Another New Day

As I ready myself to close out another year, I of course am looking back on the one that has just passed (and pass it did. Quickly and fruitlessly).

Allow me to set the scene. I am sitting in the basement of my parents' house, and there is no heat. I am stuck in Abington, car-less and bored out of my skull. I received two invitations to New Year's Eve parties, and I was forced to choose the one that will hopefully be attended by a bird I want to snog, as opposed to the one thrown by my closer (literally and proximity-wise) friends. I don't know what that says about me, but she better be good.

If you really think about it (which is something I told myself I wouldn't do as much of in 2008), this is a metaphor for my 2007. I was constantly forced into doing things I really didn't want to do, like working more hours because I was now living alone and thus missing many Red Sox games and being tired and bitter all the time. I also attended a couple weddings, which certainly didn't help matters.

I realize that this is just life stuff and I'm complaining about things everyone else does all the time, but at my age and station in life, I feel like I shouldn't have to be working two low-paying jobs and pinching pennies all the time. I'm 31 and single and living in the city. This should be the time of my life. In some ways it is. I do enjoy freedoms that others my age do not (such as the freedom to bitch and moan when things don't go my way, because I have no wife to refute me.) But other ways, it is clearly a sad, depressing time. Really, I shouldn't have to worry so much about the details, like if I have bread or whether or not I have clean pants to wear to Harvard because they don't let their techs wear jeans. These are things that are minute and ricockulous and shouldn't concern me.

So they won't. I've created a mental depth chart of things I enjoy, and I'm going to try to do those things more, and less of those things that annoy me.

I have a few days left at Harvard this semester, and then I'm off the schedule. I'm going to join Peapod in 2008, and have my bread delivered. While I'm at it, I think I'll join Netflix and have my movies delivered, too. I'll look for a second job if I have to, and it'll be better and closer and less annoying than Harvard. And I'll have actual sex in 2008 (That's a promise.) I'll play more games for the softball team. I'll take some classes and get closer to my Masters. I'll do more work on the comics and website stuff that I used to enjoy so much back in the day.

These are not the loftiest of goals, but I can do them. And I will, if for no other reason than I can.

Dan in Real Life... Not the Movie. I Mean Real Life.

The other day, I left work at my usual time was strolling home. I was listening to my ipod and minding my own business and a noticed a rather loud and obnoxious man wandering the sidewalk. Not all that out of the ordinary, I thought nothing of it and continued on, deciding to stop walking and wait for the T. This loud guy started crossing the street towards me, deciding to cross against the light on Comm. Ave., and flashing the honking drivers that devil-finger sign thing. Suddenly, he was next to me, ranting and raving, and asking me if Shaw's was down the street (he had already passed it, but whatever.) I didn't hear him because of my ipod and because he was babbling like a fool, so I said, "Okay."

"Don't okay me you fucking asshole. I'll beat the shit outta ya," he responded.

I removed my headphones and apologized for not hearing him. oddly, I wasn't afraid of his threat, but was afraid that he might throw up all over me.

"What you listening to? Slayer?"

"Uh, no."

"C'mon, you mother fucker! I been listening to a lotta Slayer, lotta, what's that fuckin' band? Pantera! Yeah. At least listen to sumpthin' good. U2. Sumpthin'! Dude, I been at The Avenue, you know that bar, The Avenue? I been there drinking beer and Jaeger and..."

At this point, I really lost him, but it appeared to be a litany of the alcohol units he had that day. It was 4:00 on a Tuesday, by the way.

"You're not gettin' any fucking pussy tonight listening to that shit," he noted. In fact, I was listening to a mix someone had made for me, and it was some obscure Canadian band. Thankfully, it wasn't Sarah MacLachlan or something.

"Don't worry. I ain't gettin' any, either," he said, and I had to agree. "Look at this bitch! She ain't fucking me tonight!" he screamed at a passer-by. At this point, I was praying for the train to come.

"Lemme tell ya, dude. Stay white," he advised. "I'm not bein' racist, but stay white, y'know. Segregation was right. Everybody's difr'ent, y'know. What's yer name?"

