so very alone…

I mentioned that I was going to try to catch up with Jane to let her know different I am. I was amazed at the number of people who commented on this blog, saying what a bad idea that was.

I wish I would have listened. No, just kidding. The people who comment on this blog are about twice as screwed up as I used to be.

I figured, though, that since she didn’t email me telling her to leave her alone when I posted my intention to reconnect with her, it was because either she doesn’t read the blog anymore–and therefore doesn’t know how much I’ve changed–or she does read the blog and by not saying I couldn’t get ahold of her, she was tacitly asking me to get ahold of her.

I’m not sure my logic would hold up in a court of law, but I’m sticking with it.

Last night, after work, I drove up to her house and waited in my car until she got home. I waited down the street a little bit, so as not to alarm her. Then, after she had been there for about fifteen minutes, I went up to her door, knocked, and waited.

And waited.

After about two minutes (seemed like ten), I knocked again. I waited another minute, then rang the doorbell (even though I hate doorbells) a couple times.

Finally, she came to the door, looking miffed as she opened it.

Then she saw me and went from miffed to what I like to call a perfect mix of "frightened, angry, and surprised."

And right then, I realized I had made a huge mistake, for the following reasons.

First, I hadn’t thought about what I would say when I saw her. I should have had something prepared, or better yet, a whole bunch of different things, depending on how she looked.

Second, I knew as soon as I saw her eyes that she is not capable of loving me. No matter what, I will always be the strange, thieving, IT goober as far as she’s concerned. She’ll never see that I am also a man with dreams and needs.

Third, she doesn’t look like I remember her. Maybe the Celexa has cleared my mind and removed the soft-focus lens I seem to have reserved for Jane. Or maybe it’s that she was wearing baggy, food-stained sweats. Or maybe it’s that I no longer am so desperate for love that I see perfect beauty where there’s actually nothing but a woman of average height, average weight, average face, and a surprising amount of grey in the brown regrowth of her blonde, permed hair.

"Look, don’t even start," she said. "Just turn around and walk away."

"Fine by me," I replied. And I meant it. I was relieved.

So I went home, so happy that I have visited Jane’s house and discovered that I no longer give a damn about her.

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I went out to dinner on Saturday night with Richard and his new partner, who happens to be the most sober person I’ve ever met. If he were at a funeral directors’ party, he would be voted Most Depressing Person. So I’ll call him Captain Happy.

Richard and I agreed to meet in front of the restaurant, a fancy Thai place that foodies on the web rave about. The three of us arrived a few minutes before our reservation, so we chatted outside. I should say Richard and I chatted, while Captain Happy stood still with his hands behind his back, manservant-like.

Richard and I caught up quickly, reminding me of why I liked him so much. We agreed that Battlestar Galactica is the best show on television, but we disagreed on Bertha. He thinks I “completely misrepresented her” on my blog, while I suggested that perhaps he doesn’t know Bertha as well as he thinks he does. Captain Happy sniffed.

One of the things I like about Richard is that he can admit when he’s wrong. In fact, sometimes he’ll admit he’s wrong when he’s not.

The restaurant experience was miserable. First, they had no record of our reservation. I got upset, mostly because there’s not much to say other than, “But I called and made a reservation for 7:30!” The only thing you can do in that situation is to say it louder each time, which I did.

I was furious.

They finally seated us at a plain table that was right next to a table adorned with candles and flowers and elegantly folded napkins.

I asked the hostess seating us why our table wasn’t decorated. She didn’t speak good English, so it was difficult to talk to her. I think she said the other table was decorated for people with reservations, so I blew up. I demanded that napkins be brought to our table at once.

She seemed to agree, only she came back a couple minutes later with paper napkins. Like the kind you’d get at Hardees. I realized later that it was probably a misunderstanding – no one else had paper napkins – but I took it personally and got even madder.

Things went downhill from there. I don’t exactly recall what happened, but I know that I was asked several times to leave the restaurant. I shouted that I didn’t want to eat their rat-infested food anyway and stormed out, assuming that Richard and Captain Happy would join me shortly.

They didn’t. I waited outside for more than an hour before I left.

Now I regret agreeing to visit my sister. What was I thinking?

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I used to complain so much about how I am so alone, but I’m starting to realize that a lot of this is because I never asked anyone out. I don’t think I’ve ever had a group of people over for a birthday party in my adult life. I don’t ever make efforts to make or keep friends. I don’t even stay in friendly contact with my family.

I need to fix that, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I have the courage to do so. Here’s a list of the people I’m going to get back in touch with today, and try to see if I can repair what used to be good relationships.

