Living Vicariously Through Your Lady Parts

One of the viral moments from "Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23" is a
quote from the B. After her roommate describes the dream of some
idyllic afternoon spent at a lighthouse, B says, "I almost hit you. I
almost just lost control and hit you."

That's exactly how I feel whenever someone says the word "soulmate."
I know all of you who aren't self-aware enough to filter your thoughts
and your language don't realize it. But you use a word like soulmate
for one of two reasons.

You use it either to describe the horrible journey you took that
finally turned out right, or you use it to tell people that your love
is better than mine. It's either the "20 years sober" coin, or the
Jaguar parked in the driveway.

Even though I cringe every time I hear it, I understand the people who
use it in the first sense. When you've had a long string of crappy or
abusive or unfulfilling relationship, you need a way of expressing
that you finally got it right. Mind you, I think there are better
ways.

My relationship makes me so happy.

Mike is the perfect person for me.

Nina is the one I've been looking for for so long.

It's right this time.

Those are all mature waysof saying the same thing. More descriptive.
Less hollow. "Soulmate" is the Sweet Valley High way of expressing
this sentiment. And while I empathize with people who have had a
rough journey to finding something right, these thirsty travelers
represent a rare minority of the "soulmate" users.

The lion's share are the douchebags who want to tell you heir love is
perfect. I know I sound like a hater. Maybe I am. But in a way,
isn't it okay to hate the guy who wears the Mercedes baseball cap? Or
the lady who kept saying "my fiance" in that Season 1 episode of
"Seinfeld"?

Using this word is a device. There are things you simply don't say in
casual conversation. And one of them is "I'm so fucking in love."
You don't say that to your friends' friends. You don't say that to
your co-workers. You don't say that to your dentist. You save it for
your friends, your sister, your mom. But when you're busting in the
gut to say it to anyone and everyone, you use the word "soulmate."

The question is why. Why do you feel the need to share it?
Personally, I think it's vanity. I got a new watch last week. And I
walked around showing it to people. I admit -- it was because I
thought it looked cool and I wanted to show it off. Now, I have no
problem with people walking their husband or wife around because they
are proud of who they are with. You should be. It should feel good
to have people like your partner.

But when you want to show off the quality of your relationship?
You're just an asshole.

Aquiesce

I'm not quite sure how I got here.  People I interact with every day say I'm a good person.  At the same time, I have a very long list of people who think I'm an asshole.

I told someone the other day that there are two things that don't quite jive with me.  The fit that no one seems to see anything redeeming enough in me to invest in me as a friend (that's one) and the list of people who seem to hate my guts.

And I understand.  It's the manner much more than the substance.  There was a "Seinfeld" episode about the guy who was a bad breaker upper.  And I've had the tendency to disappear on people.  There's no excuse.  I own that as a fault.  A horrible fault.  Especially since people have been there for me in hard times.  Dark times.  I have this horrible emotional attention span that looks for medicine more than value.  This fucked up spirit of mine that gravitates to the thing that will make it feel better, rather than the thing that makes it a better spirit.  And I'm the lesser person for it.  I have people pissed at me that didn't give a shit about me, and for someone who no one really wants, it's confusing.  But at the same time, I lost people that I could have been friends with for 50 years.

I have a lot to repair.  But right now, I'm in the weeds.

Our Relationship Is In the Tank

I have been guilty of using the word toxic to describe a relationship
gone bad. But the truth is it only accurately describes a small
portion of the relationship the users apply it to.

Let's examine the word for a second. Toxic literally means poisonous.
And in using it to describe a relationship, we are trying to say that
the interaction with that person does bad things to us. Poisons
spread. So the bad things from that relationship fan out and affect
other parts of our lives.

There are truly relationships like that. We've all seen the people
that make us wonder why they are together. Whether it's fighting,
criticizing, co-dependence, abuse, or drama, you can see the couples,
friends, or family members whose daily dose of each other is truly
sickening.

The problem is that most of those relationships started out that way.
They had the perfect combination of elements that made the end state
inevitable. What about the relationships that simply turned at some
point? Where something was injected, some event occurred, and
suddenly so many parts of the relationship that used to be good are
tainted. That's not a toxic relationship. It's a septic
relationship.