"Matt."

"Matt! I love Matt!" he yelled, high-fiving me. "I'm Dan! Nice, Matt! I got a cuzzin named Matt. He's inside for the next 25 years for dealing crack, but he's aw'ight. He robbed a bank, too, but that's okay. He's a good mother fucker!"

Eventually, he asked where Babcock St. was, and I sent him on his way (although I think I mistakenly sent him down Pleasant St. I was afraid he'd eventually figure it out and come after me.) But, yeah, so Drunk Dan at 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. Tuesdays at The Avenue. It really got me thinking what kind of life this guy must lead. Hey, I've been drunk before, and I've said and done some strange things, but this was off the page. Where was he going on Babcock St? (Tell me it wasn't home, because if he can afford a place on Babcock, then there's something wrong in the world.) And The Avenue? I have lived in Brighton for six months, and despite its proximity, I have yet to enter The Avenue and I hope never to do so. but maybe I'd run into my new friend Dan there, maybe get a few more pearls of wisdom.

Now, that is Dan in real life.

The Switch

So, after a recent event in New York where I got bounced out of a bar for the first time in my life (and I did nothing to necessitate such an act), I started thinking about things. "Maybe it's karma," I thought. "Maybe I should be a better person." my friend Brian said, "Who says you need to be a better person? What, if anything, are you doing wrong? That is the dumbest thing I think I've heard uttered by you in recent memory." My friend Brom said, "Then you wouldn't be Dursin."

Bullshit. Who says Dursin has to be an asshole? As I recall, I was the one who started all that. No one said, "Boy, what a dick you are." Except Keri. Can't I be Dursin and be happy and not angry all the time?

Well, "happy" is relative.

A good man, but a bad boy...

Often on my rounds at CGS, I find objects. I've found some pretty amazing things. Once I found a bra (Very lacey and tiny. Clearly not a supportive device.) and one time I found a cape. I even found a leopard print thong, in the Men's room!

Most of them I return to lost and found (well, the thong I left right there). I will admit to occasionally taking an umbrella or two. If the item remains in lost and found for a few months, and I think I can sell it on eBay, I may take it back. It's just one of the perks of the job, I guess.

Yesterday, I found a little black, leather-bound book that appeared to be a journal. I opened it to look for a name, which it had on the front inside cover, and in the space next to reward for finding this book, the owner had written, "my soul." Also, on the inside cover was tucked a folded up piece of paper. Because I am a bad boy, I opened it and saw that it was some kind of doctor's note saying that the person had an eating disorder. I flipped through to discover that it was her food journal.

Because I am much worse than you think, I scanned a few pages. I don't know why I did this, because if anyone read the crap that I write I'd be super-pissed. In fact, that happened to me once and it totally ruined my life, but curiosity got the better of me. This girl was writing about how much it bothered her to eat lunch, even though her therapist had instructed her to do so. Apparently, she couldn't get her mind around eating because she knew, even though she was probably only 18 years old (too young to really know anything), that she would get fat. She wrote a lot about that mental aspect of it, of getting her mind around the fact that she needed to eat to live. She talked about things her therapist said, things her mother said, punching her mother, taking supplements. Then I stopped reading. I had seen enough to give me something to think about. I put the book in lost and found and went home.

The more I thought about it, the less I understood how hard it is to eat. Maybe it's the diabetes and the eating thing that I have, but that's a very physical thing. I guess I never thought about the mental part of it before. I dated a girl who was bulimic once, and all I could think about was the classic George Costanza quote, "I'm paying for those meals!" This was the first time I had ever thought about it as a mental issue. Which is odd, because everything is a mental issue, really.

Because I'm trying to be a good man, when I went into work the next day, I went down to the main office (where the lost and found is located) and asked my friend Liz to look the girl up and contact her so she would be able to get her journal back. I didn't want to leave it up to fate that she would stop in and check lost and found. I don't know if it translates as a good deed, but it's the best I can do.

But I'll be collecting that soul anytime now.

