As I was doing my usual morning routine of procrastinating doing the various things I ought to be doing (like getting my business planning done – I’m woefully behind) I was roaming through various news sites and came across a headline that made me sadder than anything else I’ve read lately:

As I was doing my usual morning routine of procrastinating doing the various things I ought to be doing (like getting my business planning done – I’m woefully behind) I was roaming through various news sites and came across a headline that made me sadder than anything else I’ve read lately:

“Library Opened by Mark Twain Falls Victim to Austerity Cuts”

I’m not a huge history buff – I have a healthy respect for it and love to learn about it, but I don’t retain much of it, sadly.

More than that, though, I love books. Lately I’ve fallen into reading eBooks on my iPad, but when I finally had a chance to get a library card at my new (to me) local library, I remembered exactly how much I love everything about books: the way they feel in my hand, their smell, the sound of a turning page. The thrill of wandering up and down library aisles hoping to discover a writer I’d never read before is rivaled by little else.

Seriously, I’m a huge book whore and the very thought of a historical library started by one America’s most famous writers, makes me angry.

And even though the library is located in London, instead of setting me more at ease, it actually makes it worse in some ways.  The UK is rife with history far older than the U.S.’s and having grown up on the Continent, I feel far more attracted to European History (in general) than I do to U.S. History.

Which has its own baggage, but that’s another story.

At any rate, I got to thinking about how immensely sad it is that we (the royal “we” – as in people in general) seem to be so quick to toss history out the window in favor of something newer and shinier. We’re such a disposable society – instead of buying things that were meant to last, we’re now stuck with cheap plastics which break sooner rather than later, clothes that fall apart in 6 months, tops, and new iPhones coming out yearly (which irritates me far more than I can possibly tell you).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against technology (especially iPhones) nor am I against using knowledge to make our world a better place. What drives me absolutely batty is the utter disdain with which we seem to regard our historical past. This attitude seems to be especially apparent in children born after computers became commonplace. I remember this well after briefly teaching high school. The utter apathy is appalling.

I still remember what it was like not to have an easy way to do things, and I respect that. Sometimes I even miss it. And I don’t like that technology seems to make even those of us who grew up in a very different kind of technological world lazy and addicted to instant gratification. It’s sad, really, to think that we’re so easily distracted, jumping from one new thing to the next, never really knowing or learning from our mere toe-dip into what amounts to nothing more than distractions.

Way back when I used to watch Criss Angel: Mindfreak – partly because I thought he [...]]]> I used to be completely enthralled with magicians. Magic was awe-inspiring and left me filled with a sense of wonder that seems to have been set aside solely for people who haven’t yet reached the point of being jaded.

Way back when I used to watch Criss Angel: Mindfreak – partly because I thought he was absolutely beautiful and partly because I wanted to capture that sense of magic. What better to evoke it than an escape from a wood chipper by a beautiful man?

Now, wood chippers always freak me out, magic or not, because, even though I have no reason to be near one, I always think I’d be the kind of person unlucky enough to get caught in one – it’s the same reason I hate when something falls into the garbage disposal and I have to stick my hand in to pull it out – like it’s going to magically turn itself on and I’m going to lose a limb.

I remember watching this particular episode and being left with a sense of despair because it was a night I realized that I was completely jaded. And I didn’t want to be. I wanted that childlike sense of wonder. I wanted to amazement and awe. I wanted to rest assured in the comfort of mystery. And yet I firmly remember focusing more on what I considered Criss’ apparent narcissism and ease at being so (which may or may not be a true assessment on my part – I’ve never even met the man) than the wonder of his abilities. I didn’t sit on the edge of my seat wondering if he’d make his escape from the wood chipper. Instead, I said to myself, “He’s going to crawl out of the truck of wood chips.”

And so he did. I don’t know how he did, but as he crawled out, I felt self-satisfied with my sense of superiority; arrogant with the knowledge that he couldn’t pull one over on me.

As a kid I reveled in the now. As an adult I would like to feel settled and happy where I am – not because of a false sense of self, but because I am truly content. This constant searching for whatever it is that will make me feel like I’m home is exhausting. The next adventure on the horizon always seems more appealing than the last, and yet each time the change in location, while soul-calming at first, sucks more life out of me. Not because of the change, but because of the inevitable disappointment in the knowledge that I am still lost. Still wandering. I want to have meaning attached to my life, to be part of something larger than myself – a carryover from having grown up an Army Brat where I was literally born into the bigger picture. Each time I try something new I think it will provide that satisfaction, but it never does.