• Richard: He was a good officemate and introduced me to Bertha. The fact that Bertha and I didn’t work out isn’t his fault.
• Jane: I was creepy to her before. I admit that freely. But I’m not creepy anymore. She needs to get to know the real me.
• My Sister: I’ve been angry at her for years because she kept telling me to get help. Now I’ve gotten some help (Celexa!) and it turns out she was right. I wonder what my sister would do if I called her up and said without irony, “You know, you were right. I got help. I feel better. Thank you.”

I’m also going to try to start developing new relationships. I’ve asked Stan to go out with me to lunch this Friday.

On an unrelated note, I made a note of the license plate of the jerk who beat me up yesterday. It’s a vanity license plate, on a silver Porsche Boxster. The text of the vanity plate is exactly what you’d expect it to be: “FASTER.”

Oh, please.

It occurs to me that if one were to exchange three of the letters on that license plate for a different three letters, the license plate would be more accurate, though perhaps less self-aggrandizing.

It also occurs to me that I have a color photo printer with a reasonable stock of glossy photo paper, and that clear adhesive plastic can be easily acquired at any office supply store.

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Back when I first started my new job, I ran across a guy who works in the same building (not the same company). Since I didn’t give this guy a cheery smile, a salute, and a how-do-ya-do, he decided it was his right / obligation to insert himself into my life by telling me that I had dropped my smile, and had better pick it up.

Honestly, I do not understand how the theory of evolution allows for people who are nothing but asshole.

Anyway, I saw this guy again today, in the office condo parking lot. And while last time I saw him I was too shy and humiliated to reply to his unwarranted intrusion, that is no longer the case. He was walking toward the building from his car; I was walking to my car from the building. He did a Zig Ziggler-inspired smile and wave, and I said, “You should just leave people alone. Whether I am smiling or not is none of your concern.”

Or words to that effect. I think in the moment I might have stumbled a bit on the actual phrasing.

“I beg your pardon?” he replied. Who says “I beg your pardon?” Does he think he’s Jimmy Stewart or something?

So I explained to him, “The last time you saw me, you told me I had dropped my smile and to pick it up. You had no right to say anything like that. For all you know, my sister might have just died.” I wish.

“Hey, buck up there, little camper.” Yes, he really said that. I am dead serious. Which turns out to be a good thing, because the correct response occurred to me right there.

“Hey, fuck off there, you big asshole.” And then I pushed him. Palms out, against the chest. A get-out-of-my-face gesture.

And then he punched me. Three punches, only one of which I sort of deflected. Sternum, stomach, throat. I kind of blocked the one coming at my face, which is why it hit me in the throat.

I’m not absolutely certain, but I think it would have hurt worse if the blow had hit me in the face. Still, getting hit in the throat hurts a lot.

I sat down in the parking lot. I couldn’t breathe. For a minute I thought I was going to die. Then I was able to breathe again, and I was sure he had broken a rib.

The doctor says nothing’s broken, though. Just a bruise.

Mary says I should press charges, but I just want to put this episode behind me.

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I had a work emergency. As I mentioned a while back, my boss here is, in addition to my tattletale duties, asking me to build email and web tools that, as far as I can tell, already exist in the form of open source projects, giving me unprecedented amounts of free time.

Except on Tuesday afternoon, he pulled me into his office, all excited, and showed me an article he had been reading in one of his multi-level marketing guru websites about an exciting "program" that could be repurposed for spamming.

It came complete with screenshots.

So Devin has me look at this and says, "This is a lot like one of the projects I’m having you work on, but with some cool extra features. Could you add those features to the project?"

What I did not answer was, "Sure I can, because I found this utility about two weeks ago, had inserted the company logo and removed the opensource citations from the interface, and was planning on giving it to you next week, saying I had come up with a few new features you might be interested in, therefore making you think I’m the best employee in the world even though I’ve spent exactly 90 minutes actually working this month."

Instead, I said, "No problem, but some of those features may not make it into version 1.0" and then I’ve spent the past two days doing the first actual hard work I’ve had to do for this job: covering my ass. I’ve been skinning the interface to make it look completely different (and let’s face it: worse) than it used to. I’ve disabled or hidden the interface to some of the features he was excited about. Then I can add them in later.

I think I’m safe. I also think I need to start paying attention to the work-related sites Devin reads, to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

Anyway, that’s why I haven’t had time to post.

I should recap really fast what happened in that lunch with Mary, even though it’s nowhere near as fresh in my mind as it used to be.

Basically, she told me how hard it is to resolve her faith with her "animal urges," as she called them, and that she hoped I would not tell Devin either about her "devil-sent desires" nor about her "disgusting" workplace porn habit.

