The Power of Goodbye

[Foreword: Ok...let me make this clear. Before you read the contents of this particular entry, I want to make it clear that a) I wrote this at 3:30am and, therefore, was super sentimental and overtired and b) I probably was a little hard on myself.

The truh is, I genuinely don't think I was nearly the ferocious, monstrous, manbeast I make myself out to be here. I just had a lot of issues at the time (truth be told, some of those issues still remain to this day). I didn't really have my OCD pinned down, at that point--in fact, I really wasn't sure what was wrong with me. That, and I just was really confused about my sexuality as well as all this relationship stuff, so I just really didn't know how to act and, being the boy that I was--as opposed to a Real Man--I acted like an immature fool. She happened to be in the crossfire of all these issues and my inexperience and immaturity. And, as we all know, sometimes, foolish, reckless behavior can be just as hurtful as deliberate, malicious action.

My point: While I am in no way a saint in the context of this story, I think I was more of a childish asshole than I was some evil demon. I suppose I could just delete this entry, rewrite it, but most of the sentiments ring true. Also understand that when I say she was "The One," that's what I thought at the time. After a certain point, I had no illusions that we were over. The truth is, there is someone out there that took over that mantle. They knew who they are.

Now...read on.]

I think I've reached a crossroads, people. I have finally reached that point in my life where the past has finally become The Past.

It's the End of An Era. Today, I finally lost Rachel.

Many of you don't know who Rachel is to me, but she was the first girl I was ever in a relationship with. She was the first girl I ever kissed and the first girl who loved me. And I loved her, too.

Just not enough.

I hurt her so many times. Not physically, mind you. But emotionally, I was a monster to her. And the thing is, I didn't do it to be malicious or because I wanted to hurt her. Simply put: the idea of someone loving me--the gimpy, awkward, insecure, sexually confused little boy that I was--was a notion so completely alien to me that I downright rejected it and turned it against her.

I came to Philadelphia twice and both times, I left her crying. Same scenario when she came to Omaha. Twice. She left me, tears flowing freely.

I hurt this girl in ways unimaginable. I was cruel to her and she didn't deserve it. And the thing is, I wish I had known what I wanted. I wish I had known better. She was an angel. And I was a devil toward her.

I remember driving to a party to meet some friends of mine and on the way there, I told her that I just couldn't see myself getting married. She asked me why and I told her that people annoy me too much. She looked at me and said, "What are you saying? That I annoy you?" I answered her back with, "quite frankly, yes. You do." I saw the hurt in her eyes and I felt so small just then. I kept my eyes on the road.

I was such a stupid fucking asshole.

Now, let me make this clear: I always loved her. I did. Make no mistake. I just didn't know how to love her the way she needed to be loved. It sucks. Anyway, despite my monstrous behavior, she and I still remained friends. We were good at being friends. I mean, it wasn't like this thing where we talked every day, but we would pop into each others' lives for months at a time and get what we needed out of each other.

I guarantee you that had I stayed with her, I'd be married with a bunch of kids running around. And for awhile, once I realized that she was probably The One, I pursued her. Hardcore, too.

But alas, 'twas not to be. The damage was done. She had wised up. Good for her. She deserved better.

A few years later, she met Andy. A guy that based on the first date, as she described it, was not exactly Mr. Excitement. From then on, I referred to him as "Mr. Boringsteen." But I guess he wasn't so bad. She stuck with him. And despite some growing up that he needed to do, he proved to be The Better Man.

I guess I'm writing all this because after a year of unanswered, unreturned calls, voicemails e-mails and IMs, I finally sent her a text message, telling her that I thought that we were friends and whatever I did to make her angry, I'm so, so sorry.

After a year of nothing, her reply: "I'm not angry with you at all. I've moved on."

I sent her a reply basically saying that there was nothing to move on from. We're friends. However, if that's what she really wanted, I understood. I told her that I wish her only the very best and to take care.

