this is how he fades

I’m a little apprehensive about starting to blog again but, you know, when I was blogging was when I was writing everyday and there’s nothing bad about writing everyday. That’s all I have to say about that.

I walked around the liquor section of the grocery store today and I almost walked past, I almost kept going to the aisle at the other end of the store where they sale tea and coffee and shit like that. Stuff that people who don’t drink everyday drink. Gatoraide and Cranberry Juice and milk and Sunny Delight and all that crap. I almost walked by, I’m broke after all, I shouldn’t spend money on a cheap bottle of Barefoot Pinot Grigio or a six pack of crappy Miller High Life. I had this horrible, emotionally trying, fucked up day. I sat editing articles about silk flowers and the success of American Idol and sent IM’s to the boyfriend that said things like

why do you have so much disdain for me?

did you get your car out of impound yet?

I drove him to work this morning in a silent car. I skipped the first few track on the Thermals CD and listened to the songs they played at the show last night. Last night, when I felt something liberating in a crowd of twenty something fuck ups, dancing to music about twenty something fuck ups, elbows by my eyes, forearms throwing me away from the stage. I got sweaty and soar, screamed the lyrics out and wanted to melt into the strings of his guitar.

But none of that mattered now as I was taking him to work in the morning. He was mad that I had gone without him. He laid his dark hair up against the window of my car and gathered his bags two blocks before his house. We had been talking about breaking up. He says I don’t give, he doesn’t trust me, he thinks I don’t want a relationship. He says,

I guess I’ll talk to you whenever.

and closes the door harder than necessary. I drive away faster than necessary.

I talk to the guys in my office about the show last night. They both went, but neither of them had seen me go, ahem, all nuts and shit in a crowd of dudes twice my size. I wonder if they think I’m weird, crazy, stupid, careless. They say

hey, you okay today?

They smirk and we talk about how awesome the show was. I dig the guys in my office in a completely platonic and totally valid way. They’re smart and respectful, inspiring and clean cut. The office holds three of us. Chris, a bookish but not unattracive guy about my age. He has a girlfriend he’s been with since high school that he refers to as, “the wife” and a sense of humor identical to my own. He has horn rimmed glasses, a journalism degree and an air of confidense and respectability. I like Chris, I’d totally have beers with him and talk about cool shit. Chris listens to that Andy Samberg song, “I’m on a Boat” six times in a row and sometimes makes weird noises he thinks no one hears.

Jordon has less of a coolness factor but is still totally smart and likable. He’s married, with a baby on the way. He has glasses and thinning hair. He sometimes wears clothes that are way too wrinkled for work. He likes good, solid music. He’s from Portland and is honest about him and his wife, whose in her residency for doctorhood, not having much of a social life in Arizona. He appreciates a good argument and is a “progressive Christian.”

I sat in my office today and they asked a bit about the people I knew at the show. I could tell they maybe think I’m a little crazy but I don’t mind much. I use GoogleTalk and edit all day. I tell Rich about how I want to convert to taoism and be at one with nature. I tell him how hiking can give you a natural high and about how, like, being at one with nature may help my alcoholism. He says,

that’s the most hippie thing I’ve ever heard you say. I’m going to pour motor oil down a storm drain and punch a dolphin just to counter act that statement.

Rich is a recovering pill addict and still assumes the only high you can achieve is through artificial substances. I’ve always though he’s right, that’s true, but more and more, especially now at this point of fucking rock bottemness I want to believe that there’s something better than that. I want to feel that ONENESS with fucking nature and not take shots of vodka to feel at peace with myself.

Alas, it shall never be.

Is something I might say if I ever, ever used the word “alas” in my writing.

After work I stopped at Fry’s to deposite money and stroll past the alcohol aisle. I walked by, I really did, and went over to the frozen food section where I had planned to get a Totino’s classic pepporoni for dinner. But I skipped the dinner, and went back. I bought a cheap bottle on Pinot Grigio and payed in all one dollar bills. I used the self check out and three people stood and starred as I slipped each dollar bill into the acceptor. I wanted to say, “hey, sorry, I’m a stripper” but I didn’t because I’m not and fuck those poeple.

I started getting depressed a I sat back down in my car and read 14 text messages that the boyfriend had sent to me. They said things like,

I wish it would rain right now and wash away everything standing between us being together

and

I wish we could make new friends. new plans. new art. be that couple I know we could be.

and

I wish we could walk home late at night in a city colder and wetter than this one to our second story apartment with a window that has rain reflected light from the street

He can be very poetic when he wants to be and I’ll admit I found his words tugging at me. I drive, and my car’s messy, and I start to tear up. I’m in a busy Fry’s parking lot and I roll passed a stop sign at the same time as a civic making a left turn. She honks, angry and then flips her middle finger at me and holds it up the whole time she passes by.

I let the tears go after that, felt them fall down my cheeks as I sat in stopped traffic during rush hour. I whimpered as over sized trucks blarred rap music out their rolled down windows and ran my knuckles over my cheeks, pulling off the sticky tears. The Thermals played low sounds in my car as I drove, and stopped, and drove, and stopped. They say

this is how we fade

and I keep it low, don’t turn it up. I lean my head against the window and watch the road ahead of me. I squeeze out a few final tears and stare at the bottle of Pinot in my passenger seat. I’m spent, I think, and something has to change. Perhaps, I decide, I should start small. Maybe start blogging again.