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Cheerleaders Are Always Happy

I read that somewhere. Or maybe heard it on an episode of One Tree Hill. Fuck yeah, I watch OTH. It was either that or The O.C.. My parents watch The O.C. Okay, I'll admit it:

My name is Christian and I've seen an episode of The O.C. But it was the episode that The Killers were on, and I was going through a whole sordid 'I like The Killers' phase. It was an ugly period in my life and I really don't want to talk about it. Fucking sue me.


I went through a lecture last night. About how I should be trying to woo the ex-GF back (yes, I still have feelings for her; again, fucking blow me, I'm almost human...but I'll never be the same; to drop some Goo Goo Dolls on y'all) with flowers and poetry. And I nearly lost it on my old friend from the old days for even suggesting such a thing.

I don't write poetry anymore. Besides, someone almost always died in said poems. What can I say? I used to have me a great deal of teenage angst bullshit (to drop some Heathers on y'all) to work out for my ownself. And don't even get me started on my college years, as the court records are still kinda sealed.

I gave a woman flowers once. Once. Why, yes, it was the pseudo-wife. She was having a bad day, someone in her office was planning her ''real'' wedding, and B was kinda morose about it.

Needless to say, I don't do either anymore. Both kinda reek of Average Frustrated Chump, and I ain't NEVER going back there again. In fact, when I was coming up, I used to make with the whole send a single rose Secret Admirer bit. I could Cry for how weak that boy was. And so should you.


Math don't care. And neither do I.


Then I got to hear how our relationship was all one-sided in favor of me. Well, duh. That's where I'm supposed to be leading things, ain't it. After all, you need to be the man, otherwise she will. Yes, she bought me things. Yes, I made her drive us everywhere. Yes, I took her for granted a little bit.


I'm the guy what bought her a present on MY birthday, simply because it was the 2 year anniversary of the day she received her professional certification or accreditation or what have you. And whenever I came across something that reminded me of her (after a suitable amount of time had passed, naturellement), I surprised her with it.

I passionately HATE driving. After all, I went 16 years in between times spent behind the wheel with any sort of regularity. I'm confident enough in my masculinity to let my gears be shifted for me automatically, and I'm more than Cool with someone else doing the driving. Whether it be woman, mineral or vegetable doing so is kinda immaterial.

Let's just say that I knew what I had. And it went away, anyway. But at least I wasn't trapped in the prison of my own pretty little head the way I usually am. Yay, me! And yes, it's my own fault for not knowing she was looking for a serious ''relationship'', as we never discussed it. No, we don't really have anything in common, but what does that matter?

I kept her for so long because we rarely got to spend any real time together, what with me always being at work at all. So, spending an entire week with her in Las Vegas was a mistake. She was able to see me for who and what I'm really not. And can likely never be. Although, in my (admittedly flimsy) defence, I had NO idea she was looking for something more. The subject simply never came up. And I was too busy being in the Now. Just enjoying wherefore we were and not worrying about where we should or could be.

That's just how I roll. So now, here I sit, contemplating the embers of my life. Although I DID do me some badly needed Spring cleaning today.


And yes, I fully realize (and am constantly reminded) that I need to seek me out a more positive outlook. What can I say? My philosophy has always been (even before Seether put a name to it) that things are just as wrong as they seem. Likely always will, but I'm working on it. Fuck, I'm kinda getting all emo up in here and shit.

And yes, it kinda scares me a little bit, too. Although I really do need to get back to honing my brooding skills.


So I'm driving home from the 'rents house the other night, hopped up on caffeine pills and java and yet still half asleep. Oh how I long for those carefree days when I still remembered what alert felt like. I know, aim for the stars. Anyhoo, I'm pretty sure that I ran over an already dead roadkill-type thing sitting in the middle of the highway. Primarily because I was too sleepy to swerve. Car seems all right, though. Yay, car!

Saw about a dozen cops going the other way. Three by three by three by two. Which I reckon would be 11. Even with the new math. The 2 had stopped some random speeder.

I stopped at a rest stop and looked at the stars. The frigid night air was quite bracing. Woke me up a little bit, too. Then I was approached and engaged in conversation by another weary motorist. Who insisted I take HIS digits. What can I say? My charisma knows no bounds.

Yes, my version of sarcasm is still in the planning stages.


It troubles me that the only contact we have may soon be our Scrabulous games on Facebook. And it terrifies me that she might think I've wasted the last 13 months of her life the way my last gig wasted 9 of mine. Don't get me wrong, I've got strong and broad shoulders, but that would be a kinda Atlasesque (it's called a vocabulary) burden for anyone to bear.


I really need to fucking MAKE the time to get back to my writing. I'm good. Or at least I was. But I want to be great. Who doesn't, right? And, worse comes to worst, at least I can work me out some anger. Or not. Whatever.

I can't remember the last time I read an entire book. And I used to love me some reading. But it's a new day. Time to re-prioritize and shit.


On the when a door shuts, Jesus peeks in a window tip:

Things are strained between us. Now she even flakes on me occasionally. Yes, it happens to everyfuckingbody sooner or later. We had tentative plans for Saturday night. She called about an hour ago to say that she's sick and is staying in for the weekend.

Now (see above), math is hard for me, but I'm reading that as my cue to show up at her door (preferably with chicken soup from Tim Horton's; yeah, like I can make that shit) and play the role of the concerned guy. With no ulterior motives.

Or would that definitely relegate me to LJBF land?

See, this is whyfore intelligent men tend to get in their own way. We think too much. And then overthink it to Death.

Anyway, feel free to weigh in with your opinion on what your humble narrator should do to escape the horns of this dilemma. Enjoy your Friday night, y'all. Be good and be safe. Especially if you're being bad.

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