so very alone…

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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In a fit of anxiety, I decided to go “jogging” last night. For me, jogging consists of alternating between shuffling and walking. And these days, there’s more walking than jogging since I’ve been smoking half a pack of cigarettes a day. (Don’t worry — I can stop anytime.)

There’s no way I would ever go jogging if it weren’t for the trails that run through the greenspace behind my condo. As I was making my way through the network of trails, I took a wrong turn and ended up running into someone’s back yard.

What I saw stunned me.

In the groomed back yard was a treehouse and a play structure with a long slide and several swings. Between the treehouse and play structure was a rope hanging from an impossibly tall tree. I’m not certain, but I imagine you could swing Tarzan-style between the treehouse and the play structure.

Inside the house were shiny people ranging from all ages. A grandmother was sitting in a big chair. There were three adults who all touched each other affectionately several times. The older children were in a circle on the floor, playing a board game or cards. A couple of toddlers too young to play the game bounced in and out of sight. The glow of a fire lit the room.

Outside the sliding glass door was a medium-sized yellow dog. The dog wanted in. Badly. It was whimpering loud enough for me to hear it, but the the people inside the house didn’t seem to notice. I like to think music was playing, because it would seem too cruel for them to ignore the dog. The dog sat erect for a long time — at least a half hour – every now and then walking in a little circle and then resuming his stance.

I wanted so badly for someone to open the door and let the dog in.

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Mary, the evangelical at work asks me a question about my relationship with Jesus practically every day I come into the office. I was starting to take it personally, until I notice that she spreads it around.

So you know how when someone keeps bugging you in a certain way you start thinking of what you’re going to say to that person the next time they do that thing? Well, last night I figured out what I would say to her.

And then this morning, when she asked me if I had “thanked Jesus for this glorious day,” I replied:

“I wonder what Jesus thinks about all that porn you look at during working hours.”

She walked away without saying a word, fast and stiff.

I consider this the proudest moment of my entire life.

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I finally settled on a letter for Bertha. Once I decided to stop trying to write in poetic language and just let my feelings out, the words began to flow.

Dear Bertha,

My heart is broken. I feel our love slipping away.

Our relationship has taken me places that I never knew existed. Before I was with you, I had mistakenly believed the heights of love could only be reached between two perfect beings, and yet it is our very imperfections that draw us together and tighten our bond. When I think of how your whole body jiggles when you laugh or how your lip curls when you’re mad at me, my heart soars.

You and I both know our relationship isn’t ideal. I have ignored you at times, and you’ve somehow convinced yourself that it’s perfectly fine to have sex with other people. We’ve even yelled and called each other unspeakable names.

Despite all this, I value our intimacy above everything. When I’m with you, I am far from alone. I want to be with you. It breaks my heart that you seem so willing to treat our love in such a casual manner.

I must give you a choice. Either be with me — and be with me only — or never see me again.

Love,

Harlan

After I composed this letter, I wrote it out by hand, added my scent to it, and send it by mail. I can’t wait for her answer. In other words, I anxiously await her reply.

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If I were on an airplane that started to rock violently and shutter and plummet, my first thought would be, “Damn! I’m not going to get to see The Hobbit movies!”

Not that I’m entirely sold on Guillermo Del Toro. I watched Pan’s Labyrinth to test his bona fides, and I’ll just say this – he’s no Peter Jackson. He’s not even Sam Raimi. Still, the fact that we’ll have Peter and Fran and Philippa doing the storyboarding and scripting means we’re in safe hands. Plus, Sir Ian McKellen will be back as Gandalf, along with Andy Serkis as Gollum. I’m not sure who should play Bilbo – Ian Holms will be 80 by the end of filming – my choice is Martin Freeman. He looks like a hobbit.

I have two other concerns.

First, I hope they make the first movie using the complete story line from The Hobbit and the second movie about what happens between The Hobbit and LOTR. I don’t want two movies with a mish-mash of true and fabricated plot lines.

Second, I hope they remain faithful to the tone of The Hobbit. Unlike LOTR, The Hobbit is a children’s book. It’s not nearly as dark. I’m concerned that Del Toro will add too much violence and horror. The Hobbit shouldn’t have any impalings or beheadings. If I have a son or daughter soon, I want to be able to watch this movie over and over with them when they’re still toddlers and not wait until they’re teenagers.