All of these things that were healthy and good are now infected and
swollen. They're shutting down. And it's pervasive. The bad feeling
is everywhere. Have you ever seen the doctor shows where the person
"goes septic" and they can't figure out where the infection started.
It's just like the relationship where two people sit down and say "How
did it get like this?"

It's not really toxic. The jackass who criticizes your weight and the
chick who cheats on you? They were like that from the beginning. And
there are still times with them that you enjoy.

Once the relationship goes septic, even the sight of the person
bothers you. Their laugh. Their voice. Seeing their name pop up on
your phone. Nothing is necessarily truly horrible. But every single
thing is just not quite right. Which makes the whole pretty goddamn
miserable.

Mantra of a Frustrated Grasshopper

There is a phrase I say 20 times throughout my day. And it is the
reason I will die of a bleeding ulcer, a heart attack, and high blood
pressure... while a vein in my neck is exploding.

"Why are you making this so much harder than it needs to be? There's
a very simple way to do this. And you're not doing it."

The Rest of My Life, Part 1

I've decided how I want to spend the rest of my life.  I just have to pick the moment that the rest of my life begins.

I wanna be in a good place, with good people who want to be with me.  I want acquaintances who treat me with some modicum of value in their day, even if it's just a moment of interest that they don't mind being piqued.  I want friends who treat me like I am truly a part of their lives.  I want a place that makes me want to walk outside and inhale.  I want a home that makes me want to float between indoors and outdoors at will, to invite friends and acquaintance alike to enjoy things I want to share with them and share things with me.  I want a daily living that challenges me and makes me proud.

And none of that is where I am.  And so when my moment comes, I will not be here.  I will not know the people I know.  I will have a different home.

And I will change, too.  I know the reason I am 0 for 7 in my checklist is because of me.  The choices I have made.  Where I have chosen to place importance.  Who I've trusted, with emotions, secrets, responsibility.  But most importantly, who I've trusted with importance.  Who I've made a major cog in my life only to have them pull the rug from under me.

So I need to change.  I am going to be unafraid of risk. I'm going to leave the place I've lived for 38 years.  I'm going to learn to drive.  I'm going to change from an "i" to and "e" and meet new people, know that some will end up friends, some won't   Some will fall for me, and some won't  Some will find me blah, and some will find me amazing.  But instead of this life of sitting on the welfare line accepting whatever the government gives me -- sometimes these amazing pearls that have changed me forever, but more often than not, piles of shit.  Instead, I'll take some agency, and at least my mistakes will be mine.  And my successes will give me pride, instead of thanking God for making something wonderful happen to me.

I have wonderful things to share with people.  I have things friends want.  I have things neighbors want.  I have things employers want.  I have things girls want.  I don't need to poll all the people who aren't including me in their lives in this awful awful place explain to me why things didn't work out just right -- friends, acquaintances, neighbors, passersby, lovers alike.  I know why.  It's typically some combination of you not giving a shit, you giving a shit when you get something out of it, you wanting to give a shit but your life is more important than me, you being willing to give a shit but other people are so much more attractive, funny, interesting, cool.

I've been living life without a resume and taking the jobs -- friend, acquaintance, neighbor, lover -- that people give me by charity.  When I live The Rest of My Life, I will have my CV ready.  And I will decline the things not worthy of me.  And I will hold out for the signing bonuses.  Because I'm not accepting the friend, the neighbor, the acquaintance, the lover unless they are fucking worthy of me.

When I am enjoying a home-cooked meal with the people who pass the test, I hope we can all chill at my home, looking out at some view that's looking pretty, and I'll think about how complicated people make things.  How they allow life to get in the way.  How life is about the people, and everything else we do is to perpetuate relationships that make us happy.  And all the rest of the things we stressed about are the social towns we've allowed in.  The ones that slow down our supports systems and fun up the balance in our relationships.  I'll pick a moment.  And once I do, I'll enjoy things there.  For the rest of my life.

Emotional Booty Calls

One summer during college, I became friends with a woman who lived in
the apartment next door to my mom. She was a young stay-at-home mom
with two kids and lived there with her boyfriend. She was funny, she
listened to the same music as me, and was super outgoing.

One day she introduced me to her best friend. It took me a while to
realize I was being set up, but I eventually caught on. Another
single mom, same age as me. She was cute, a little "street," and
didn't play games -- she made it abundantly clear that she liked me.
So over the next few weeks, we hung out whenever she visited her
friend next door. Never anything "official." It was really casual.
We eventually had an actual date. Dinner. Awkward first kiss. Cool
make-out. And then reluctant goodbye -- because I lived with my
freaking mom!