Movin' Out

I am presently working at one of the most prestigious universities in the entire world (Harvard, not BU. Hah!), and I hate it. I am only here, I realized, because I have some sort of work ethic, and feel a responsibility to finish out my time here. All I do while I'm here is wait to go home, and the lousy $113 a week I make here isn't worth the mental anguish I go through three nights a week to earn it. For a three-hour shift, it's actually about a five hour swing when you count the commute, so for nine hours of work per week, I'm actually into them for 15 hours. So, after paying for the bus and factoring in the time I spend getting here, I make roughly $7 an hour. I'm 31 years old. I made that working at Video Showplace when I was 18, and was a lot happier. At least at Showplace, I was having sex in the back room after hours and got free rentals.

That's not really what I wanted to write about, but it is a startling realization. I wanted to talk about a friend of mine who apparently came out to her parents recently. It was a very stressful thing for her, so Yay! She did it. The thing was, when she finally told them, they said they knew already. In fact, when I first met her, she had recently broke up with her boyfriend, but I knew she was gay, too. She just, y'know, has a quality. The same quality most of my lesbian friends have.

Now, I myself am not gay, but I imagine coming out to my parents wouldn't be that big a deal. Especially in this day and age. I can imagine myself not even bothering to come out to my parents, since they know so little about my actual life as it is. They probably already think I'm gay, for that matter. I think my Mom is just happy if I'm eating right and taking care of myself (See how little they know?). If I were to ever tell my parents, it would probably go something like, "Mom, you know I'm gay, right?" And she would probably just tell me not to get AIDS. Not so much coming out there. More like sliding out.

I know that all families are different, and mine is certainly not one to be measured against. But I wouldn't see the "Coming Out to the Parents" as the biggest deal. I would probably see the anal sex with a man as the real bugaboo, but that's just me. One of my best friends is coming on 30, has lived with a woman for five years or so in a one bedroom apartment, and has never actually told her parents that she's gay. It's just the way it is with some people. At this point, I don't know that she really needs to. Maybe there are identity issues involved and facing reality and all that, but, shit, I'm out there as a total straight guy and I have all kinds of identity issues, so I don't know if coming out really helps at all. I think as long as you know who you are, fuck everyone else.

That's my rant for today.

Excuses, excuses...

Yesterday (Oct. 25th) would have been nine years with Keri. I think. Time tends to flow before we have any idea what's going on. It's an odd thing, really, how far I've come (and gone). I had just graduated college and was ready to start a new era. I don't even know how many eras I've been through since. A lot of people have come and gone, including Keri herself. The one thing I know I've become is more jaded.

This goes back to the whole "Pretending to be an asshole pep-talk" I received last week at my party, which ended with Tracey telling me that I've dated "too many crazy straight girls." When you consider that her statement pretty much encapsulates all of them, I guess she's right. They all ended up being crazy, one way or another. And one starts to wonder who is at fault here. Probably me, but it's impossible to date a gaggle of crazy women and not start to believe that women are all, in fact, a little crazy. When you flip it over, however, it's also possible to say that, "Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I'm too critical."

I'm not going to blame Keri for turning me into a cynic, though, because the truth was it was always there, festering under the surface. She just kept me positive most of the time. I think when I was with my friends I was myself (except when I was feeling particularly whipped, I guess.) Once we broke up, though, the gloves came off. It may have had something to do with all the Hell she put me through in the months following the break-up, but it was still always there. I was always this person underneathe. I was just looking for an excuse to be this way.

In the end, I think it had something to do with feeling I had to act a certain way (like being a goodie) to get people, especially women, to like me. Even when I was with Keri, I wanted to be liked by everyone, and before Keri, I wanted women to like me, because I thought it would lead to sex. Nowadays, now that I don't really care about people, especially women, liking me, I don't go around trying to be a goodie. I do what I feel is right, but more out of a sense of duty than being a nice guy or getting into Heaven, because the ugly truth is, most of the time, I just don't give a damn.

Under-promise and over-deliver...