As I clutch the edge of whatever precipice I find myself dangling over this time, I have to ask myself what in the hell I’m doing. Am I running from something or to something? Do I make yet another decision based on someone else? Or is the decision based on what I want, precipitated by someone else?

I’d stop running to catch my breath, but the boredom seems to be worse than racing after the illusive mysteries of life.

Capital A, capital B.

And with the exception of a rather lengthy 5 year stretch living in Germany, I moved on average every 2-3 years from the time I was born until I turned 18. Then I managed a 10-year stretch in Florida before I moved again, but I [...]]]> I grew up an Army Brat.

Capital A, capital B.

And with the exception of a rather lengthy 5 year stretch living in Germany, I moved on average every 2-3 years from the time I was born until I turned 18. Then I managed a 10-year stretch in Florida before I moved again, but I was ready to leave after 5. Since then, it’s been back to moving every 2-3 years. It’s tough on the finances, but the peace of mind it brings always outweighs my bills.

I can always tell when it’s getting time for me to move again.  It’s hard to explain what I call “itchy feet syndrome,” but it always begins with a sense of boredom and a rather intense feeling of utter dissatisfaction that starts off as a niggle and ends up as a full-blown inability to stay where I am one minute longer.

I’m not unique in this, I know. Most of the Brats I know who spent their growing up years moving frequently get the urge to change locations just as often as I do. How many actually move, I don’t know. Some of them I’m sure have taken jobs where they travel on a regular basis which probably helps temper the itch. I’ve often thought about finding a job that offers travel, but there are two things wrong with it:

1. I hate working on other people’s time frame.

and

2. I hate to fly. Which is kind of funny since my first flight was when I was about 6 months old. I used to love it.  Especially take-offs and landings.  It’s the wait in between that drives me crazy.

I like to do what I want, when I want which is why I’m starting my own business.  I’ve had to put that planning on hold for a bit since I’m in the midst of a move right now, but I’ll be getting back to that shortly. I want something portable that I can take anywhere and which will provide enough money to pay the bills.

I’ll be able to announce everything in a month or two, but for now you’ll just have to live with the cryptic.

Anyway, moving has become a bit of a hassle as well. There are no military movers to come pack my stuff and move it. And I’d forgotten how much crap I’ve managed to accumulate since I got back from Scotland 2-1/2 years ago. I’ve got a ton of stuff to sort through which has to wait until after I move (I always manage to do things ass-backwards) and I’ve got projects to help my dad with (cleaning the garage, anyone?). Sometimes I think about getting rid of everything that isn’t essential. Which means selling my LPs and CDs and (gasp) books.  I can’t bring myself to part with them quite yet.

Maybe one of these days.

I’m torn on the whole moving thing anyway. Part of me knows I’ll never be happy living in one place for any length of time. The other part, however, wants to be settled somewhere. Maybe I can have a home base and travel around that, always having somewhere to come home to.

But the idea of “home” as most people see it has never been mine. Home has always been where I’ve lived and where my family is – wherever the Army sent us.

And now? Well, I still have no idea. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure that out.

Until then I’ll have to be content to move every so often.

And it’s not so bad. Once you get past all the packing and actual moving.

Add a week of switching back to a normal schedule after getting laid off.

Stir in packing and cleaning and painting and moving.

Sprinkle a dash of business planning.

Put in one big-ass bag, tie it tightly, and shake until [...]]]> Take the tale-end of a 4-month outage on night shift with a ton of overtime.

Add a week of switching back to a normal schedule after getting laid off.

Stir in packing and cleaning and painting and moving.

Sprinkle a dash of business planning.

Put in one big-ass bag, tie it tightly, and shake until dizziness sets in.

Dump into a bowl and top with a major helping of “I have no freakin’ time.”

No joke.

I like to pretend I don’t care about being the center of attention, but the truth is that I thrive on it. When I was a competition gymnast in high school I used to imagine that whoever I was crushing on at that particular moment (usually someone famous [...]]]> I am an attention whore.

No joke.

I like to pretend I don’t care about being the center of attention, but the truth is that I thrive on it. When I was a competition gymnast in high school I used to imagine that whoever I was crushing on at that particular moment (usually someone famous that I had absolutely no chance in hell of meeting) was in the stands absolutely blown away by my performance.

(I still do this when I’m in a situation where my performance is the center of attention. It actually works out quite well.)

I’ve always sworn that I’m not high maintenance – it really does take very little to keep me happy, but one of the reasons I started downplaying my need for attention is because it makes me feel high maintenance.  And needy.