Speaking of future children, I am still composing my love letter. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I have writer’s block. I keep typing sentences that are supposed to be sincere, like ”Beloved Bertha, toucher of my heart, kisser of my lips,” and then I turn it into parody. “Lover of my loins.”

And then I delete the whole thing and start over. “Dear Bertha, You have touched me in a way that no one else has.” And then more parody followed by Command-A, Delete. I’m obviously taking the wrong approach. To put it in terms that my new boss would understand, I need a reset meeting.

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I was determined not to see Bertha last night for reasons you could imagine. So I rented a porno and pulled all my window shades down and was all set to spend a quiet evening with just me and Little Harlan.

I changed my mind.

I used to have this notion that I was completely in charge of what I do. My body is a steamship and I’m the captain. The longer I live, the more I think my body is a flotilla, and I’m a frightened passenger clutching a fake steering wheel on the deck of one of the ships, wondering where we’re going and why the hell we don’t turn away from those rocks up ahead (aft). All I can do is shout and spin the wheel. Sometimes the ships turns. And sometimes it doesn’t.

Bertha was expecting me. And here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s healthy to have sex when there are so many issues to sort out, even when neither person says a single word during the encounter.

When I left, I felt emptier than I would have felt if I’d watched the porno.

Our relationship is dying. I need to feel loved again. I know how futile it is for me to talk through issues in person, so I’m going to spend the rest of the day composing the most beautiful love letter ever written.

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It’s been a rough couple of days. I should probably apologize for a number of things, but it seems like people just get mad at me whenever I apologize. So I’ll just post Bertha’s rejection email and leave well enough alone.

My dear, dear [Harlan]:

We have opened our hearts to each other. Our souls have been intertwined in coital bliss. To me every hour of the light and the dark has been a miracle.

And yet I must say no.

It is not our time. It is not our place. It is not our moment. Do not close yourself off and wrap your gifts in a cocoon. Spread your wings and fly, fly, fly. Soar above your mortal limitations. Soar above your troubles. Soar above your fears.

In your darkest hours, you can always choose to perceive things differently. You have a choice. You can focus on what’s wrong in your life, or you can focus on what’s right. Love is right, [Harlan]. If you give your life as a wholehearted response to love, then love will wholeheartedly respond to you.

You are a glorious being. In the world of illusion, you are lost and imprisoned, a slave to your appetites and false power. In the world of truth and fearlessness, you are a physical embodiment of the divine. Be fearless. Be free.

With sincere love,
[Bertha]xoxox

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Today I finally met with my probation officer. My sentence is supposedly largely suspended, except for the two days jail, the fine, restitution, community service, and probation.

As before, I found that one of the great drawbacks of dealing with the justice system is boredom. I had an 9:00am appointment to see my probation officer, but didn’t end up seeing him until about 10:10. How could they get that backed up that early in the morning? Do probation officers somehow end up providing informal therapy, like bartenders or something?

Anyway, when I finally got in, after having spent a bunch of time filling out some forms (I had already filled out a couple that I got in the mail, but there were more waiting for me once I got there), I met my guy, and it turns out he’s unbearably chipper. First he wanted to explain to me his philosophy of "crime and punishment" (he actually used that phrase, though no air quotes or anything) and probation. He proceeded to fill me in on his view of the rule of the law, social mores, the justice system, and how I could use this experience as a stumbling block or a stepping stone. I could see why he was all backed up. Then he seemed to want me to do more or less the same. Which is to say, spill my guts, I guess. I felt kind of pressured to say something, so I said that I knew I had done something wrong, and I wanted to make it right. He was cheerful, but also, expectant. And? And…nothing else. He kept asking me questions to draw me out, but I wanted no part of it.

Because really, come on, you don’t go into this situation without wanting to do anything to get it over with and just move on. The weird thing is that I might have expected this kind of behavior from some fresh-faced kid just out of college with his social work degree or something, but this was a middle-aged man. He must drive his family crazy.

