Emotional Junkyard

Fuck. I had one of those nights. The type that make me hate myself in the morning. Daylight fractured through the window blinds, broken like bones in a car accident. Cigarette butts and empty bottles scattered around the room like shrapnel on a battlefield. That studio apartment looked fucked.

This isn't the first time in a long time I'm putting it out there: I have a difficult relationship with myself between what I have and what I want.

I changed up my game because I wasn't steering the way I wanted too. Dates turned into near-relationships and potential heartbreak that I didn't want any part of. I liked the companionship, but the idea of it was better than the reality. The fear I have is of openness, honesty, and establishing an emotional connection with someone. I've had difficulty with that as long as I know. The tension came from engagements that felt like I was under surveillance. The paranoia that I’m being watched by people who may not care, but may let things slip. I couldn't get past the idea of girl-talk and boy-talk and being under someone's watchful eye, even if no one was actually watching.

I've found peace of mind. I've found emotional resonance. I just wanted to make peace with my piece.

I approached my disappointment when I met someone a while back and realized, "oh, they're just quiet..." Normally, I’d think they're just quiet like a Buddhist monk, but then I realized they were quiet like a stripper with nothing to say, like a Faerie. Sometimes, that pool of still water doesn't run deep, sometimes it's just shallow-fucking-water. Luckily, it wasn't a thing to make big. It was a thing that got steered in a visceral, real way.

It was quick: with drinks, groping, late nights, and late mornings. Sure, I hurt my shoulder using my kettle bells, but I probably aggravated it more with the Faerie. None of it was meaningful, which was great, but I realized that I wouldn't be able to pull my shit together if it kept going, much like the first time I met the girlfriend in high school who sucked my breath from my lungs (thanks AB, you helped me leave wrestling).

It had to end. It did end. Mainly because of the dungeoning feeling that I got after spending a few too many mornings, for me, running a few stops into work in the same getup as the night before. The fear of sex hasn't existed in me since college. I realized that, at a certain point, you only have to fear Herpes and AIDS. You can knock everything else out in a weekend. Hell, I'd rather get Gonorrhea than the flu. The flu knocks you out for a week, but the "clap" goes away with some powders. I stayed minty fresh

That ended when my classes were finishing. Usually, it takes me a while to get something to stop. It's like a locomotive: engines have to be disengaged, brakes have to be applied, Denzel Washington yells at Chris Pine to hustle his ass up to the engine room. This time it ended because it was over and it needed to wrap up. I walked away because my life needed me.

In the past, I would get tugged back. That's when I have to put up walls to some people. Not a lot of them (both walls and people), but enough to keep momentum in my life. A big piece is definitely the limitations I've set within myself knowing I won't meet someone's expectations within most relationships: I don't want to get a disease. I don't want to marry you. I don't want to give you a baby. I don't want to be your safety net. I don’t want to be your self-esteem boost.

They all seem like curve balls, but everyone thinks there are curve balls coming at them. However,  I think it's all there, straight up the middle for you to see if you're paying attention. A friend and I had lunch recently. She told me about how my last girlfriend found someone else new (see, I don't put it all the way out there unless needed), and I told her, "I know, because I know her," and because I know people. It's not that confusing, ya know?

When I say, "I wish everyone unending joy," I mean it. Wouldn't it be better if we only cared about making someone elses' life better? Basically, the allegory of the long spoons. We took a while longer that afternoon because it was nicer outside than back in our offices. Besides, who the fuck wants to run back to spreadsheets and equations? That shit can wait, Summah in the park is here! We hugged, I threatened to fall and crush her, and she laughed at me, being silly me

The post is titled "Emotional Junkyard," because I'll often root around within myself looking for something and might come out with what I'm looking for, or something else to build around. They aren't actually car parts, but just pieces of me I can look at quizzically. I'm not gonna compare my mindset to a catalytic converter (though, that's actually not too bad).

I'm a cactus. I don't need much water or attention, but you might not want to pet or fall on me.

I met someone new. It's nice, but like all of these situations, it's as nice as I'll make it. I’ll meet someone new again. Sometimes it may be romantic, but I just hope it’s genuine. All of that, it’s there, buried in the junkyard.

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Part of me wonders if, 20 years from now, I'll be on a city street, wearing a silk shirt, unbuttoned to my navel, with gold medallions hanging around my neck, and pants so tight you can see my femoral artery while I'm yelling at some 22 year old stripper that I've got the best coke she's ever done and she should come back to my place. Then, on the other side of the street is an ex-girlfriend who's standing there with her husband and children, eating pistachio ice cream with them and shaking her head in disapproval because she knew she was right when we broke up that I'd only be interested in chasing tail.

Then I realize I hate silk shirts, I hate wearing jewelry, I hate too tight pants, I don't do drugs, I can't use the phrase "chasing tail" without laughing, and I couldn't chase after a 22 year old unless I got Benjamin Button's Disease.

Strippers, however, are wonderful individuals who know how to pull money from you faster than a tent-revival preacher.