But we all have our issues.

Right?

I haven’t always shoved my need for attention aside. I could give you an entire list of insane things I’ve done, but I’ve been thinking about a friend of mine lately, about how we met, and a whole host of things I’ve done to get his attention.

This is but one:

We’ll call this friend “Rockstar.”  When we met he was playing with a well-known musician we’ll call “Musician.” If I give up one name, I’ll give up the other, and I’m not inclined to give away Rockstar’s identity. Suffice it to say, I met him after a show. Took pictures. Rubbed his bald head. Probably scared him.

I tend to have that effect on people.

For some still unknown reason, I felt this incredible urge to track him down. I did and we began an email correspondence.  I spent months flirting and being silly and throwing out random questions just for the hell of it. It got to the point where I knew he’d know who I was if he saw me, but wanted to cement it.

Shortly after we met, I went away to college, and they played a show shortly after the semester started. Since I knew about it months in advance, I had plenty of time to make my plans.

I’ve always thought it was funny to hold up signs at a concert.  I’d never done so, but I was excited about life and embarking on a new adventure with school, and tried to come up with something eye-catching.  After much thought I came up with:

“Rockstar Sucks!”

Now, it’s not as bad as it sounds. There was a perfectly valid reason for choosing this, and I was fairly certain he’d get the joke. It wasn’t just some random slogan I’d pulled out of thin air.  Despite my nearly inevitable ability to do so, I never intend to do something that wreaks a bit of havoc

Unintended Consequences

So I got my sharpies and my poster board and had a sign-making party of one. I giggled the entire time and relished the anticipation of waiting for the date of the show to arrive.

I was so caught up in the exhilaration of it all I never stopped to think about the one fatal flaw with my plan:

That Musician, as well as the rest of the band, would see the sign, too.

Counting down the days was never more exciting. Classes had gotten started full-swing, and I was looking forward to a night out to do something other than having my nose stuck in a book. The anticipation built and settled into a dull roar that lasted through making friends with the people sitting in the row in front of me, wishing the opening band would hurry up and finish playing, and hit its crescendo the minute the lights went out.

I love that feeling!

Once the show started, the scene couldn’t have been set more perfectly. I was in the second row AND on his side of the stage, so he’d be sure to see me.  I had my sign folded up in quarters and all ready to go when the time was right.

The first song came and went and the sign stayed clutched in my hands.

(no sense in jumping the gun)

The second song came and went and the sign stayed clutched in my hands.

(had to let them hit their stride)

The third song came on and about halfway through I opened the sign and held it up for Rockstart to see.

He saw it and kept playing.  It was sort of hard to gauge his reaction (which to this day I have no idea what it was, but I imagine it was something to the effect of Are you kidding me?) because he was wearing sunglasses.  It didn’t seem to be a big deal.

Then Musician saw it and I swear to all that I hold dear, there was this split second where it was painfully obvious he considered bringing the show to a screeching halt – it was written all over his face – before he moved away and kept playing.

This was followed by my own split-second reaction of “oh, shit!” coupled with that jolt I get in my stomach when I realized I’ve just done something incredibly stupid, before I put the sign down to enjoy the rest of the show.

The Aftermath

I emailed Rockstar the next day acknowledging that Musician had seen it, and apologized if I’d created any hassle. Turns out he got ribbing from both Musician AND the rest of the band.

(cue crickets)

I felt bad about that. The amusement factor dulled just a smidge, though looking back on it I can finally giggle about it without cringing. As it turns out, it was only the beginning of all the incredibly ill-thought-out things I’ve done to get his attention.

But you know what? It’s all turned out okay. I adore him and I’m fairly certain he adores me, too.

The only potential downside is that I’m now contemplating a road trip that I can’t afford in order to get his attention, even though I know at this point I only need to ask. The road trip probably won’t happen, but considering it has made me realize how funny it is to get to know someone, end up with an emotional attachment you never thought possible, and realize that it makes it more difficult to just ask for what you want without all the crazy theatrics.

Well, that, and I’m undecided as to whether my inclination to pursue this is because I’m running away from a previous situation that I’ve finally put my foot down about or if it’s because it’s been simmering in the background for so long that it’s finally decided to make its way back to the surface. When you care about someone it makes everything far more complicated – the last thing you want to do is hurt them while you’re figuring things out.

Which makes me really miss my impulsive, ask-questions-later self. I spend so much time thinking about things, nothing ever seems to get done.