Now here's where things get unfortunate. My mom and I didn't have a
phone. Twice in the five years we'd lived there we had our phone shut
off. Both time with big balances owed to the phone company. Both
times with my mom using different last names. (You know how that new
lottery commercial has the tagline "yeah... THAT kind of rich." The
tagline for my childhood should be "yeah... THAT kind of fucked up.)
So exactly how do two young people who like each other -- in the age
before cell phones -- keep in touch?

The corner pay phone. I swear the cops must have thought I was either
a) a corner boy for the Barksdales on "The Wire" or b) setting up an
appointment with an escort service. See, she was a single mom. And
her mother didn't approve of her seeing people other than the kid's
father. And she was 19. So she asked me to use her beeper when I
wanted to talk. So random summer weekday nights, I would head down
the block, pop a quarter in the pay phone and beep her. And a minute
or two later she would call back. We would talk for 20 minutes or
so... out on the street. Only somewhere along the line something
changed. And every other time or so, I would beep and then stand
there on the corner for 10 minutes or so with no answer. Weekends,
she would act normal. Friendly. Not necessarily romantic -- which
had always been the case, because her three year-old was usually
there. Finally, she stopped answering the beeps altogether. We acted
friendly on weekends. I went back to school. We didn't talk all
year. And when I returned, she was dating a friend of mine. And I
had a choice. If I wanted to hang around all the people I'b been
hanging around the previous two summers, I had to watch the two of
them together.

The funny thing is the memory that sticks out the most -- not seeing
the girl I liked with another guy, not hearing her tell me why it
didn't work out. Not even the time that my mom let two people I
barely knew have sex on my bed (the pull-out couch in the living room)
-- and I had nowhere to go. So I sat at the kitchen table of my
neighbor's apartment, seething and trying not to cry, while the girl I
liked and her new boyfriend made out in front of the TV. Not even
that.

It was the unanswered beeps. I didn't know what was happening on the
other end. for all I knew it was perfectly reasonable. She had a
three year-old. She had a family. She had a life. The problem was
in addition to not being able to see what was happening on the other
end, I also could see the reaction that would have defused all of the
doubt and anxiousness building up in me, missed beep by missed beep.
The reaction of "I can't answer, and I know this is bothering him, and
I don't want that to happen."

It's such a tenuous balance with the people that we truly care for.
We take either joy in or issue with the things we end up doing for
them. We show either regret or staunch resolve in the things we don't
do for them.

And then there are the things in the middle -- the things we do
sometimes. The things do that are hard. The things that we
accomplish masterfully sometimes, and fail miserably others. The
things we can only do inconsistently. The things we want to do, but
sometimes can't. The things we hate to do, but sometimes have to.

This middle area is where relationships get their final test. The
things we either do or don't do are so clear cut. Both parties know
what to expect and make a decision early on what I am comfortable
doing, and what I can accept her not doing.

But the middle is messy. It doesn't have to be, but there's a key
ingredient attached to most things people in relationships do for each
other... promise. Every once in a while your mother-in-law gives you
a plate of food on your way out. When she doesn't, you don't say
"What the fuck?" Because there's no implicit promise built into that.

People in relationships don't promise to pick up their shit. They
don't promise to call you at work to make sure you're doing okay.
They don't promise to understand how their actions or lack of action
affects you. They promise to care about you.

And that's why the middle is messy. The things we do sometimes. The
things do that are hard. The things that we accomplish masterfully
sometimes, and fail miserably others. The things we can only do
inconsistently. The things we want to do, but sometimes can't. The
things we hate to do, but sometimes have to. They all have promise
attached. We try to do these things because we care. So what does it
mean on those occasions we can't? When I don't pick up my shit? When
you don't call to see how I'm doing? When we don't seem to understand
how our actions affect each other?

It doesn't mean you don't care about me. But it sure seems like it.
And when you don't get that, it seems like it even more.

Understanding is a two-way street. And more often than not, people in
relationships want their partner to understand the reason I fail to do
something, the reason I do things inconsistently, the reason things
are hard and I only do them sometimes. But what about recognizing
that regardless the reason (which I completely understand) it still
makes me feel like you don't care. And even if you can't do that
thing consistently, you can't take the smallest second to let me know
you recognize. It only takes a second.

