Sorry about that bomb I dropped on you last night. I thought I'd just sneak it in there, between bad tv and good tv and it would just blip on your radar screen only to be wiped away by Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law.
So why put it in there at all? Because this is my journal of sorts. It's not a journal in the classic sense of the word; I mean, who writes about George Lucas in their diary?
Today I hated George Lucas some more. He breaks my heart. Woe is me and the earth upon which JarJar Binks walks.
Doesn't really work, unless you're a stormtrooper. In which case, it's hard to write with all that plastic you're wearing.
Anyhow. It would be dishonest of me to continue writing about this, that and the other thing without ever mentioning my current marital situation. I tend to mix the personal with the impersonal, and surely it would become apparent at some point that something is going on in my life to which you are not privy and the posting of morose song lyrics and diary-like entries would just leave you, my friends, all confused and bewildered.
It's like this: The Big D is not involved here. We're not seeing lawyers or signing papers or severing the ties that bind. We're almost breaking up in the sense that high school sweethearts do; let's be apart for a while. Let's breathe and regroup and maybe we can come back to it and it will be different. It's that whole butterfly poster
come to life.
There's a lot going on that would just be long-winded and boring for you to read. Suffice it to say that if problems go unsolved from the very start, they will rear their butt ugly heads later on and bite you in the ass with some very sharp teeth.
And that's what happened. We've been bit in the ass by things left unsaid, words hanging in the air, fights unresolved and conversations cut off. All those things make for a very tumultuous, volatile relationship. And when you combine those things with the fact that you have two passive-aggressive people trying to be both passive and aggressive with each other, you get a nice sized mushroom cloud eventually.
Love is an interesting thing. When it's done right, it's both wonderful and excruciating. You would walk on hot coals for the person you love. You would sleep on a bed of nails, drink a gallon of vinegar, walk around with a wedgie all day and listen to hours of Celine Dion songs if it would somehow save your relationship.
In the current case at hand, we forego the bed of nails and Titanic
theme for another form of torture; time apart. One goes one way, one goes the other and if in that time apart maturity, medication and miracles occur, our hearts will go on.
The issues themselves are too deep and too personal to detail here. Plus, I would have to admit to making several mistakes and I'd rather not do that publicly. Mistakes of the heart are better left expressed on crumbled pieces of paper stuffed in the bottom of your underwear drawer.
I'm fine, thanks for asking. I know "the best thing" when I see it. Been there, done that, bought the lawyer and divorce papers.
Maybe the ending will be different this time, maybe it won't. All I know is we're still in love and love sometimes means hanging posters of cliches
in your bedroom. As corny as it may sound, that saying about setting things free is right - and a butterfly is the perfect example. I can either set him free and let him fly merrily away, hoping he comes back. Or I can swat him with a magazine, knock him cold and pin him to the wall with the rest of my collection
Anyone care for a rousing round of Freebird