Question:

What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done to get someone’s attention?

Making decisions isn’t difficult for me, it’s the waffling and uncertainty that comes beforehand that causes the problems.  I’m pretty sure it’s a result of all the [...]]]> Despite my relatively recently-acquired habit of avoiding them at all costs, I love making decisions.  Typically, I’m good at it once I decide I’m going to make them.

Making decisions isn’t difficult for me, it’s the waffling and uncertainty that comes beforehand that causes the problems.  I’m pretty sure it’s a result of all the time I’ve spent in college, weighing different ideas, pros and cons, looking at every conceivable outcome / idea before I get my thoughts in order.

And I’ve made some big decisions lately.

I’ve decided:

1. to leave my current job once they release me – which should hopefully be next week, but who knows? The nuke world is sometimes a bit last minute which means I won’t know until the last minute.
2. to start my own business, something I’ve considered for many years but could never figure out what I wanted to do. Won’t spill any secrets just yet, but suffice it to say it’s coming.
3. to stop being the punch line in a situation that has gone back and forth for far too long.

The Fear

It’s hard to walk away from situations where you’re comfortable even if you despise where you are.  I’ve been working nukes as a contractor since 2007.  I initially took it because it sort of fell in my lap and I had no idea what I wanted to do, having just walked away from a previous job that was, shall we say, a poor fit.  And I’ve hated it.  At first I thought it was really cool – I had no experience in that particular industry (don’t worry folks, I’m an admin and nowhere near any red buttons to push). It was new and exciting and a place where I could learn a whole bunch of new things.

I fooled myself on that one.

Honestly, I haven’t a clue what I can do anymore because most of what I do now is a whole lot of sitting around.  And I get paid for it.  Which I hate, but other people tell me I shouldn’t because it’s an easy gig.  I like to be challenged and I like to be busy and the nuke world just doesn’t provide that.  All of this has made planning my business a bit scary and unsettling.

But it’s moving on time.

And it’s scarier than hell.

Doom and Gloom

If I pay attention to the news it’s all doom and gloom and I can easily picture myself not being able to pay my bills for lack of a job. People with more skills than me are having trouble finding a job, why do I think I’m so different?

I don’t. I stop watching the news, the damn naysayers.  The bottom line is that I simply can’t and won’t continue to do things that make me unhappy. I’ve had virtually no life since 2007. With the exception of my year in Scotland, I’ve had no time for socializing, no time for dating, no time for just having fun.  That’s one year out of five.

And fun is way more appealing than a job I hate, far more interesting than being afraid to start my own business, and way less stress than staying in a situation that just goes in circles, anyway.

I’m getting off the merry-go-round and making my own.

And now I’m thinking about Something Wicked this Way Comes.

That’s the spirit!

Question: What big decisions have you made?

See, it all started when I tried to quit smoking a couple of weeks ago.

It wasn’t a conscious decision.  I was just sitting at work reading because there wasn’t much else to do, [...]]]> It sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke: The Ego, the Epiphany, and the Scar walk into a bar…

See, it all started when I tried to quit smoking a couple of weeks ago.

It wasn’t a conscious decision.  I was just sitting at work reading because there wasn’t much else to do, and every time I thought I should walk downstairs for a smoke I asked myself if I actually wanted a cigarette or if I was just bored.

The answer was consistently “no” and “I’m bored,” so I just couldn’t be bothered with it.  Which made me feel a tad lazy, but that’s because the only exercise I get these days is walking up and down the stairs to and from… you guessed it, having a cigarette.

Anyway, I lasted all of about 20 hours, with 8 of those being sleep time.  By hour 20, I was all sorts of bent out of shape, hyperventilating and anxious, and desperately wanting to crawl out of my skin. Not so much because I wanted a smoke, but because there was this sudden influx of emotion that I was ill-prepared to handle.

You know, those emotions that I – and every other addict, regardless of our drug of choice – have spent years numbing into oblivion. While I don’t equate cigarettes as being on the same level of addiction as, say, heroin (and I don’t particularly care that the “experts” assert that it is more so) I can fully understand why it’s so hard to walk away and not look back.

Addictions are essentially a security blanket.

Too Simple?

Perhaps that sounds too simplistic. Certainly there are many reasons addicts stay addicted, but I’m looking for the absolute bottom line reason and that’s what I come up with. It helps us cope with things we’d rather not.  We get overwhelmed with emotions – our hurts, our fears, our loneliness (I doubt anyone uses because they’re happy) – that we have no idea what to do with.