Anyway, when he could see I wasn’t going to play along, he finally gave up and we got down to business, which basically consisted of a) when do I want to serve my time (because as a non-violent offender with a weekend sentence, they want to work around my schedule) and b) what type of community service would I like to do. Also he gave me a chance to pay my fine and restitution in installments, which I declined. I chose to do the jail time ASAP basically. I have to call in to the county jail to coordinate with them, because I guess they get pretty crowded, and he gave me the 411 on that. How did I best think I could contribute to the community? Um, whatever, basically. He never stopped being chipper, but I could tell he was disappointed with me. Finally he just chose something for me: cleaning up trash in public parks. I have to do 80 hours of that on a work crew. He gave me all the contact info for that. I’m so excited. Someone pinch me.

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Let’s get something out of the way up front and personal. Yes, yes, yes, I am drunk and getting drunker. and not just drunk. i found some pills in my sister’s cabinet that all looked very pleasing. i steered clear of the prozac and grabbed a few lortabs and allegros and various and sundry anti-anxiety medecation. for someone who’s life is perfect, she’s got a lot of self-numbing shit in her cabinet.

oh, i should probably mention that i spent the weekend at my sister’s house. No, I have no idea what came over me. i just got sick of things here and thought i’d leave somewhere else and the thought of visiting my brother made visiting my sister seem fine by comparison.

oh, and i got an email from Bertha. No is the answer. That’s right. No. She said no to marriage.

the one thing i got going for me is my liquor cabinet and the pills which i can space out. so what if i get constipated. i don’t care. i just don’t care.

Isolation score: fuck you and fuck the horse you rode in on

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I haven’t slept more than a couple hours the past couple days.

On Wednesday night, I was wondering what made me ask Bertha marry me. I just kind of blurted the question, without really considering what it implies, other than that if she was married to me, she wouldn’t be screwing Thurston on non-Wednesday nights (Maybe Thurston has Thursdays, and some other guy [who I’ll call Fred] gets Fridays, and so forth).

By Thursday, though, I was unable to sleep for an entirely different reason: I was freaked out about what if she says "Yes?"

More than anything else in the world, I want to be married and have kids, but I’m not sure Bertha’s the one. I at least need more time.

It’s too bad I had to go and open my big mouth, because otherwise things are going so great right now. I love my new job. Really, I should say that I love one part about my new job: scanning the internet usage logs, seeing what people are browsing.

First of all, I was glad to see that nobody at work has visited soveryalone.com. So I don’t have to worry about whether I’m being read by a coworker. Second, I am amazed at how much time everyone in the office is spending browsing the web. I doubt that there is a single person here who spends less than 4.5 hours a day browsing.

Here are some examples.

Stan is a gadget freak. He bounces from Gizmodo to Engadget to TechCrunch to NewEgg to buy.com. Almost continuously. Based on the number of times per week he goes from the product page to a secure connection, I’m guessing his house is full of shiny things.

Larry loves politics and news, and is apparently a big Clinton supporter, though it looks like he hasn’t been able to give up the dailykos.com habit. I feel sorry for Larry.

Donna shops and follows entertainment. She hits TMZ.com an unhealthy number of times per day, and Googles celebrity names nearly constantly. The combination of words she’s searched in conjunction with the term "stanley tucci" is probably the clearest cry for help I have ever seen.

Devin, my boss, may actually be the second worst offender of all. To his credit, a lot of the time he’s on the web he’s looking at competitor sites and doing research on new marketing scams schemes. But he spends five times as much time reading ESPN.com. I swear, he must reload the Page2 section 200 times per day, just praying that Bill Simmons has posted something in the past three minutes.

And then there’s Mary, the evangelical who tried to convert me when I introduced myself.

Holy shit.

She starts at some evangelical site, evidently gets herself worked up about the sins of lust and fornication, and then she’s on her way over to persiankitty.com. She bounces around there (not literally as far as I know) for a while and then, maybe feeling guilty, heads on over to an online bible.

And get this: Mary works in a cubicle. Just like pretty much everyone here. But of course she has the back of the monitor facing the cubicle entrance, so you can’t see what she’s looking at.

Or at least, she thinks we can’t see what she’s looking at.

I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with this information, but I like having it.

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