Last night, I had a few friends over after work (a long, long day at work). It was just Tracey, Liz, Heidi, Melissa and Lauren. In all, we capped off about 35 beers and there was even some brief nudity (Thankfully, not mine). And I did have several women on my bed at once. Too bad we were just admiring the digital clock. But still...

I was accused of excluding a few people, not intentionally, but maybe subconsciously, because I didn't really think of them, and people can read into it what they want, but the truth is I was happy with the people who showed up because they are my peeps, and if other people showed up, it becomes a different party. Perhaps no less fun, but different, and likely no nudity. It's sort of a metaphor, I guess, for the different people we are and the different way we act depending on teh crowd. The people who did come are all very close and very comfortable to speak freely with each other, and yes, unsnap their bras with each other.

In that vein, I was told that should stop pretending to be something I'm not, which is an asshole. Although I never went out of my way to actually be an asshole, I guess I always felt it was best to under-promise and over-deliver, so if you're a jerk and do something nice, people are pleasantly surprised. Now, I always prided myself on being a good friend, and I would do anything for one of my close friends, but a good person is harder. And I've been stepped on enough while trying to be a nice guy that I think I started to shove that part of my personality way back into the background. However, I was told it might get me laid more, so I guess it's worth a try. So, we'll see where it goes.

Nice Guy Dursin.

Love & Marriage

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me
--Bruce Springsteen - Thunder Road

Friday was Brian's wedding. After months of miscommunication and even some anguish over it, think I can finally offer my last words on the matter. Until next time.

First off, I was told that I had to pick up my tux on Tuesday between 4:00 and 6:00p.m. Obviously, there was no way, and I told Brian so. This time, he agreed that it was fine (unlike the fitting, but we'll let the past be the past.) I called them on Tuesday afternoon, however, and paid for it over the phone so it would be delivered with the rest of them on Wednesday. However, Brian called me Wednesday night and said, "Your tux is here. You just have to pay for it and it'll be all set."

"Well, I paid for it over the phone, dude, so they're screwing you."

"What? Did you talk to Jose?"

Christ. Anyway, they straightened that mess out quick enough. The rehearsal was okay, too, until the end, when Brian practically begged us to get down to Westport at 11:30 for his 3:00 wedding. I had no idea how we were going to fill three and a half hours, but we let the boy have his say. We also were instructed to pick up the tuxes at Stacey's parents' house, even though someone else had already been instructed to do so. Too many chefs...

The ceremony went off without a hitch, almost in spite of itself (When you involve that many small children, it's a recipe for disaster.) Afterwards, John and I stood around for a few minutes, asking people if they knew what was going on. Nobody did, so we got in his car and started driving to Quincy for the reception. Five minutes later, we got a call that said we were supposed to be riding in the limo. Huh. No one told us that. Oh well. About twenty minutes after that, almost half way to Quincy, another call informed us we had to turn around for pictures at some farm near Stacey's house. I have no idea who dropped the ball on that one, but we were a little pissed. And I knew I was pissed because I said nothing. When I'm annoyed, I discovered, I rant. When I'm really pissed, I say nothing. I just sit and seethe.

The rest of it was great. The reception was a lot of fun (although the video they showed was a tad long, not to mention my face on the big screen a little jarring.) The best part was when I told Shawn to go to the bar at the same time as my Dad, knowing that he would set Shawn up. Shawn later told me, "It was like clockwork." Anyway, all's well that ends well and all that, so I think the wedding itself was fine.

Now, the other part...

I originally questioned Brian and Stacey getting engaged after only knowing each other for six months. I thought maybe he was basking in the glow and she was probably desperate to get married to someone (biological clock and all that.) I think I still would question it if I had to do it again. It just doesn't seem like enough time. People kept asking me if I ever thought I'd see this day, and I wanted to answer, "Yes, I always figured Brian would one day fall head over heels in love."

However, I don't doubt that they are in love, even more than a year later, and I believe that will make it. One of Brian's greatest traits has always been his loyalty, and that is something I think I've always over-looked when it comes to marriage. Loyalty to the person you're marrying, and to the marriage itself. It's not something I thought about before now, and it was actually that video that made me realize it.