We all find something to cuddle with that makes us feel better, or at least gives us the illusion that we do.

Further Application of the Simple

I’ve been trying to lay my finger on the absolute bottom line in terms of what I want out of a specific situation.  I’ll skip the gory details, but suffice it to say there is a boy and a girl and a rather lengthy amount of time.  We seem to have the same conversation once every six months or so where we say essentially the same things and end up in the same spot every single time.  He digs his heels in on one side, I on the other, and in the middle is this expanse that I’m going to call the common ground that neither of us seems able to reach.

The most recent conversation took place shortly after my exercise in quitting smoking.  He said, she said, and all of that.  The particulars don’t matter.  What does matter is that I get the distinct feeling that neither of us really heard what the other said.  Oh, we listened to each other talk and could probably repeat verbatim the points of note, but that’s not really hearing now is it?

So I’ve spent some time ruminating on the conversation as a way to really get down to the bare bones – to lose all the extraneous shit that’s piled on top of the words we so nicely parse.  And it dawned on me that as confused as the discrepancy between his words and his actions makes me, I have most likely done the same to him.  Unintentionally.

Say Hello to the Ego…

See I’ve got this struggle between how I feel and what my ego tells me I should feel.  I tell him that I can’t do things – which my ego tells me is the right thing to do – a little time passes and I reverse course – because that’s what is more in line with what I feel.  The only consistency is my inconsistency. Which is apt to produce a constant state of whiplash.

*Sigh*

…The Epiphany

This led to the realization that I need to understand what it is that I want.  Which I’ve narrowed down to:

I want him to feel like I’m worth the perceived risks and take the risk anyway.

Simple enough, right?

It would be if I’d stopped there. But something else was bugging me.

…and the Scar

I thought about some of the things I’ve told him – big things, big risks – and his reasons for being self-described gun-shy and I realized that I feel like he doesn’t believe me.

Honesty is a big thing with me and I try – always – to be honest. Sometimes my delivery is a bit less than tactful, but I pride myself on being honest even if it costs me people I love dearly – and it has.

To feel like he is doubtful of me really kind of pisses me off – my ego wants to rant and rave and tell him to fuck off.  It tells me that I’m being jerked around; that I’m being tested to see how far away I can be held before I decide to leave; that my walking away will give him the excuse to paint me as the bad guy.

“See… I knew she didn’t mean it.”

All scar tissue.

My heart on the other hand knows that any doubt is a direct result of something someone else did and so far I’ve been willing to try to be patient when pretty much anyone else would have walked away long before now.  I understand his position because I’ve been there and I have my own scars to contend with as a result.

Whiplash.

I realize that I have exacerbated the situation since, of course, but I didn’t create the initial problem.

For him.

