“Tell me something. Do you work tomorrow?”
“Yes, Buddy. I work at six.”
“Six p. m.?”
“So, you have all day free. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Chores, probably.”
“Uh-huh. How about this? How about you work on that fucking book? Be honest with me. When will it be done?”
“Yes, this year.”
“All right. Well, you’d better get to it.”
“I know, Buddy. I know.”
A big part of my dilemma is the struggle with letting words flow without limits and barriers around how they can infect my relationships. Yes, infect. I should have used a pen name. With a pen name, I could write anecdotes of family, marriage, and dating without skewing my results. With a pen name, I could blast away unvarnished without affecting my paycheck. Ya know?
I’ve done a great deal of self-fucking lately with my untethered prose. My last two love approaches were derailed by my careless slapping of the keys. Makes me wonder if my subconscious aims to avoid the stress of caring for a lover. Am I sabotaging any chance I have of finding love again?
(Be right back. I need to care for a stanky damn litter box and put a load of whites in the wash.)
There’s a woman I’ve loved for many years. Never dated her. Probably never will. You know why? “Because you haven’t told her how you feel.” No. That’s not it. I’m thinking it’s because she’s doing the same thing I am — sabotaging love. Although we are drawn together, we push away … pull apart what could be. Sad.
I know, I know. “Let go and let god.” Ew. There’s no fucking god doing this to me. That’s a horrible excuse. Life is like Texas Holdem. (This is about to take a turn, thinks ya?) Those most successful know the odds of playing the hand they’re dealt and act accordingly. Although aware of emotions and hunches, while seeing others thereby swayed, the best players play by the odds.
So, maybe I’m sabotaging the relationships that odds say are least likely to be rewarding. Or, maybe I’m still introverting. Or, maybe baseball, cats, and wine are the only cards I hold.