And I did the weirdest thing: I started laughing. I told her I was sorry for laughing, even though I was suppressing a laugh while I did it. And I told her that I didn’t really care about what kind of porn she looks at, as long as she stopped pushing religion on me. And that I didn’t plan to tell on her or anyone else in the company.

When, a second ago, I said laughing was the weirdest thing, I was wrong. What came next was the weirdest thing. She offered me her hand, and we shook. As if we had just concluded an important negotiation. If I would have thought about it, I would have suggested we spit on our hands before shaking.

And then, later that afternoon, Mary sent me an Outlook meeting: a recurring Thursday lunch meeting. I accepted. Hell, why not?

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I had decided to stop writing this blog, but then today I had lunch with the weirdest person I have ever talked to. Yes, that’s right: Mary. We had lunch. And while she was telling me her sad, sad story, I kept thinking to myself, "I’ve got to tell someone about this."

And that someone, I realized, is this blog.

I’ll get to that later this afternoon, when I have time. Right now I just wanted to mention that I am sticking around.

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I have something to reveal today.

No, it’s not that I’m not real. Because I am real. More real than most of you.

It’s that I’ve been taking Celexa for the past month. And you know what? I’m starting to feel pretty damn good. And you know what else? I look back at about 90% of the blog I’ve written so far and am pretty mortified by the fact that I ever wrote such crap.

By the way, judging from the substance of the comments this blog generates, about 95% of you ought to be looking at either starting or adjusting your medication, too.

Except Lily, who maybe might want to simply lay off the medication altogether for a while. Just to see what it’s like.

For about two weeks, I’ve been trying, when I write this blog, to continue to push the "woe is me" thing. Give the yokels what they paid for. But the truth is, I don’t feel too woeful right now. And I don’t feel like I need the cheap therapy that this blog used to provide. And above all, I don’t need the shit advice I generally get here.

Bertha, by the way, can take a flying fuck. Oh, and Jane too. Yeah, Jane. I just mentioned you on my blog. Bite me.

Yeah, I’m still alone. Probably always will be. And guess what: most people are assholes, so maybe being alone isn’t a bad thing to be.

I’m going to take a few days off to decide whether I am going to continue this blog. If I do, I’m just going to talk about my life as it is. I’m not going to pretend to be more pathetic than I am.

And if I don’t continue the blog, well then, it’s been fun. Occasionally.

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I feel awful.

I left a bag of rotten chicken hearts hanging from Bertha’s door knob, and haven’t heard a peep from her.

Last weekend, after spending so much time holed up in my condo, I decided to “get out there” and go downtown. People like my sister are always saying “get out there” as if that’s the magic elixir. It’s not. If I had a decent life coach, he would have said, “You’re in no shape to get out there. You need to hole up for awhile. It’s best for everyone.”

So I was downtown alone. I went into a restaurant to eat lunch and ordered food to go. It was a simple meal — chicken teriyaki with fried rice – but there was more plastic and cardboard than food. I sat at a bench by a bus stop to eat the meal. Cigarette butts were all over the ground. My drink was watered down. Some cyclist riding by hocked a loogie in the gutter.

The meal was bland.

Even though I was still hungry, I wrapped up the rest of the food and was going to throw it away. The bundle was too big to fit in the little hole on the top of the trash can. I tried to jam it in. Then I just hurled the whole mess high into the middle of the street, where a car ran over it right away as a different car honked. I assume they were honking at me, but you never know.

A woman pushing a baby stroller said, “You shouldn’t litter.”

A few minutes later, I thought of the line I should have said: “You shouldn’t breed.”

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Something’s been tugging at the back of my head lately. I haven’t been able to shake it. I’ve been forgetting something. But what is it?

Yesterday afternoon I finally remembered: I was supposed to start my second job last Monday.

I called HR and left a voicemail that I had been in the hospital with severe dehydration brought on by acute pneumonia, but that I was better now and would be coming in this Monday, and that I hoped they would not count this untimely illness against me.

They didn’t return my call, but it was Friday afternoon, so I really didn’t expect them to.

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I was expecting Bertha to come over last night at the very least to talk about the letter I sent. And I wasn’t sure how I would respond. Perhaps I’d send her on her way. Perhaps she would confess her undying love for me. Perhaps we’d make love one more time for closure. I hoped to stand my ground.

I sat around waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . for my phone to ring or for the door to swing open. At around 10:30, Bertha texted me:

got yr ltr. thx cutie. very sweet. must say no. luv always. b

I have to admit her message disappointed me on a number of levels. Actually, “disappointed” is the wrong word. I think “infuriated” is closer to the mark. I thought I was getting my head around a break-up, and now I’m mad.

It can’t end that way. I have to do something.

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