Damaged. Irreparable. Damaged. If they had insurance for this type of thing, I would invest. (Not that insurance does much good. Did you hear about the Denver school that burnt down recently? Their insurance determined that they had too much paper on their walls, therefore, none of the damage was covered. You know, we will give you fire insurance. It will protect you. Unless there is a fire. Then your SOL. Sorry.) Ok, back to me. I am not sure which part of my damaged self is responsible for the stress in my life today, but I am sure it is one of them, if not all of them uniting in perfect harmony to produce a pathetically tragic cacophony of insanity. Maybe it is the death of so many that have been dear to me. Maybe it was rejection of the man I loved before I met the man I plan to marry. I have learned that people will leave me. They will turn around, run screaming, pleading for sanctuary. If that doesn’t work, they will even choose company with the faceless, hooded figure as opposed to suffering in my presence. Maybe I have learned that when something seems to be going well (nearly perfect, knock on wood) that things fall apart. Maybe I grasped onto the belief that God desires to keep me in some form of disequilibrium and pain in order to become more like him, or to just make him giggle. Or, maybe, I simply have found that if I create stress and something to worry about I won’t have deal with whatever shadows of my psyche I have yet to face. Irregardless (fuck off, I like this word), I managed to work myself into a tizzy today at work. I could barely focus enough to teach my lesson on ascending fraction quantities. And, believe me, if I had any hope of understanding that (let alone teach it), I needed every functioning brain synapse I possess. I almost showed a movie so I wouldn’t have to deal with faking clam and intelligence. Thankfully, my background in religious guilt paid off yet again.
What was the cause of all my strife and turmoil you ask? You didn’t ask? Well, fuck you. Go read someone else’s blog. Chad left this morning to visit family in Florida. He and his mother got on a plane and zoomed through the air. Now, I am not afraid of flying. I love it, actually. I am not even afraid of jumping out of airplanes. I have done so twice, actually. Chad survived his first twenty-five years of life without my assistance, and I have no reason to doubt that he has lost this ability in the past ten months. Still, he is now dating me. Therefore, the plane was doomed to plummet into the sea. True, there is not a sea between Colorado and Florida, but that doesn’t change the fact that it could. At the very least, he would meet some bimbo stewardess (flight attendant, excuse me), realize he is straight and that he likes blonds and never call me again. After three hours, and he texted me (fifteen minutes early) to let me know that he had arrived safely in the land of dinosaur mosquitoes and Mickey Mouse, I had to rely on deep breathing techniques to function somewhat normally. That was all well and good, but now I have the next three days to worry about every minute detail. He even texted me and let me know that his sister had told him not to go jogging (he is on get-in-shape kick—you should feel his chest, grrrr) due to the pack of wild dogs. Wild Dogs! Fuck! Come on! Wild dogs? It’s not fucking Africa or Zimbobway (Zimbabwe, for all you people who can’t spell phonetically (which I think is in Africa). Let your boyfriend get attacked by wild dogs and see how good your geography recollection is! Even if the damned wild dogs keep their distance, there is still all the driving around in their rented convertible mustang with a plethora of material that could plummet from the sky. There are hurricanes that might have scheduled a vacation at Universal Studios. Let’s not even talk about the possibilities of the plane ride back. At least if he gets plowed down by a homeless man in a run away shopping cart here in Denver, the chances are I will be plowed as well.
I would like to say that this sensation is specifically related to when Chad is thousands of miles away. That would be misleading though. It is a feeling I can’t shake, although most of the time, not played out through fear of his demise. Things are so good and I am becoming so content and happy, that I keep waiting for the axe to fall. Even when I didn’t go out in the scene, people would tell the guy I was dating that I was cheating on him, people I didn’t even know. However, as most people know, that guy I was dating wasn’t the most stable, so maybe the voices were in my head—nevertheless, I paid the consequence for it. There is so much gossip in the damned gay scene (not that it is really specific to the gays). Shit, on Halloween, one of our friend’s sister told someone that I made out with her. A girl? Gross! Seriously? If there are going to be rumors of me cheating, let’s bring in Ricky Martin or Scott Caan. Even outside of rumors, I wait for the moment when he realizes that I am annoying him too much, am too needy, am too bad with money, or _____(fill in the blank)_____. I have gotten used to the fact that my friends know who I truly am and love me in spite of that fact. It is wonderful. Still, it is a different thing entirely to trust that from a man whom I may spend the rest of my life with. Ahhh, won’t sanity be nice one day. And boring.
Black Coffee Tables
2 years ago