It's like the husband who has a bad temper who asks his wife to
understand that he will blow up sometimes. And she does. She rides
through it all every time he snaps. But for some reason, he never
apologizes afterward. He doesn't recognize that calling her a
"two-bit tramp" made her feel bad. After all, she agreed to
understand that he blows up sometimes, right?

So what's left without that reciprocation of understanding? Well, the
perception at least, is that the caring is inconsistent as well.
Sometimes you do these things, sometimes you don't. And when you
don't, you don't seem to recognize that it affects me in a way that
makes me question what we're doing here to begin with. Because the
things you don't do are things you should be getting something from as
well. So maybe you don't wan those things.

Do you want those things? I asked the same question standing by a pay
phone in 1994.

Absent wanting those thigs, absent the promise, "relationship" loses
the capital "R" and becomes the dictionary definition of "the
interaction between two things." And that's what it became with the
girl in 1994. She and I never had sex, but I was still her booty
call. On Saturdays, she would visit my neighbor. Sometimes they'd go
out shopping together, and I never knew she had come by. But on the
days she felt like some company, she knocked on my apartment door, and
I'd come over to hang out. I became a booty call for attention. And
emotional booty call. Like bathroom on a highway. When she needed
it, she stopped and used me. Otherwise, she was by in a blur, and I
never even knew she'd been by.

In the most difficult moments of self-evaluation, I admit to myself
that there are qualities about me that make me completely incompatible
with relationships. I am too easy-going in letting people dictate
terms, and I refuse to go to a place where I feel like I need someone.
But in the end, I think these two things are linked. I am broken
beyond belief. Having been abondoned of emotion, attention,
responsibility, help, appreciation, life lessons, support, presence,
loyalty and good examples by both of my parents from the age of five,
I don't trust people to give me any of these things for any prolonged
period of time. So I don't let them become important to me. But
because I'm easy going, when someone dictates their way past these
barriers, I don't stop them. And once that happens, I'm sensitive to
them doing all of the things people have done to me in the past.
Sometimes I'm wrong. But occasionally I'm standing by a pay phone.
Waiting for someone not to necessarily do something I know she can't.
But to let me know she understands I'm standing out there all by
myself.

Appreciating the Currency of Actions

I was wondering this morning where the need to be needed came from.
Is it a social construct that has somehow become embedded in our
psychology? Or is is something that is part of the human genome?

Wherever it comes from, it reminds me of the old movie cliche -- the
thing that was a good idea at first, but somehow got out of control
and ran off the rails. Patrick Dempsey becoming popular in "Can't But
Me Love." Lindsey Lohan hanging with the mean girls in... well, "Mean
Girls." SkyNet in "The Terminator." Meek little C. Thomas Howell
drinking the deer blood and becoming a stone-cold killer in "Red
Dawn."

At the basest level, humans need each other. We have things we need
to survive, things that make life easier, and things that are nice to
have. It is impossible for a single individual-- or even a small
group -- to provide all of the those things for themselves or for
their families. That's why we have specialists. Doctors, firemen,
police officers, construction workers, et al. We all implicitly agree
(with the help and incentive of various levels of payment) to handle
part of what the whole needs. And the whole assigns a value to that
particular part -- based on demand, the amount of unique skill
required to do it, and the amount of risk to the individual doing it.

So in this social construct where everyone does his or her part
contributing to survival, ease, and recreation, somehow emerged this
idea of appreciation. And it was a good idea, simply because
sometimes payment wasn't enough. A certain degree of honor and
appreciation goes to policemen, firemen and members of armed forces
because pay doesn't really do justice to their contributions. And
that makes sense. But decade by decade, the idea of kudos have crept
into seemingly all walks of society.

And here's where the wheels come off the cart. Thank you went from
being a courtesy to being a requirement. Appreciation went from a
nicety to being as necessary as the payment. Somehow, an
understanding was lost that the things we do keep the giant machine
moving for everyone, and the interaction between two people doesn't
really amount to shit.

Phenomena in social interactions don't really confine themselves to a
single arena. Moms want to be appreciated for what they do.
Husbands, brothers, girlfriends and wives. I don't want to simply
raise great kids. I want to be known as the best mom in the world. I
won't say it, but it makes me feel good that dad seems to like me
best. The kids like me better than the other teachers.

