.
For those of you not keeping up, The Amazon has come back into my life, and with a vengeance.
On Monday, 3/18/01, I was out to lunch with a friend. My pager starts vibrating, and when I look at it, a numbed shock: It's her number. I grab the old cell phone and dial, because I know nothing, NOTHING would have her call me unless it was a terrible emergency. I pictured the 98 year-old lady who lives with The Amazon since The Amazon's mother died (I have GOT to come up with another title for her: That's just too damned long) died, and now she had to deal with another death in her life. Or maybe her brother (someone with a whole BOATLOAD of issues) had another crisis that we had to solve. Or maybe she lost her job. I just didn't know, but I did know that it would have to be major for her to call me.
She answers and I can hear from her voice that there's something wrong. See, she has this really sexy, husky, yet very feminine voice. Not now. She sounds like a 12 year old girl. I ask her what's wrong, and she's making small talk, asking where I am. I explain, and she asks me to call her when I get back to the office. We were about done anyway, so I hotfoot it back to the office, and call her again. This time she's crying. Oh, hell. I tell her I'll be right there, and without thinking about it, head down to her place. I mean, not thinking about it from the aspect of having walked away from her a month and a half ago. Not thinking about why I'm running back again like a 13 year old with his first crush on a girl. None of that, I just gotta get to her.
15 miles and 20 minutes later, I'm there, and she's all composed again. She grabs hold of me and hugs me, burying her face in my neck. I'm still wondering what the problem is. She's not letting go. But what could have caused her upset? She's still not letting go. What can be wrong? She's stil not letting go...
Who cares what the hell's wrong? I have the woman of my dreams back in my arms, and she wants me there. The Amazon usually puts up a very tough front, and getting to the root of what's actually bothering her has always been a long drawn-out process. We make small talk. We go up to her office and sit on the floor discussing what's new. More of stuff like this.
It kind of reminds me of meetings with oriental people. There's a protocol one has to follow, an unwritten script that has to be read through before one can get down to business. She tells me she's gotten approved for a mortgage for her house - not that she's bought one yet, but at least now she can - and starts showing me some of the places she's been looking at. She casually asks "Where do you want to live?" referring to me. I tell her that I don't want to answer that question. And I don't, because she's going through this problem, and now is NOT the time to tell her that I want to live anywhere she does. Anywhere as long as it's with her.
They say that you don't hear the bomb that gets you. You don't get the hear the bullet with your name on it, and I now know that'a true. I know it because the next bombshell dropped on me, and it didn't register right away. When it did, there were strange lapses in my concentration and consciousness. I have to believe that because the rest of the conversation is something of a blur to me, but the gist of it was that The Amazon was buying a house, but a house that she wanted the both of us to live in.
(Insert long silence and extreme confused look here.)
(Keep it going...)
(No, really. It's OK: I'll wait.)
OK, that;s about how long I was quiet. When I was finally able to speak again, I believe I said something like: "Mmmnnnphhhunnnnghhhh??"
I didn't really know what was going on. She explained that she didn't want to be alone anymore. She didn't want to be alone anymore witohout me. She missed me. She tells me that she really believes she has problems with men, and that she knows she's worked through them - at least in regard to me - because she really wants us to live together in OUR house.
By now, synaptic responses have started again in my brain. I'm starting to think again, yet it's a confused maelstrom of thoughts. Here's everything I could hope for. All my dreams come true. This can't be the latest episode in our stormy relationship, because the logical side of her would never allow US to buy a house together, so permanently binding us together if there were any doubts left. There would be too much baggage to get out of a situation like that. Therefore, this has to be the real thing.
So now we are in the process of looking for our house. OUR house! The future contains those great words like "we," and "us," and "our," all those great words that mean so much more that "me," and "I," and "mine." There will be future articles concerning the problems of this in relation to the male/female attitudes of house buying. See a guy really needs like, a bare minimum when it come to housing. We get several rooms, paper plates, plastic utensils, some cinderblocks, and some odd-sized pieces of plywood, and we're done furnishing every room, and consider it a job well done.
And 3 days later she tells me she can't commit that way and it was a mistake for her to ask me to move in with her.
Yes, you read that right. She will continue looking for a house, but wants to live there without me.
After this shocker, I was ready to curse her out every way I could imagine (and I have a very vivid imagination.) She did it to me again. I told her that I will NOT go through this again. I will not have my heart ripped out of me again.