During Shawn's toast (which rivaled all the great Dursin toasts), he said something about the measure of a man is how he spends his time, and how Brian has spent his time since meeting Stacey has been nothing but positive. I mean, he has faults, as we all do, but that's why I put the Springsteen quote at the beginning of this post. Obviously, I tend to focus on the negative aspects of everything, so all I can see is how whipped he is sometimes and how much Women's Entertainment television he watches. Maybe I need to learn to take the good with the bad. Maybe I should see the positive side of Brian's new life since meeting Stacey. Maybe I should show a little faith. Wow. It's a damn good thing I didn't give that toast.

I think the friendships I've forged with those I've known for many, many years have always been very on the surface. Obviously, we've been there for each other when things are bad, and we have fun when things are good, but the mushy stuff, like weddings and funerals, have always been difficult, because expressing real feelings has never been something we do very well. So, at the reception, I wanted Brian to know how I really felt, so I grabbed him and hugged him and said, "I always knew you'd fall madly in love, you cunt."

I think he got the idea.

Hubris

I think it all goes back to Keri.

Before I broke up with her, I had my strong opinions, sure, and I voiced them loudly, most of the time (as I do now). But they weren't quite as venomous. Maybe it was Keri that soured me on everything. Or maybe she simply put a curse on me so that I could never truly enjoy life again and always see the downside of everything. Yes, the curse. That's it. That, or bad karma because I cheated on her. Not to mention all the other heelish things I've done over the years. Good thing I don't believe in karma (for the bad things, anyway.)

Today, my former landlady e-mailed me to say that she had missed my last e-mail (sent in June!) and was sending my half of the security deposit to me, simply ignoring the last three months of her life, apparently, and pretending that the whole "being taken to court" thing never happened.And to make matters worse, our lawyer has said that taking her money and calling it a day may be the wisest course of action. So, now, instead of getting the $1650 x3 we were supposed to get, I'll get $825 plus interest. not to mention the fact that she will also get away with screwing us over all this time and trying to steal our money. She gets away scot-free, and will probably continue to fuck everyone over until she finally pisses off the wrong person and someone shoots her. Not that I'm abdicating violence, but, at this moment, I may actually dance on her grave if it were to happen.

This, my friends, is wanton hubris. I'm so cursed.

A Bad Man

This man is my god. Look at this quote: "I guess when you don't feel good and you still get hits, that's when you know you are a bad man."

The Friendship/Sex Impasse

Keeping with the theme of my last post, and in conversations I've had recently with my friend Heidi, I've realized more things about this Uber-single phenomenon.

Hides was having a saga with a friend of hers (a male), who had confessed some "feelings" for her (unrequited, of course. Because that's how these sagas work), and we got to talking about friendship and sex. people like this guy usually think that if you're friends with someone and you have this crush, eventually things will happen and you'll get together. I know because I've been there. But it's not just about taking the friendship and adding sex, even though that what these people (and once, me) think will happen. The friendship doesn't work anymore, because you effectively end that in favor of this new thing, which ends up being not what you envisioned. I don't know if it's because sex ruins everything, or the emotions tied up in that do, or if the closeness causes people to go nutters. Or the nudity. But whatever it is, the friendship can't take it and is almost always ruined in the end. This was covered on what is one of the best episodes of Seinfeld ever, where Jerry and Elaine decide to "take this, and add that," and sleep together. It didn't even work for them, because there is always "The Other."

The point: I would rather keep my friends and get my sex elsewhere (or not, as the case may be). No matter how strongly I may feel about them, you just can't trade friendship for sex. Obviously, sometimes the planets align and it works out for the best, but for my money, my friendships are more valuable to me than that. I'll just have to find somebody who isn't my friend and sleep with them. Then I have nothing to lose.

Uber-Single

Here's the story of my Friday night (because, you know it always has to be a story.)