Something so cut and dry has become so complicated. In a world where
we have things that we want to get done -- for survival, for ease, for
recreation -- it's not enough to simply do things. We've added this
completely unnecessary psychosis of needing people to want us to do
them. An interaction typically saved for boyfriends and girlfriends
is injected into friendships, work and duty.

People go through days feeling a little empty if they don't feel
appreciated. Feeling sullen if they think they've been overlooked or
forgotten. People who are still accomplishing things and still
getting paid. People who's work is keeing the giant engine going.

But they didn't ask me to lunch. He never acknowledged my email. The
boss doesn't know that I was the one that did most of that
presentation. They never ask anything about me. He likes my
colleague better.

It's all bullshit. But it's also too far gone to fix. The idea that
every move of every day carries with it a weighty requirement that
someone somewhere should appreciate it is so engrained now that people
growing up today are all but assured of ending every day crying into
their pillow. Because as much as human beings are apt to feel
unnecessary things, they are more apt only do things they judge to be
necessary. And needing you over the next person who can fix their
copier equally well? That's unnecessary. Showing it is even more so.

The balance between necessary and unnecessary never shows itself as
destructively as it does with friendships and romances. Earlier, I
used soldiers, policemen and firemen as an example where honor and
appreciation get ratcheted up because they payment they receive
doesn't quite equal the service they provide. In a way, the same
applies to relationships. Except the currency of payment between you
and the person you love are the things you do for each other -- things
you wouldn't do for other people who don't hold the same place in your
life. You provide for them, and they provide for you. You sacrifice
time and effort for them, and they reciprocate.

But there are times that you can't do something for them. Time
doesn't permit. Geography doesn't permit. And in those instance,
what happens? You express it. You show appreciation. You show them
that you need them. A solider overseas can't do the things for his
wife that he would if he were home. So he spends more time writing
letters or expressing in phone calls how much he cares, how much he
appreciates her in a way and to a degree that he wouldn't if he were
home. Because if he were home his actions -- the actual currency --
would show all of these things.

But this world is really all twisted up now where people expect the
currency and the appreciation. Not only do you have to show you love
me by doing all of the things people in love do -- sacrifice, provide,
share -- but you have to overflow with appreciation and showing me you
need me. Worse, some people think the appreciation and the need is
more important than the doing. When it's just like having dessert for
breakfast. It doesn't sustain you. By the middle of the day, you're
hungry and drained and looking for something else.

People just can't seem to find the balance. The balance of doing when
you can, expressing when you can't do, and knowing which is more
important.

Crushing On the Wrong Life

Sometimes I can boil all the problems with my fragile spirit to one
problem. I am constantly reminded of all the things I cannot have.

No, I don't think nature has it out for me. I can easily dismiss
these things she parades in front of me every day. It's like being
allergic to trees, then blaming nature for prancing those beautiful
elms outside my patio window. Sometimes the world is just there,
including the disappointments. And we have to learn to just deal. We
actually choose whether those things squat in our brains like "Occupy
Frontal Lobe" or skip away into the ether.

But it's not that easy. Some people like me simply have a crush on
life. There's this thing that's patently impossible, and yet you
think about it all day, it pains you that it can't work out, you go to
sleep, you wake up, and you do it all over again.

Yeah, in high school that was harmless when you're thinking about the
clerk at the video store. But when you have a crush on all of these
aspects of a life that aren't yours -- a career, friends, a woman, a
car, a social life -- it is a constant cycle from morning to night of
bitterness and self-defeat. More than a crush on life, it's a crush
on the me I want to be. But if it doesn't exist, it's simply a harsh
self assessment that never ventures too far below the surface of
conscious thought. It laces itself into every elevator conversation.
It cloys to every passing interaction. Throughout each day it's a
halo around good things and bad things alike. It dominates me by not
existing.

You can't have it.

A healthy person goes one of two ways. After an assessment, he
decides "well, actually I can," and works to get it. Fuck you, person
who said I couldn't have it. Or the healthy person assesses that he
really can't have it, and after some processing of disappointment...
moves on. The healthy person finds alternatives. Either an
alternative that fills the void of the thing he can't have, or
something completely different that makes him not even notice the
absence of the thing he can't have.

If the health person can't get the Xbox for Christmas, he either gets
the cheaper Wii, or he takes up kickboxing at the gym. But one way or
another he moves on.