Perhaps this is karmic payback for the scars I’ve left for someone else.  And perhaps it’s time I stop being the punchline.

~~~~~~~~~~

Here is some advice I hope you’ll consider:

• Deal with how you feel. It’s hard and it sucks but in the long run you’ll be much better off.
• Know what it is that you want. If you don’t know, which is probably more prevalent than not, take some time to find out.
• Tell your ego to take a hike.  Nothing but trouble, that stupid effing ego.
• Be kind to those people you are in relationships – any kind of relationships – with. You will leave behind something of yourself. Only you can decide whether your legacy will be one that is good or one that leaves scars.

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, the [...]]]> I give you an essay from my eBook Fractured: Essays on Love, Friendship, and the Nightmares in Between.  I am opting not to include links for purchase, but if you’re interested you can find it at the major retailers (Amazon, BN, iTunes) as well as Smashwords.

Damn Those Arrows!

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, the air is filled with reminders that my life is devoid of anything that even remotely resembles a social life.  I console myself by insisting that Valentine’s Day isn’t so much a celebration for couples, but rather a day invented for those of us who are dreamers, albeit dreamers willing to spend our hard earned money on disposable trinkets to express how we feel.

Talk is cheap, after all.

That generally lasts about two seconds until I remember that being single isn’t all fun and games any more than being part of a couple is all love and roses, and spending weeks surrounded by cheap paper hearts and boxes of candy I can’t eat won’t change that.

Cupid should have his arrows shoved unceremoniously up his cherubic ass.

It’s not that I’m walking around shouldering a picket sign declaring “down with love.”  I’m merely in love with the idea of being in love.  I have dreams of dancing in the kitchen with a nameless, faceless man while Frank Sinatra croons in the background.  The thought of lying in a shadow-filled room while being read the words of great authors sends chills up my spine.  I’ve gone to clubs with the possibility of meeting someone completely by chance in the back of my mind.  I’ve even read personal ads on craigslist – not as a specific tool for meeting people, but because everyone needs a giggle, and they serve as a reminder that I’m not the only person flailing around in this knee-high wading pool.  Once I stop laughing at all the “Easy Money!! Watch me jack off for $100!!” posts, some of them are quite intriguing.

The blatantly obvious posts by insane people aside, it’s hard to tell who’s being even remotely truthful and who’s simply scamming.  While I don’t have the genetic makeup to be deceptive, I don’t trust other people not to be.  Pessimistic, I suppose, but history has taught me to be wary.  Taking what people say at face value has delivered me into more trouble than my own bluntness ever could.  On the other hand, so has reading between the lines; a veritable catch-22.

I constantly ask myself when dating became so complicated.  There seems to be a direct correlation between the degree of complication and the self-defense mechanisms that creep up more often than not after dealing with, and moving on from, the inevitable hurts of life.  No one likes to feel vulnerable, but we all are; instead of acknowledging how we feel, we shut down.  I call it The Curse of Being an Adult.

I’d really like to know who set down the rule that adulthood had to equal letting go of the childlike wonder of exploring.  Another.  Person.  In many ways, the teenage years were best; the expectations were not only simple and awe-inspiring, but utterly lacking in cynicism.  That may only be showing my age.  Or romanticizing the past.  Or both.

Lately, the cynic in me, with his no-nonsense, gravelly voice, declared that it was no wonder the divorce rate was sky high and the dating scene has become watered down to such sterility it’s a miracle that children are still being born the old-fashioned way.  Why not scrap it all and make cloning the procreative way of the future?  We move ever closer with each suggestive email, the protective walls climbing byte-by-byte.

After I told him to take a hike, I gave his musings some thought.  Has meeting face-to-face become obsolete?  Has hiding behind the safety of the computer screen become the norm?  Even if neither of those questions can be answered in the affirmative, the anonymity can be deceptive.  It now seemingly takes weeks to accomplish what used to take months or even years.  But therein lays the ruse:  regardless of how much time is spent exchanging email or IMs or texts, the most important parts of who and what a person is cannot be extracted from letters, words, sentences, and paragraphs.  I spent nearly six years trying.  It’s not that I didn’t meet and date the traditional way, but absolutely nothing could compete with the intrigue that gripped me.  I was fascinated, though wholly unprepared, by how easy it was to get tangled in the world of words and instant gratification.

Unfortunately, it was that damn fascination that led me merrily skipping down the primrose path only to run headfirst into the proverbial brick wall.  With the same person.  Not once.  Not twice.  Try at least a half-a-dozen times and you might be coming close.  I would breathlessly await the next email, the next flirtatious volley.  I was addicted; so much so that not even the intense frustration of constantly finding myself back at square one could tear me away.  Despite knowing it was time to walk away or risk losing my self-respect completely, I refused to take my leave.

When I later found myself in a similar situation, I made it perfectly clear I was interested in more than online flirting.  I wanted something real, something tangible.  And we were on our way.

Or so I thought.

Perhaps the expectations were too high.  Perhaps the reality just couldn’t compare to the safety and picture-perfect idealism that cyberspace can provide.  Hell, perhaps all we both really wanted was an ego-boost; a validation of sorts.

It’s hard to say because we never got beyond briefly meeting twice.  I was under the impression that everything was going well.  We’d made plans to spend some time together, get to know each other a bit.

Then nothing.

At first I was angry.  I had already been through the minefield of email flirting and gotten blown to bits.  I wasn’t ready for it to happen again quite so soon.  I went through the inevitable questions of what it was exactly I had done only to realize that it had nothing to do with me.  Not really.  He had instigated it and he had ended it.  Whatever his reasons, I don’t truly have so big of an ego to honestly believe his decision had anything to do with me.  We all come with our own unique issues; sometimes they mesh, sometimes they don’t.  In the end, though, all I’m left with is speculation and a bit more disappointment.

All things told it wasn’t a complete waste; I still have the visual of abusing Cupid to amuse me.  And while discovering what it is I truly want escapes me yet again, I have become more aware of what it is that I don’t want.  And regardless of what I’ve learned or not, I still find myself captured by the intrigue, by the thought of finding my equal who will put forth an effort to discover the wealth that lies within me; an effort that matches my own discovery of his.

Copyright K.J. Pierce 2011