How else do you respond to someone who has basically told you that you're no longer a part of their life as they know it?

I'm not angry. I'm sad. I should have let her go a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things differently a long time ago. The funny thing about it, though, is that it really wasn't that long ago. It feels like it, but I mean, really, five, maybe six years ago isn't exactly ancient history.

I'm happy she's found someone to share her life with. She deserves The World. I wish I had known what I had when I had it. But that's sort of a constant theme in my life--a running joke, if you will. I never know what I have until I've lost it.

Does this story sound familiar to anyone? Hint, hint? Nudge, nudge?

The truth is, as much as losing Rachel for good hurts, I'm going to look on the bright side. This is the end of a chapter in my life. It's a chapter that taught me that sometimes, you just have to cut your losses and try and do better the next time.

I may not be able to correct the wreckage of my past, but at least I know what I want now for the future.

I want happiness for myself. I want a wife, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence. I want to be one of those happy couples I see walking around the mall, holding hands, kissing and not caring who sees them, or at the movie theater or at a restaurant. I want to smile and not be afraid that all of it will end in an instant. I want to know that all of the snapshots I have in my head of my future aren't going to blow away--POOF!--into nothing.

Am I getting a little ahead of myself, here? Yeah, maybe.

But hey...ya gotta start somewhere, right?

By George...!!!!

I'VE GOT IT!!!!

Ok...a few weeks ago, I came up with an ending to my latest screenplay. Something about the hero and heroine chatting it up online, each in their own respective corners of the world. How very Tom and Meg of me!!

Um...REWRITE!!!

I wanna go bigger. When people see this movie--and they will...right, Erik?!--I want people to be like, "wow! That movie really inspired me" or "wow...I need to make a change my life."

I was thinking about things, this evening, and the ending just popped in my head. I didn't have a pen where I was and, apparently, no one else in Omaha carries one either, so I just had to make due with the notepad feature on my cell phone. Without giving too much away, it ends--of all places--on a tropical island with an amazing sunset. Our hero stands at the edge of the ocean, watching the majestic sunset. A woman's hand grasps his and she joins him in watching the sunset. They kiss, smile at each other and head back toward the mainland. We pull away to discover....

That's all you're getting. There's a little twist, but it is absolutely perfecto!! It's not exactly a reality. It's a completely happy, satisfying ending. But it's not the one that people will see coming. Not by a long shot!

This thing is gonna be big.

The truth? I've been completely intimidated by writing this motherfucker, for the last few months. And it's not for a lack of plot. This sucker has got it all!! I truly think it's a great story with many different themes: Love lost and found, missed opportunities, heartbreak, deceit, commitment, sacrifice, arrested development and, ultimately, just...growing up.

And yet, I've been too afraid to write it. Why?

Well, the story had yet to truly play out.

I think it finally has. Well, at least one aspect of it. And it has nothing to do with difficult choices or tragedy or me pissing and moaning or anything like that. I'm actually pretty secure and comfortable with how things concluded. It's just life. Sometimes, things work out and other times, they just don't.

Circumstances, man. Life's all about circumstances. And that's okay.

At the very least, out of all of this, I have gained an amazing friend, a cheerleader (among many others in my own neck of the woods. Y'all better know who you are! I'm going to really miss you when I leave.), who wants the very best out of me. And I know that things will be different now, but I'm just glad that she's still in my life. Whether she feels comfortable saying it back or not, I love her and wish her nothing but the best of everything. I truly mean that from the bottom of my heart.

There aren't any "buts" or "howevers" to that last statement either.

I think she's an amazing person and I'm glad she's finally becoming the happy(er) person that she was, is and will be. I hope I can be her cheerleader.

In the meantime, I'll be writing our story.

And yeah, it's a fucking beautiful one--no matter what the ending.

20

It was a Wednesday.

On August 3, 1988, 20 years ago, I was admitted into Children's Hospital for Guillain-Barré syndrome.