Unhealthy people can't do that. They press their noses against the
window in a daily visit to see the Red Rider crank action bee-bee gun
their parents said they simply can't have. And this is why bitterness
sinks in. Fate is the unbudging parent here. And the unhealthy
person lashes out at Fate for not giving him what he wants. He
bargains and negotiates with Fate, and he truly thinks it will work.

But it doesn't work of course. Because Fate doesn't fucking exist.

And this is one of the reasons why I hate girls that are "kind of
hot." Not beautiful girls. Not hot girls. Not pretty girls. Kind
of hot girls... they make life miserable for everyone.

Kind of hot girls fall somewhere north of pretty and south of hot.
And that's where their evil is generated. They think they're better
than what they are, and they hate that the world doesn't treat them
that way. They think they should date the guys who go for hot girls.
But they can't. They're not hot. They're "kinda hot." So these guys
talk to them and flirt with them. Maybe "last call" them, or drunk
dial them. Maybe they date them for a while, but eventually realize
that even though they're kinda hot, they are bitter and dismissive and
catty. These girls spend all of their time resenting guys they should
be dating because they can't understand why they can't attract someone
better. They roll their eyes alot. They tear other girls down alot.
They're just plain mean. Beautiful girls don't do that. Truly hot
girls don't do that. They treat ugly guys like a kid getting an
autograph at a ball game. A pat on the head, now go back to your mom.
Kinda hot girls treat guys like Christian Bale getting his shopping
interrupted at Whole Food.

But that's the power of crushing on the impossible. It makes you a
crappy human being in one way or another. So I am going to make a
list. A list of the things that I can't control, and we'll see if
this serves as some sort of exorcism for me.

I don't like my job.
I suck at relationships.
No one in my family helps with my grandparents.
I still get dirty looks from my ex-girlfriend.
I stink at basketball.
My friends don't have time for me.
People don't treat me the way I want to be treated.
People don't think of me the way I want to be thought of.
People dictate their relationships with me.
People who get close to me end up hating me.
Life feels pretty empty right now.

For each of these has an Xbox. Each of these has a Red Rider bee-bee
gun attached to it. Something that I want that I'm just not supposed
to have. And if I can somehow find an alternative -- something
different that will fill the void, but something that I'm actually
supposed to have... different friends, different job, hobbies,
interests, things that actually nurture the soul rather than sedating
it -- then maybe I can stop being this person I don't want to be. Mad
at the world. Screaming at Fate. Because Fate doesn't fucking exist.

Clan of the Cave Bear

I remember years ago, nights like this would make me so happy.  I just had a meal of ribeye steak, homemade creamed spinach and mashed potatoes.  Sipped on a whiskey sour... or three.  And I'm watching preseason basketball (instead of a bitch-ass football team that will go unnamed).

There's a little chill in the air.  I'm sitting on the couch in b-ball shorts and a "stay-dry" shirt.  Toes are a little cool, but even that feels nice.  Not thinking about work. Not stressing about much of anything.  It should all be good, and five or six years ago it might have been.  But now it all feels... off.

I've written in this space before that our parents ruin us by telling us there's always something better.  Their generation raised us by telling us we can be whatever we want, we can do whatever we dream.  And it's gotten worse in succeeding generations.  Generation Y was taught that there's no such thing as losing.  And the current generation is being taught that people should be rested for teasing you.  I grew up a fat kid -- you know what my response was to people teasing me?  Hating them.  It worked just fine.

But our parents seriously screwed us up.  We can't be whatever we want.  Anything isn't possible without certain sacrifices.  And sometimes there really isn't something better.  Sometimes it just is what it is.

And that's not to say people should settle.  My philosophy has always been this -- decide what you want, and if what you can have isn't what you want, decide how important it is to you.  And how much it costs.

That philosophy has had its ups and downs for me.  Adam Carrolla has a funny bit on how show called "Rich White Guy Problems."  Like he went on a rant about the remote that's supposed to control the sound system in his whole house and also his lights never works.  I'm sure the dude who's stretching a truck driver's salary to make sure his kids can ride the bus to school every week can sympathize.  Thing is, that guy can sip a beer with his neighbor on a Friday night and think it's the best thing in the world.  There are a ton of 20-something girls living in the West Village of New York who would think there's really something better to be doing.

