Probably for the best if I had post limits

I saw something sad on facebook today, personally sad, not the this-motherfucking-nation-and-the-land-it-stands on will be gone before I’m dead kind of sad. I’m not the baby Jesus, I wasn’t weeping sad. This woman I called my fiancé for a few years in the nineties was posting a picture of her kid. No, the kid is not deformed or anything. Geez, y’all can’t get nothing right, just let me tell it, y’all crack open another beer.

Maybe I should take a step sideways or some such direction. Of the three most significant relationships of mine in the past 28 years — no, shit. Three of the most significant relationships of the last 28 years (close enough) are face book friends. Which I’m sure is pretty normal for y’all what have amicable breakups. Though, you know, these were probably more amicable in my mind than … they actually were. I underestimate what a pain in the ass I am. One of them wasn’t even a break-up, we just decided to cool it for 27 years and counting.

With the Texan, the one posting her kid, bad shit happened beyond either of our control. What shocked me more than the kid was that she’d been married for 19 years. That’s the sort of shit that makes a fellow want to do math. I promised my high school math teacher I was never going to try and do that shit. Huh, this is funnier on paper than it was in my head. I think I was being serious in my head. Or at least maudlin and pitiful. I don’t know, we needed distance from one another and each did shitty things with the distance, and things worked out well for her and I don’t have any complaints, not the sort of complaints I’d have if her and I had a kid. One of those not really ha-ha funny things is she was an Astros fan most of her life but had turned into a Seattle fan long about the time the Astros saw a pennant race to fruition. Ok, it could be funny if you could take baseball lightly around me, or, you know, her.

One of them is Sunny, and if unpaid bloggers got hits based on repetition Sunny would probably be the number one most used blogging name of Haredawg Drools on Open Diary and Prosebox. So, you know, fuck it, I’m not summarizing 16 years of blood sweat and tears and whatever the opposite is (coagulation, shivers and giggles?).

Um there’d be a fourth significant if I could remember her fucking name, I mean it was significant unlike other names I can’t remember. As far as getting something through my thick skull, perhaps the most significant, um, eventually. She’s a cautionary tale I tell myself. Ok, no, she’s a flesh and blood woman, my reaction is a cautionary tale I tell myself. Under different circumstances, like, say, knowing then what I know now, I’m sure I would have made the same mistakes over and over again, the only way not to would have been not to start.

Oh and of course there is the current and I pray to all that’s holy on this and any other earth, the last. I ain’t got the strength to go through all this again.

The third in my naïve attempt to say three, I added recently, to facebook. Every ten years or so I think back wistfully and look her up. Ten years ago I felt good and god damned grown up for not having made a big deal about … anything. She had gone into doctors without borders and gone out in the world and did good deeds. She was the only person on this green earth I’ve met with a darker sense of humor than mine. Sure, y’all haven’t seen that much from me, the pitch black stuff … isn’t for y’all. I can encourage black humors in people, but she came with her own sack of them. Seems to have aged like wine, bitter in the cask. We never broke up, but, we never really had a thing either, not officially, not like merging our paths or anything. It was mainly sex, which kind of made sense, we were both still dodging pieces of failed marriages. Hmmm, bad analogy, we were both still failing at marriages, all over but for the signatures. That’s why I’ve only got three, there were double digits of not so significant dalliances, mutual, I’m sure, one weird ass mind fuck and, you know, a name I should remember but I just don’t. Black humor wasn’t really a dalliance, but we treated one another like it was. Probably for the best.

A picture of a kid on facebook will send me into paroxysm of nostalgia and shit, but I’m fine with where I am and how I got here. Um, all except for geographically, but, even then, I did it on purpose. I seem to think I can live out of a backpack anytime I want. Ah, those were the days of dalliance, not much choice when you don’t stay anywhere for very long. Why? No particular reason, though if I had to I could pick out my favorite three reasons.