i’m guilty. i’m guilty and i am a hypocrite.i’ve done what i’ve never thought i was capable of.what i’ve adamnantly said i’d never do.where’s my confidence in that now?gone.i’ve met someone, i’ve been creeping but..i didn’t mean to.it was just..i didn’t..i can’t even..i mean, it was friendly, he was friendly, and we hung out a few times.i didn’t think anything of it until..until..well, until he kissed me.and i kissed back.i don’t know what came over me.flustered and confused, i rushed out of there, went straight home.straight home to him.and he asked what was wrong, and i don’t remember what i told him.everything after the kiss was just a blur.and i should’ve told him.it was wrong of me not to.and i should’ve stayed away…but i didn’t.i went back.i wanted to know him more.and it’s wrong…so wrong.but…but i swear, i didn’t mean to hurt him.i didn’t mean to do this to him.i didn’t mean to put him in the shoes i were in with him.i didn’t.and i know there’s nothing i can say.nothing.i hate that i’m putting him through this.i hate that i’m causing him this hurt.and i hate that i’m going see the heartbreak in his eyes as i tell him.now i know how this guilt feels.now i know.but i wish i didn’t.i’d rather die than feel this.
Here’s one: Two old fellows sit on a park bench. The tall one says to the short one, “Y’know, I’ve have a lot of regrets in my life, but the biggest one was that I didn’t find myself a wife.”
“No kidding?” says the short guy.
“Yup, never married. Didn’t see the point,” says the tall one.
The short fellow says, “Y’know, I was married once.”
“Yeah, a really beautiful looking broad. She was short and blonde and really nice like. She was the sweetest thing in the world. Never gave me any lip, did what she was told. And every day I’d get home from work, she’d have a beer waiting for me.”
“That sounds great.”
“Not only that, but she’d rub my feet for me. And she was a great great cook. Everyday, I’d come home to a feast she had made just for me. Anything I wanted, anytime.”
“She sounds like a dream.”
“She was. Whenever I needed tending to, she’d just hop right on it. Like a pogo stick. Anytime, any place. She was wild.”
“She sounds perfect,” says the tall guy. “What happened with you two?”
“I divorced her.”
“Why? Was she two-timing you?”
“Did she nag or anything?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why in the world would you divorce her?”
“She had really bad breath.”
My best friend wanted a dog for Christmas. It was all he could talk about, for months and months. On and on about this damn dog. About proper training and how he got the custom leash and how he built the doghouse. So Christmas rolls around, his parents get him the stupid dog. Loves it for a two days and then sold the dog, the training books, the custom leash, and the doghouse for the 50 bucks just to get rid of it.
Do you see the pattern here? I don’t know what it is, I don’t really get why, but it seems that we have this pathological need to fuck things up.
I’m thinking I fucked things up. Really badly.
And I’m not really sure why. I don’t know why I do half the things I do.
She’s gonna cry and I’m going to the reason for that and decent people care about that sort of thing, so I think I’d feel bad. I’m thinking she’s gonna slap me, or throw a drink in my face (for theatrics), and then storm off. But not really storm off, slowly storm off. Enough for me to hold her arm. She wants me to grovel and beg for forgiveness. And I’ll probably do it with the drink in my face and everything, cause decent people care about that sorta thing. I’m gonna tell her that Number 2 means absolutely nothing. Which is true.
When you go for this sort of thing, one would think you would go for someone that, y’know, is slightly better than the one you’re currently with. That’s why you’re doing it cause the you’ve weighed the options, calculated the odds, and this NEW thing is better for some reason than that OLD thing. But that doesn’t apply here. Number 2 is a pain-in-the-ass jealous idiot. Unlikable, untrusting, un-EVERYTHING. And I fucked her numerous times for some reason. God.
The problem with us, is this perpetual Grass-is-Greener-I-want-things-I-don’t-have thing. This thing that makes us reach for the cookie jar even if we’re not hungry. This thing fucks everything up. So when she’s crying and making a scene, and while I’m making my best sad face and saying, “but I love you!” with my best ‘my heart is breaking’ intonation, I’m thinking, this is the most I’ll ever want her. I want to hug and kiss and have sex and hold her hand more than I’ve ever wanted to before, only cause in the back of my head I know I’ll never get to again.