At this festive time of year, it seems appropriate for a personal life update, brought to you by the letter B for Bitter. Please reference my previous post entitled ‘Bitter With BaggageSeeks Same’ [January 2011] and its sequel [May 2011].
Things had recently been looking up in the Queendom of the Buff Old Broad following a fix-up by a good friend. Dave’s mad skillz as cupid came highly recommended, if only by himself. However, I knew that he knew me well enough to let down my guard with respect to being set up. If anything, it beat seeing the same dullards, goofballs and assorted circus freaks listed on dating sites.
Being steeped in the ‘Seinfeld’ approach to evaluating dates, I was determined not to use the hipster doofus quotient as the only basis for connecting with someone. Nice personality, nice-looking, nice career…ni-iiiii-ce. And while said candidate did not seem to be in a hurry to have a girlfriend, he seemed genuinely interested in having an NSA [No Strings Attached] Dating Ritual with just one person. And while I detected some post-divorce emotional healing was still needed, he seemed to enjoy my musings on Life, Relationships and Things That Make Me Awesome. He also thought I was hot. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Then he dropped off the face of the earth.
I’m not sure when it became okay to be a presence in someone’s life – whether daily, hourly or occasionally– and then just fucking disappear. If I’ve said hello either by voicemail or text without an answer at least once, my guard goes up. And while we’re at it, just man the fuck up and use the actual phone, and stop hiding behind the protective wall of cyber communication.
After that, I can’t be held responsible for the sarcasm which will be unleashed should a random text show up to the tune of “Hey, how’s it going?” No soup for you, dude.
I’ve been struggling with making this My Most Profound Post Ever, as this week marked four years since Mark died. I got nuthin.
I often come back to “It’s not fucking fair” that any of this happened to him, to me and to those who knew, liked or loved him. But then I also come back to “It is what it is” to kick myself in the pants and go forward.
A year ago, I finally got going on some writings I’d partially scratched out: thoughts about Mark…musings on my recovery…homage to things that make me moi. So I started this blog in the hopes that I would provide entertainment for a few folks while honing my creative writing skills and exorcising a few emotional demons.
I never realized how hard it is to say something nice and/or comforting to someone who has experienced a loss. I’m not sure what it is that I used to say, since I avoided these encounters as much as possible. Then again, most of the people I knew who died were ‘old.’ Not that you deserve to die just because your sequential warranty has run out, but it seems to make sense when death occurs chronologically. I expected to outlive my father at some point, and although he was only 68 he was sort of an ‘old 68.’
At Dad’s wake, I found it rather curious that some guys I grew up with felt compelled to tell me how great I looked after all these years. Umm, hello, didn’t my father just die here? Another stupiculous example of assclown behavior. [See ‘Toiling in Assclownopolis’ for further discussion.]
It’s human nature to try to make sense out of things that happen. On the other hand, sometimes no sense makes perfect sense. One’s personal opinion that Mark was needed elsewhere or that it was his time was only comforting to the person uttering the words. From where I stood, he had a malignant disease and it killed him. But we still needed him here.
New loss etiquette: let’s just agree that death sucks a big bag of douche and move on.