Friends With Complications

Her: "So, uh, are you two, uh...?"
Me: Nervous laughter
Him: Nervous laughter
Me: "No, we're, uh, friends..."
Her: Raised eyebrows "With benefits?"
Him: "Um..."
Me: "More like complications."

An old conversation. Out of date by several months. but leave it to me to remember the random things, some good memories, some bad, a few regrets wrapped up in the scent of Old Spice and Irish Spring, flowers, swamp goo, and the not-quite-clean of a boy/man's apartment. We had our share of complications, mostly my fault, but I asked the questions and he answered honestly. It wasn't really his fault, although I blame him for it sometimes. A lot of the time. I wished for him to do things, say things, and now I wish I could remember them, so I could do them or say them, to make this better. But I can't. "Why do you have to be so attractive?" If I only had a nickel for every time I said that to someone. Right along with "What does she have that I don't?" and the inevitable answer of "tits". But in all seriousness, powerlessness just sucks, in all its forms, no matter which side of the equation you're on. Which kinda makes me wonder where the power in these situations is. I was so sure he had it, but now in a different position, maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe I was wrong about a lot. I guess it's complicated.

I'm surprised I'm not grinning like an idiot. I love hearing that people think well of me. No surprise, who doesn't? But it's best when it's completely brutally honest, and still favourable. I like to hear the brutally honest, no-holds-barred, I-swear-I-didn't-know-you-were-listening opinions people have of me. It's probably narcissistic, and it's probably not very good for me, especially because it's not always a glowing review. But I can't help it, something in me wants to know how I appear to the outside world, because everything looks different depending on the eyes you're using. And every now and then, what people think of you has an effect. Sometimes you can teach yourself to see what they see.
I love the sound of the words she wrote as they roll around in my skull, staving off, at least for a couple of hours, that irritating voice full of derision and foul mood. Lit from within, all red lipstick and dark eyes, young and powerful, something dark, delicious, and alive.

I can't shake the guilt though. I'm not mad, not at her, though I don't think she believes it. It's the guilt that was bound to come back ever since I said "I wish I was a little more like him". Well, now I am a little bit, and I wish I wasn't. He revels in this, having the means to manipulate, to hurt. I just want to make all the hurt go away, and I don't know how.

The older I get, the shakier the foundations of my friendships seem, the old as well as the new. My closest oldest friend I didn't meet all that long ago. Next on the list is the one who I can barely quantify any more, all magnetism, memories, and Irish Spring. Most of the rest don't even seem like my friends, more like friends once removed, I wonder how many of them would still be around if I wasn't around him. I've never had good luck with making friends, I'm a little on the beige side, people don't tend to remember me. At least as far as I know. Every now and then the tables turn, the tide shifts, and I get to deal with the fallout. Sometimes it's more fun than others. Sometimes complications are my only real friends.

Maybe I can widen that circle a little bit.
Dream On
Daydream Believer

Live and Alive

Odd that I can only do this while I'm alone. I guess because in some sense it's still my dirty little secret. I publish my own thoughts on the internet. Even now it's a little taboo. Really though, anyone could find these words and thoughts, which is terrifying and exciting at the same time. Maybe someone I've never met will find a connection, maybe that's why people write books. Unfortunately I don't have the attention span for writing a book. Maybe one day I will. But anyone finding them doesn't know who I am, couldn't know who I am. General things, yes, and some very personal things, but they wouldn't be able to pick me out of a lineup, recognize me walking past on the street, and that's a kind of protection.

Which brings me to why I haven't done this in awhile. Despite the very public nature of the finished product, the process of writing is very personal for me, and very private, and I haven't had much in the way of alone time in the last little while. Not that I haven't been alone at times, but never for a very long stretch and usually alone in the sense of being surrounded by strangers. At the risk of sounding like the temperamental artist I try so hard not to be, I can't work like that. I also prefer to write when I'm fairly certain I won't be disturbed before I can finish at least the thread I'm working on at the time.

I've always been intrigued by intrigue. Oddly enough. But the drama of people interacting with one another and the system fascinates me. In another life, with another personality, I'm convinced I would have loved to be a spy or anarchist, knee deep in all the shit surrounding people, power, love, and money. Why not this life? Well, to start with, I'm a terrible liar. I tend to giggle in the most unseemly and unsubtle way when I try to misdirect people. That's not to say that I can't keep a secret, I can, and like to think I do a pretty damn good job of it. But my favourite tactic for doing so, changing the subject, really wouldn't hold up against someone who knew I was keeping something from them. For another thing, I don't like to hurt people. Even collaterally... usually, in fact, the collateral damage of any situation in which I'm involved is me. I'm resilient, the joke I've made is that I'm actually a superball in human form. Y'know, those ridiculously bouncy things that you can throw against a concrete wall, but then you better duck because it's coming back, and hard. Most of the time I figure that I'm better equipped to deal with any pain I've caused than anyone else. But I let things get to me, usually more than I should, occasionally more than is healthy. But in the real world, I'm not good at the games people play with each other. I don't know if it's possible to be when you don't like to hurt people. I'm getting quite good at getting kicked around though. I've been wondering why I'm not bitter... y'know, that bite the hand that feeds thing... the part they don't tell you is that before that hand fed, it slapped. I've been wondering why I'm not more cynical, more broken, more prone to anger, less trusting. I mean I am all those things, I'm probably more bitter and cynical that I've got any right to be, but not all the time. I have my moments where it all just piles up on me, usually late at night when I'm by myself, but I'll cry, go to sleep, and in the morning it's not so bad.

I don't have too many illusions left. I know that the odds of my making a decent living doing something I truly love are slim, and it's far more likely that I'm going to end up doing something soul-crushing and only being paid minimum wage in exchange for it. I know that the way I'd like to live my life isn't realistic, despite my conviction that it's a good way to live. But I know that none of that is going to stop me from trying. I once read a quote that said "Courage is loving without expecting anything in return" and maybe that's true. Maybe I'm not more bitter because that's not my role. Maybe it's my job to be the one who refuses to stay down. Not necessarily an optimist, but a boomerang at the very least. Perhaps I have an overactive second chance gland or my blood is too high in forgiveness humour. Maybe have too many bad ideas or I'm just too damn trusting, but I really don't care.

Still Dreaming
Daydream Believer