So, I spent the next month helping her look for her house. We found one she liked, purchased it, and waited for the closing date. We spent out time together, with one major difference: I knew that the day she moved into that house, we were finished. She would ask me if I would go get boxes for her to pack, and I declined telling her "I will not help you pack, I will not help you move, and I will never set foot in that house." I don't think she believed me. On moving day she found out.
She had called the movers and contracted them to move furniture only. She was going to do the rest herself by renting a truck. She asked me to drive the truck for her, and I declined. She was pissed. I didn't care. She got a friend of her sister's to drive the truck for her, but a problem with the closing date caused the friend to be unavailable on the actual date of the close. I told her that this one time, I will drive the truck, and help her unload it. We agreed that she would pick me up at my apartment (which she had to pass on the way to her old apartment after closing) and take me to her old place, I'd drive the truck to her new house, unload it, drive the rental back to U-Haul, and then she could drop me at my apartment again on the way to her new house (because again she would have to pass right by my apartment.)
Closing day - May 1st - comes. I leave work early, 3:00PM and head to my apartment. She should be done closing soon.
4:00PM - No Amazon
4:30PM - No Amazon
5:00PM - No Amazon
5:30PM - She calls and asks me why I'm not at her apartment. I tell her because I'm waiting for her to pick me up. She tells me that she didn't have time to call me, and asks if I'll drive to her apartment. Now the problem I have is this: She had to pass my apartment to get home, the plan was that she would pick me up, so I wouldn't have to drive 10 miles to her apartment, dirve the truck to her house, then take the truck 20 miles back into Savannah, then drive 15 miles BACK to her apartment, just to drive the 10 miles back to my house.
I decline. Now she's pissed. I explain that I am doing her the favor by driving the truck. One doesn't put conditions on someone doing them a favor. She hangs up.
Feeling like maybe I'm wrong here, I try to call her back. No answer. I try for 45 minutes, and then, like an idiot, I head to the apartment. No one's there, but the truck is. I wait for 30 minutes, and head over to the new house. No one's there, either. I figure I missed them on the way, so I head back to the apartment. They are there. I ask where they were, and that I've been trying to get them on my cell for the last 90 minutes.
They wen't out to friggin' EAT!
So she didn't have time to pick me up, which would have taken no more that 90 seconds of her time, but they had 90 minutes to go eat! ('They' is The Amazon, the 98 year-old lady who lives with The Amazon since The Amazon's mother died, and The Amazon's sister.) Now I'm livid. My mind is swirling with thoughts of rejection, of someone who doesn't care that much about me to even bother to get me to help her. I realize this is over. It's got to be over for good, and without ever a chance of her doing this to me again. I had thought about this a lot, and realized that there was only one way to do it, and I had prepared for it. It was going to cost me a lot personally and emotionally to do it, but I saw no other way.
I pulled out the big gun.
The big gun is the one word no woman will tolerate. As a man, I personally don't understand it, it's only a word, but if you call any woman this word they will deplore you forever. Knowing this full well, and knowing that there was no way I wanted ever to go through this again, to be treated like this by the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and would give my life for, I used The Big C.
Yup. The C word.
I modified it with the adjective "ignorant." This was after I called her North Georgia Cracker Trailer Trash. It was tearing out my insides with every syllable, but I never let on, and looked angry the whole time. I knew that this would be too much for her to hear from me, and that she would never again even speak to me, let alone have a relationship, but it was best for both her and me. I could see the pain in her eyes as I said it, I could see the anger welling up in her. This was my plan. If she hates me, she'll never again try to get me back. She never again will have the confusion of all her emotions mixed up between all the hurt she experienced before me, the fact that I never hurt her, and was the first man she could truly trust, but held back out of fear, the desire to be with me and the fear that eventually I'd hurt her. From my standpoint, I could no longer go on this way. I could no longer be with someone who would not (or could not) commit to me after 5 years together.
And I walked away, got in my car, and drove home. Alone.
And I'm still alone.
Writing About Your Life Can Really Suck Sometimes. Tues, March 13,2001
The Emergency Room (Or: How I Spent My Christmas Vacation, Part 1.) Friday, Jan. 5, 2001
Supermarket Checkout Lines (Or why there are disgruntled people.) 12/8/2000
Gerardi's Rules of the Road Mon, Nov. 6, 2000
Death can be a touchy subject. (But still yield some humor, too.) Fri, Oct. 27, 2000
Clothes Make The Man (Want to die.) Fri, Aug 4, 2000
Help me, PLEASE!!! (or the age-old question, Part 2) Thu, Jul 27, 2000
Of course it's my fault (Or: The age-old question, Part 1.) Fri, June 30, 2000