I met my friend John for drinks and dinner on Friday night at the Fowler House in the Quinzzzz. We watched the game and had a few pops (He's moved up to Rum and Cokes now. He used to only drink Margaritas.) At that point, the Yankees were winning by three and Mariano was in, so we left, figuring there would be no celebration that night.

On my train ride home, I heard rumblings that the Yankees had lost. "That can't be," I reasoned. Still, I got off the train and went to a bar near my house, and found the celebration on TV. It was true! So, I celebrated with a beer.

After a few moments, a young lady sits next to me, so we strike up a conversation. She's an Emerson grad and works at Christopher's in Porter Square, rigth near where I used to live. We're hitting it off. We talked for over an hour, and I'm about to make my move when I notice that she's talking to the bartender an awful lot. "You know that guy?" I ask.

"He's my boyfriend."

Thank you. You're a beautiful audience. Good night.

Grrrr... If I had known she had a boyfriend, I would have had one beer and left. People like that shouldn't even talk to other people in bars. What was she thinking?

The next day, I had lunch with my friend Chrsitine, who coined what to me is the phrase of the decade: Uber-single. I don't know how to make that little symbol thing over the "U," but you get the point. Or maybe you don't, so I'll explain. The idea being that someone (like myself) is sssooooo single, that they probably couldn't survive in a relationship (even a good one) because they would feel trapped. The very term "single' has become a bad word these days, almost coming to mean "lonely" or "loser." To me, it refers to "independance" more than either of those. I have become so independant in these last few years that I have steered myself completely away from relationships, and even when one comes along, I would probably spurn the poor person soon enough, feeling crushed even if I'm not. There's probably a middle ground between uber-single and, well, most of my coupled friends, but I don't know if I know how to get there.

The best thing was that John told me not to change anything, because I'm one of the few friends he has whom his wife can stand, and who he can call up on almost any given night and ask if I want to go see a bad movie. And let's face it; is any relationship worth giving up that?

Should I Feel Bad About This?

So, here's a scenario for you;

A man is walking the city streets, on his way home from his second job, a long day at work. As he nears his home, he spies two young gents standing outside a liquor store, smoking.

"Hey, man, can ya help us out?" One of them says.

A little nervous, but weary, and figuring the guy just wants a light or has car trouble or something (neither of which this man can help him with), he responds, and soon discovers that the young gents are thirsty.

"Dude, I'm twenty years-old, and the place down the street wouldn't let me."

Ahhh, yes. Thirsty, underage gents.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

"Keystone Light. Two thirties?"

"Oh come on. They won't believe that one old guy is buying 60 beers," the man replies. "Besides, this is my liquor store, too. I don't want to get tossed out or anything."

"Tell 'em yer havin' a few girls over. Nah, one's good. No need to be greedy. Here's some money. We'll be over there behind the building."

They hand the man a wad of money (which is funny because a thirty pack of Keystone Light costs only about $15.00. That is some cheap shit.) and even offer to throw him some for his troubles. They seem very nervous about this whole thing, so the man knows that they are legitimate, thirsty, underage gents. Despite his level of poverty, the man refuses their extra money, asks them to hold his book, and enters the store. Perhaps trying to deflect any guilt, he makes small talk with the employees, and buys his thirty, and is on his way. He walks into the dark alley, finds the gents, retrieves his book, gives them their beer and their change, criticizes them for drinking such lousy beer, and is on his way.

He suddenly gets very nervous about the legality of the whole situation, and walks home "the back way," as if he could lose the police down a side street. After a few moments, the fear passes, and he realizes that he was just part of a time-honored tradition of procuring alcohol. He laughs to himself, and suddenly he realizes that this is his life.

*****

Yes, I bought beer for two underage college students (Suffolk, thankfully, not BU.) I know it's a crime, but , come on, they were twenty. I think we should all be able to drink at 18, anyway, and these guys were close enough, and it might as well be me rather than some homeless guy who will just steal their money.

