“The television’s gone… and I’m alone with lucifer… what a drag.”

Upon further investigation of the narratives that have gone on inside my brain the last weeks, I found it necessary to return to some sort of form.  That form might seem formless and for that I’m jumping up and down like some ritalin addicted sloth child, haphazardly jerking back and forth with tongue lolling.  To be honest to you the reader and the ‘god fearing’ folk that visit this webspace, I’m done for.  And by ‘done for’ its not some sort of suicide pact thats shouted in some pained inflection across the internet.  Its, simply put, a resignation of sorts.  But yes, my friends, its complicated.  When could it ever be anything far from that with me?

Now I always loved when someone hit twenty five years old and threw their hands up in the air like some energized southern baptist.  Their claim was of retirement (and you had to wonder if they were getting any sort of benefits from throwing in the towel) was as valid as any in their brightly lit mindset and much different from those ten years their senior.  And good reader, do not interpret this as a goodbye or farewell; that I’ve subjected myself to old age finally.  I wish it were so simple.

I have, in some respects; in the parlance of our times.  Its got a different flavor, truly.  But I’ve subjected myself to it.  The second or third childhood I should have mandated to experience has been lackluster at best partially due to my own restraint and maybe, if you might indulge my own airs, my own intelligence.  Now every moment and every conversation carries this sort of psychic residue that can be tracked and sniffed like the trail of a felon.  You can pratically smell the herpes and inevitable conversations that will litter anonymous postings on Craigslist before they happen.

And this for the record is what I’m really retiring from and admittedly what I’ve shrieked away continuously consciously or subconsciously.  Its the realization that most of what is going on out in the world of relationships is purely acting out.  Its when every conversation you walk by on the street resonates with some sick cacophony.  Its what is incidentally causing this fucking migraine that won’t go away with anything but prolonged bouts of sleep like nyquil killing the pain or perception thereof.  Its the pure stupidity that comes with love and by love I mean “oh my fucking god don’t leave me because I’m too scared to die by myself.”  Bitter, maybe… but in hindsight… not at all.

I was minding my own business the other day walking to god knows where, lost in my own thoughts when I saw it; the death knell of another beautiful relationship.  I saw this dude in desperation, literally crying out for someone not to leave him.  And you know what, it made me physically ill.  I’m sure it made his soon to be ex-lover nauseous as well.  Once the eye of Sauron caught upon them, it was hushed silence, almost as if I had pointed the remote at them or flashed the light on the corner at some roach infested tryst.

This is the spiral that is slowly unfolding in my brain.  Its the reality of loneliness.  And by loneliness, I mean the fact that everyone, and I do mean everyone, is fucking lonely.  You see it in strollers on the street, hands held in the park, anonymous interactions on internet websites, ads on the subway, and even down to the ridiculousness of some mundane club flyers outfitted with the illest of bikinis.  Its in the fucking mobile photo booths and desperate attempts at differentiating your bicycle from the horde.  Its in the concerts you attend and the bands you appreciate.

Being thiry five… and that right there, my friends, is the mother fucking handicap of the century… but being thirty five and actively pursuing some sort of single lifestyle is like playing fucking Asteroids.  You are constantly reverse thrusting back and forth trying to navigate a terrain of small and large rocks… each denoted by a specific age range.  You are too young to be settling down with the family, plotting your own graveplots in a memorial cemetary… but you are too old to have banal conversations with girls that seem to mistake your generosity as some sort of ploy to get them into your bedroom.

This is where I fucking resign; where I tell the world to politely fuck off and stop worrying.  Where I start attending whatever the fuck night I want with a book in hand and embrace the fact that I really don’t want to have a conversation about things that I can’t fathom; vertically, horizontally or otherwise.  Where if I’m dancing out of context or wearing one piece of clothing that doesn’t make much sense its much more of a sin than showing up alone.  Because of all the things I’m addicted to, its more so the fact that I need to explore.  I’m trying to define my own boundaries.  And yes, I know its late in life and that I’m rotting away.  Fuck off, yeah?

I’m not trying to have sex with you… or trying to have a missed connection.  Or trying to make someone or another jealous.  Or trying to medicate these feelings of dread with a completely awkward night of whiskey and haphazard sexual advances.  I’m not trying period anymore.  Yes, its a dull existence with a nose in a book and a VHS tape playing in the background of shit your parents saw in the a movie theatre years ago.   Yes, my fucking condo is nonexistant and I don’t display the qualities of a good father… you know, like dodging child support and responsibility at every angle.  I’ll probably never contribute to the collective psychosis that seems to permeate the godawful wasteland that is the ‘dating scene.’  And honestly, I’m ok with that.  

Because, my friends, when your backs against the wall and facing the wall… what else is there?  You turn inward.  You get to know the vessel of which you’ve been trapped in.  If I’m going to sit in a cell everyday and by cell I mean the prison of my own flesh… why in the hell would I want to occupy it with someone who ends up being part of the cement blocks that cages me in?  Let it be known, good reader… I have contributed to that.  I have been the mortar thats shackled.  Was I good at being a boundary… maybe, yes.  I was stalwart.  An immovable object.  Steadfast in heart, soul and mind.  And what it all boiled down to, was a lack of context and a fear of occupying a watch tower by my lonesome.

And to that my friends… to that I say… is true weakness.  The ability to not be able to resist the devil without distractions.  

But to not be tempted by the slightest rustle in the bushes.  To stare intently on the goal.  To know what you want out of life and attack it without your peripheral being sidetracked by fake boobs on the sidelines.  Or fake words in the heat of biological determination.  That is strength.

So what I resign from… and we’ll see if this works… because the endless headaches that ensue don’t really lead me to too much hope… what I resign from is simply the fantasy of it all.  The wondering and wearing on that tugs at my ribs like pangs of hunger.  The need for satiation like I’m some hopeless starved dog.  The weakness that holds grip on every decision that I make.  That lures me out five nights out of the week for the same predictable outcome.  A wan grin and a look of disgust.  Not a judgement by any means… but simply a realization.

Thats its all just one elaborate drag.

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