It's like being sick.  The morning you wake up without a fever, you feel great -- even though you're still sick.  Meanwhile the healthy person who hasn't had his coffee thinks he feels like ass.  It's all a matter of perspective.

I don't have debt.  I have a great job.  I'm healthy.  I should be farting rose petals.  But my perspective is fucked up.  What's different than six years ago?

I think back then, I had become burnt out by life.  I dealt with crappy people for a long time.  I'd had the goodness of life beat out of me.  I'd write drunken posts on Saturday nights where I was happy to be cooking for myself and mixing my own drinks and watching crappy TV.  I had been scared by all the disgusting people in the world all gnawing on me, so I had effectively moved into an emotional cave.  And it worked.  I hadn't been in a relationship in five years at that point.  I had cool conversations through my blog and other friends I made online.  I realized sex was just something that was going to come to me at the will of a female community I did not understand.  It was going to be crazy girls, girls with massively low self esteem, or girls who simply didn't know me well enough yet to realize they didn't like me.

And I wasn't necessarily happy in that life.  But I didn't mind life.

Now I mind life.  And it's because I expect more out of life.  It always happens when I get a glimpse of what could be.  Back in 2005, a co-worker introduced me to this beautiful girl who for some reason was interested in me.  It made no sense.  We went on three dates, and I was like the guy in 500 Days of Summer, skipping down the street to Hall & Oates songs.  Then she decided she like another guy she was seeing more.  She was upfront about it -- she told me about him before our first date.  But it was like taking little Arnold up to the penthouse for a night, and then Mr. Drummond saying, "Okay, you have to go back to the foster home now."

These days, I feel like I go to the penthouse every day for an hour before being sent back to the foster home.  And I'm too old to feel like that.  38 year-olds should feel fairly in control of their lives -- particularly the things that they want.  By that, I mean you wrap your brain around the things you want and determine what you need to do to get them.  And you develop a maturity around the things you know you can't have.  You don't pine like a 15 year-old.  Adults who pine like 15 year-olds are bitches.  I'm sorry -- I have no tolerance for it.

But suddenly I'm that guy.  I worry about shit I never worried about before.  Not being good enough.  Being used for attention.  Being taken for granted.  Being dismissed.  Worrying that the people I like don't like me as much.  Having people choose other things over me.  We could debate whether any of these worries are founded or not.  But that doesn't matter.

Essentially I've become a fucking pussy.  And I hate it.  I'm too old for this.

By 38, if people want to be a part of your life, they are.  You're not constantly confused by it.  By 38, the people in your life, their actions match their words.  Or you're mature enough to move on.

However unhealthy, I prefer the cave.  I prefer not feeling anything.  I prefer the world going on around me.  It's clear to me that the world of socializing, parties, lunches, barhopping, dinners with friends, laughing conversations, cooking for people, hanging together -- it simply wasn't my lot in life.  It's just like I wasn't meant to play in the NBA or star in a Broadway musical.  How can I be bitter about that?  I can't.  I need to learn how to accept it.

The hard part is that for whatever reason, people make me think I'm meant for these things.  I can't comprehend it.  Maybe they're being nice.  Maybe they feel sorry for the poor cave-dweller.  I don't know.  But it does damage.  It's an hour in the penthouse.

And I don't feel sorry for myself.  For Christ's sake, they just flashed a feature on the Rutger's football player who was paralyzed during a game and is just learning how to walk.  I wonder how I got here, yeah.  I don't understand it.  But I don't expect the world to weep for me, no matter how much weeping I do for myself.  Especially when -- for me at least -- the answer is rather simple.  I was happy in the cave until people came with torches and food saying, "What the hell are you doing here?  There's a whole world out there!"  And they thought they were helping.  But that world isn't for me.  I don't know how to navigate it.  I don't know how to sustain it.  It speaks a different language than I do.  And at the end of every day, I sit around wondering why I don't fit in.  Why I feel like that world is spitting me out.

I don't want to wonder why the socializing the parties, the lunches, the barhopping, the dinners with friends, the laughing conversations, the cooking for people, the hanging together don't work for me.  They leave me empty.  They don't happen naturally.  They sometimes feel like obligations.  They sometimes feel like charity.  They happen so free and easy with others, and come so uncomfortably with me.  I don't want to worry about it anymore.

I build routine in my life so that I don't have to worry about things.  And my cave... that's just another routine.