Maybe it's the drinker in me, or the fact that I work with a lot of students, or the fact that I don't give a shit, but I didn't hesitate for a moment once I figured out they were on the level. Thinking about, I wonder if most people would have done it, or even looked up? Would they have had some kind of moral issue with buying beer for minors? Would the fact that it's illegal have stopped them? A bit of both? Honestly, I got a kick out of it. It was the best laugh I had all week. But that's me.

Leave me alone!

If my friend ever reads this, he may get offended, but, well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I gotta be me.

This friend is getting married soon and is freaking out (FREE-KIN' OUT!) at everyone, and I am one of his ushers. He freaked-out at me because I went to get my tux fitted when it was most convenient for me, rather than with the rest of the wedding party. in his angry e-mail, he said it was petty of me (which it maybe was, since my only reason was I didn't want to get up early on a Saturday) and made him look bad (which I don't see how). Anyway, we ironed it out and everything was fine, but there was one part of his tirade that I thought bears mentioning.

In his "P.S." (which in the lexicon of angry e-mails really amounts to saying "And another thing..."), he said, "Like it or not, I am one of two now." He accused me of purposely excluding his girlfriend/fiancee' on a couple occasions (and even named them). This was amazing to me. I've known a lot of married and coupled people, and I've never excluded anybody from anything. I maybe didn't call my friend's wife herself to invite her as well, but I guess I always assumed that it was understood that when I invite one, I'm inviting the other. Honestly, if I invite my friend out for a few beers after work or something, it's up to him to invite his wife, and of course I would never have a problem if he did.

I wanted to respond, "Like it or not, eh? I choose Not." Just to see what he would say. I was actually pretty pissed that he would accuse me of this. It made me slightly less angry when I figured out it was probably his future wife that planted the idea in his head. Probably, not necessarily. Still, to me, that was petty. And it was obvious that he had been carrying this shit around for awhile because he mentioned my birthday being one of the occasions, and that was April 1st. Here we are in September. And the funniest thing was she came to my birthday, even though, according to him, she was "uninvited." Of course, she wasn't, but I guess he's clearly not thinking straight these days.

In the end, this is all meaningless, and probably nothing more than a miscommunication, but I find it completely out of line that he would bother to say that to me, after knowing me for 15 years.

Why can't people just leave me alone?

The Passage of Time

I had to put my cat, TC, to sleep today.

I was at my parent's house after staying there after Brian's bachelor party last night, and when I got up this morning, the poor thing was shaking and could barely move. I knew that was it. The weird thing is that my Dad said she had been declining lately, but she could still walk and the shaking thing was new. It was almost as if she waited for me.

For those who aren't aware, my cat was almost twenty years old. My parents got her for me when my brother was going off to college. my brother is now 37, and I'm 31, so do the math. She had been a great pet, and I have plenty of funny stories that I will always remember. She was a real cool cat, too, not one of these spaz-outs. I guess it's true that pets often take on the personalities of their owner, because a lot of people thought my cat was a real bitch, but I knew she was a really nice pet. She was independent and free and did whatever she wanted and didn't take any shit. A cat's life, for sure.

Obviously, she was old, so this was not a huge surprise to anyone, and it was my call and I decided it was her time, but what really gets me is that this is just another glaring example of the passage of time. TC (Top Cat) was the only pet that was really mine, and it's doubtful I'll ever get another one. Maybe a gecko one day, but those things don't last 19 years. On a day like this, I really wonder why people get pets at all, knowing that this is the inevitable outcome every time. I mean, there's not much chance something like this won't happen.

So, 19 years is a long time. I've had a lot of friendships that are shorter than that. And if you add up every relationship I've ever had, it doesn't even come close to 19 years. Barely half, actually. TC was a good friend for a long time, and there really wouldn't be any replacing her. In fact, now I really regret not taking her with me when I moved out. Not that she would have been very happy, because she always enjoyed roaming the woods at night, but at least we could have hung out some more. Then again, sometimes I wonder if she even knew I was gone.

The point is, she is gone now, I have two weddings next month, and suddenly, I feel very old. She was my childhood pet and she's gone, along with just about everything else from my childhood. All the good stuff, anyway. Isn't there anything I can do that can make me feel young again?