I never knew what hit me. For those new to this blog, Guillain-Barré syndrome (a.k.a. French Polio) is a very rare form of Polio, not covered by the Polio vaccine, that left me paralyzed from the head down, including my eyes. Through physical therapy and having a drill sergeant of a mom, I became fully mobile again. Though, I'll never have the strength of an average guy.

It's funny. You'd think I'd remember the anniversary of the day that changed the course of my life. But the truth of the matter is, I didn't. I was at the gym, this afternoon, and my dad told me.

I was kind of like, huh...that's kinda funny.

I don't know if I should be worried (HOWWWWARRRRRRRD!!!!) by this cavalier attitude or grateful that I've gotten to that point where I can shrug off such a horrible time in my life.

I'd like to think the latter.

I used to hate walking around in public wearing shorts. It'd always be the same thing. Some little kid or, let's face it, rude, nosy adult would look up and down the length of my legs, not-so-subtly eyeing the translucent white plastic of my braces that ran up my calves. I'd catch them and then they'd look away and pretend like nothing happened. Luckily, several years ago, I had my leg braces shortened to ankle-length.

The truth is, I just don't think about it anymore, really.

It's a part of me. I wouldn't necessarily say it's who I am, but it's definitely shaped the way I see things, people. There are times where I wonder what kind of person would I have been had I not had the disease. Would I be a star (read: douchebag) football player or wrestler? Would I have be as tolerant as I am now? As socially awkward?

These are questions that will always go unanswered and, truth be known, it's probably better that way.

Because when push comes to shove, I've become so used to being this person, this version of me, I don't think I'd want or know how to be anyone else. I know I have issues--a lot of 'em. I have doubts, worries, insecurities. But at the end of the day, at least I know who I am, I know where I've been and while I don't know exactly where I'm going, I have the past--successes, failures, mistakes and all--to help me get there.

And I've come a long fucking way to get to this point.

But as long winded as this entry already has gotten, the point of this blog is not to write about me. Well, okay...it's a little bit of the point. Not gonna play pretend here.

But no, there's a story I want to tell that always makes me smile and cry at the same time.

I remember how my mom was, understandably, freaking out about everything when I was in the hospital. For a while, she was almost inconsolable. My dad was trying so hard to be the rock, as he always does.

What must have been going through their heads on a day to day basis, the emotions--worry, sadness, anger, frustration--I'll never be able to fathom.

One afternoon, my mom was visiting me and just, ya know, being there for me. I could tell this was taking a toll on her.

Apparently, so could my dad, who had to go out of town on business, that day.

When my mom left my room and walked the great distance to get to her car in the lot, she discovered a note in the windshield. Handwritten, it said the following:

"I love you. Everything is going to be okay."

It was just a simple note. Nothing fancy. But I think it was really what my mom needed to push forward. She cried for a few moments and then stuck the note in her purse. She never got rid of that note.

It's been 20 years. And ya know? My dad was right.

Everything turned out okay.

Gone for Good...

Alright, ladies and germs. I'm not going to lie. I'm in a really bad way, right now. I'm at my wit's end, really. I'm dying inside. I didn't know a person could cry as much as I have, the last day or so. This is what's up: Last night, I came home to find an envelope sitting on the kitchen table. I opened it up, only to read the following, which I've transcribed for you below. Read on and keep me in your thoughts and prayers.

****

Dearest Hal,

I don't know how to say this but, as much as it breaks my heart, I'm just going to say it...

I'm leaving you.

I've really enjoyed getting to know you so well, these last 12 years or so. They've been the best years of my life. They've been a real blast, but I feel that, after the events that took place, the other night. I just can't be part of your life anymore. It's just too hard for me to deal with.

You've been despondent, lately; cold. I thought we could get through this bumpy patch, but we just don't communicate the way we used to, we don't mesh. Sure, the sex is good--as good as it's ever been!--but there's nothing behind it. I just feel...used. You can't even look me in the eye! It's like you're afraid I'll blow up, explode at you or something, that you'll go blind.

I know you have needs, but I have needs, too! And you just aren't meeting them. And the truth is, you haven't been meeting them for a while. And it sucks. Because for the longest time, I thought I was the only one that you needed. I was your world. But now, based on your actions, the other night, you no longer need me.

And so, I write this letter saying "goodbye." There was a time when I could weather such a storm. You know this. I know you know it. This has happened before. Three years ago, in fact, when it happened the first time around. And I let it go. I was willing to overlook your...indiscretion. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.

But now? I'm too tired to even try. I can't be around you anymore. It hurts too damn much. You've dug this grave, Hal. You made your bed. And and as much as I love you, I hate you for what you've done.

Fuck you, Hal.

Fuck "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Part 2!"

AND FUCK YOU FOR ENJOYING IT SO DAMN MUCH!!

Love Always,

Your Penis (a.k.a. Shlomo)

Anger Management

Fuck! Fuck! Fuckety FUCK!!!

Yeah, obviously, this isn't going to be a happy-happy, joy-joy entry.

Today, I left work and marched to my vehicle. I was bitching and moaning to a friend about something on my cell. In order to get a grip on my lock fob, so I could unlock the door, I had to place my pride, my joy--my iPod--onto the roof of my car. I called up another friend to vent about this exchange.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take my iPod off the roof of my car. My iPod is gone. Gone. Like that. And for what? Because I didn't fucking THINK!! It was senseless!! I feel like a fucking idiot!! It would have taken two seconds. Tops. All I had to do was step out of my car and reach up and grab my iPOD. And now, my prized possession, the thing that helps me sleep at night, the object that I work out with, the item that I walk the hallways of my job with, listening to power songs, is gone for good.

GODDAMMIT!!!! SON OF A BITCH!!

I am so fucking pissed, right now!! Seriously!! I could spit! And if I could spit acid, like one of those alien creatures in the "Alien" Quadrilogy, I would.

I felt so awful. I didn't exactly take it out on my friends, Erik and Andy, but no matter how much of a happy front I tried to put up, I'm sure I wasn't easy to be around.

The whole night, I wanted to hit something--something that is so not me!! The victim of abuse, the item that saw the business end of my fist was--wait for it!!--a plastic container of macaroons. I beat the shit out of that damn thing. It was pretty ridiculous. On the plus-side, no macaroons were harmed in the making of this rage-filled temper tantrum. Erik even told me to hit him in the shoulder and, me being me, I hit him ever-so-gently in the armpit instead.

What can I say? Hand-to-hand combat ain't my bag, alright?! Besides, those macaroons are just delicious! Why waste 'em, right?

Tomorrow, I'm picking up a new iPod from some dude off of Craig's List. The price is $160, which is essentially $40 less than what I paid for my first one. I hope this guy doesn't try to fuck me over--literally or figuratively.

Anyway, I'm bitter and tired. I'm out.

But be warned: keep your macaroons away from my.

They're not safe!!!

Silent City

Alright, people! It's time for another shameless plug!!

Just as I did for my boy and former Pulpster, Kyle Koliha (a.k.a. Two Chord Truth), I want to put the word out on the street (er, highway?) that there's another Pulp alumnus whose star is on the rise: Kid's name is Matt Goodlett. He's a really cool, sharp, funny guy and one helluva talented writer.

Like me, Matty started out as an intern at The Omaha Pulp (* sigh *), working on the local events calendar, before rising up to become the Art Editor, covering theatrical productions and art exhibits. Since Pulp's demise, he has written for such fine local publications as The Omaha Reader and The Omaha City Weekly.

I knew this kid would go places. Though, not necessarily before me--BRAT!!--but still...

I kid, I kid.

Anyway, getting to the point--and I do have one!!--as of somewhat recently, Matt has started a literary/art magazine here in town that called Silent City. It's still a baby, at this point, but it's an absolutely fabulous publication! There are tons of great essays (Katie Wudel's brilliant "Generation WTF" will leave those who suffer from the college version of Postpartum Depression hugging themselves, rocking back and forth and laughing, all at the same time) interviews and articles in it, not to mention some startlingly beautiful, haunting artwork.

Pick up the latest copy and spread the word!!

Love Me or Hate Me?

At this point in my life, I've come to realize that there really is no happy medium when it comes to people liking or disliking me.

I'm either someone you either love or hate. You either find me endearing or annoying. I remember there being a time when I wanted everyone to love me. I would literally shudder at the thought of someone disliking--worse...hating--me!!

Now, I don't even blink if I find out that someone hates me, dislikes me. Odds are, if you think I'm an asshole, I probably hate your ugly-ass guts, too.

Even Steven. Just the way I like it.

Seriously, though. I'm an awkward, weird, dirty-minded guy who tends to lack a filter and says what he wants to say and laughs when he wants to laugh, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances may (or may not) be.

I mean, come on, what's not to like?!

I mean, I don't go out of my way to offend or hurt people, but I've learned that I'm going to be who I'm going to be and if you don't like it, well, suck it. I'm a people-pleaser, but I've come to a point in my life where I realized that I can't please everyone and I refuse to change who I am for anyone but myself.

So, yeah.

People either tend to dig that or head for the hills. And that's completely fine with me. I like it that way!!

It's something that I can work with, put my finger on, ya know?

What I cannot handle, however, is not knowing where I stand with people. It irks me to abso-fuckin'-lutely no end. I hate not knowing if people that I care about or people who claim to care about me--friends, family, lovers (no, not all in one breath to all of you filthy pervs out there!!)--drop off the face of the Earth or don't make an effort to get in touch with me or return my calls.

Another thing that makes me freak is when I talk to a friend, a certain immediate family member or--yeah...I'll go there--my See You Next Tuesday (figure it out, innocent ones) of a boss and there's the tiniest bit of an edge in their voices that I can't read.

I hate that!!

To me, there is nothing scarier than standing upon shaky ground or thin ice. After all, it's easy to fall through the cracks.

No, this is not a Howard thing, either. Today, I'm happy to report, I managed to beat the bloody crap out of Howard several times over with a rusty crowbar (in my head, anyway). It's more of a I-want-to-know-what-the-fuck-is-going-on thing.

I want to know how everyone feels about me at all times!! I don't want people to just tolerate me, put up with me.

Noooooo!

I want people to have strong, guttural reactions to my presence. I want women to either swoon, smile, recoil, blanch, or kick me in the balls at the mere sight of me!! I want men to get a fuckin' hard-on, high-five me, slap me on the back, hit me in the face or, well, okay, yeah...kicking in the balls works pretty well in both cases.
[BLOGGER'S NOTE: If you really think about it, a good kick to the crotch works well for just about any occasion, whether you're trying to inflict pain on another human being or just trying to induce gut-busting laughter and guffaws all around. Just sayin'...]

And if you do like (but preferably love) me but have a beef with me, let me know. Here's a tip: Passive-aggressive behavior--which, I'll admit, I'm guilty of partaking in a lot of the time--makes me want to bite you. In the jugular.

Look, I don't ask for much (Okay...that's a complete and utter lie. I ask for a lot!!). Just tell me where I stand and don't leave me hanging. Let me know if you be lovin' or you be hatin'.

I want to polarize the masses. I want to be famous and infamous to all people at all times!! So, don't be passive. Don't be afraid. Get it out in the open, ladies and germs! Step right up!! Step right up!! Come one! Come all!!

Seriously, though...

I promise I'll try to not get mad. Scout's honor (Yes, believe it or not--and I know that many of you won't believe it--I was a cub scout, ever so briefly, many, many, meh-heh-heh-henny moons ago!!) You have my word.

Fair warning, though: I might still kick you in the balls.