Number two

 This new phone sucks. My words keep getting changed and I can’t figure out how to change the setting for it. So, it’s me. I suck at using the new phone. 

I have decided that I want to try and write a book. A scrubbed up version  of my life. Full of stories that are true but with a “caution artistic licence taken here” disclaimer on page one. 

I have lived many lives in my short time on Earth. I have recited some of my memories in public, for friends, and for strangers. I have made people laugh, and do so every day, and I have made people cry. Some of my life stories make people uncomfortable either because they can’t fathom the possibility of the truths I say or maybe because they hit close to home. 

Everyone knows someone who knows someone who’s been through the things I have. All of them… 

Tonight I was putting together a list of possible chapters in my head and decided instead to cruise Facebook. My mistake, and now I’m emotionally fucked up. I like to write when I’m in this state. I say a shit ton of nothing important, but it helps me cope with my life, and I’m too cheap to pay for therapy. 

I’ve spent much of my life surrounded by creative people. Nomads, artists, musicians, hippies, mother’s with a crazy sinister side, and so on. 

(Begin chapter)

Oneof my Facebook friends is having what I imagine to be a midlife crisis. 

He’s this adorable funny looking guy who’s always been quite a source of entertainment for me. When I was a teenager he once tried very diligently to get my to show him my breasts. I laugh when I think about it because I was a wild girl, free with my words and freer with my body yet for some reason never with him. With him it was easy to say no. It wasn’t his looks because he was  handsome, although I will always remember thinking of him as a skinny but cheekily happy lawn gnome in a purple crushed velvet leisure suit. 

I think my apprehension was mostly because I was born a lover of love and I used to hang around with this equally funny looking but adorable little girl who was head over heels in love with him. I felt like even if I indulged him in this one little thing, that he so poetically described desiring, that I would betray her. This particular “No” was easy to say and is still a memory that I cherish.

Admittedly, I also knew, before the word “dog” had common meaning, that he was a dog. He was, and still is, a musician. A singer. Singers are the worst. They are promiscuous because they can be. Like being able to wax poetic at the strum of a guitar makes them a God,  a dog… And although I still said no, I didn’t owe her anything. As I think of it now I’m sure that even though we’re Facebook friendly she never really gave a shit whether I existed, exist, or not.

As his assumed midlife crisis is becoming apparent on Facebook, he’s been remixing and remaking some songs from that period and making reminiscent little lyric videos to share with his face friends and over YouTube. He’s grown up quite a bit in the last twenty five years and we’ve run into each other in real life a couple of times, which I assume is why we still occasionally “like” each other’s posts and photos. I don’t see where I was ever popular enough to be worth remembering otherwise. 

Today, we both do photography but for different reasons. His images amuse me much as his music did back in the day. So I guess I can say he brings me joy. I will make a mental note that I don’t need to add him to the pile of people that I hope to someday unburden myself of.

I can say that years ago I’d seen him sing a bunch of times and I LOVED hanging out at the same after-parties that we’d unintentionally end up at. He has always had a funky-qiurky sense of style and a voice that makes me want him to tell me scary stories around a fire. I can never listen to REM’s Losing my religion without having a flashback to those parties or his singing. He has an electric personality too. Kind of like sandpaper covered with silver sparkles and static cling. I also remember that he was also kind of a dick, but in an acceptable in public kind of way.  

His first video was of one of the two songs that I can actually recall from the one and only tape I borrowed from someone, so that I could legitimately say I’d heard his band. I came into the scene as his bane was dis-banding. I was very fond of his band mates though. Two solid good hearted guys whom I can honestly say seemed to have no business meshing personalities with each other in the first place. I know that they are all still friends today. It was basic but good music at the time, when I listened to band after band looking for one to have lyrical connection with. Now though, it seems that the writer of those lyrics should have definitely been seeing someone for treatment for depression. What originally sounded like a heartfelt romantic “I can’t live without you” song was actually a suicide-note-slash-you-made-me-do-this, “fuck you”song. I bet his parents were concerned for him… at least I hope they were. We were never close enough that I would’ve known anyway. 

The second video was of a song I’ve never heard before. I think it was newer because it is just him and a piano and a back up singer, singing a bar song. It’s an adorable little ditty about a fantasy of being in love with the bartender at a pizza place we all used to go to. Not together, but it’s still there and still famous/infamous in the minds of every one who’s ever had the opportunity to walk through the doors. So here I am shirking my self imposed responsibility scrolling around and happily witnessing his midlife crisis in my own way when I heard it. I knew instantly what it was and my heart sank to my stomach. Without finishing the video I stopped it and started it over from the beginning.  I felt like I was going to be sick. I still feel like I’m going to be sick. The way that note leapt out of the speaker and into my brain made me want to retch. The neanderthal portion of my brain, the one responsible for instinctual self preservation, has come to life and is ripping at my insides. I listened to the end and the credits offer confirmation.

I’m in love with the back up singer!

It is absolutely devistating that after years and years (and years) of trying to forget about my deep and primal love for the man, one rolling note sung by him completely floors me. Tears are in my eyes and I want to spit. I have gone from contemplative and amused to devistatingly bereft in the span of a note. I am shocked and angry that His voice even behind music and someone else’s singing still has power over my emotions. Motherfucker. 

He broke my heart. He didn’t only break it once, but over and over again over the last twenty eight years. He is the guy that you see in your head when you read stories about the beloved heroine dying of a broken heart.

He is the kind of character that makes you cry over losing him in romantic movies. He’s the one for whom I sold my soul and, although unknowingly, he held my hand as I signed it away in blood. 

Have you ever heard the Miley Cyrus song Wrecking Ball? Well, he wre-e-ecked me. And now it’s 2:39am and I’m once again heartbroken, depressed, and almost done writing for the night. 

Iguess I have a chapter for somewhere in my imaginary book now, so, I can actually attempt sleep.  I’m probably going to have him pop up somewhere in tonight’s dream-turned-nightmare and I’ll most surely write about him sometime again as he often comes to mind when I’m sad or depressed or happy or angry or … Because he was and in so many ways still is an important part of my life, and, you know, he wre-e-ecked me. 

Note to self, Songs to avoid any time in the near future;

Rem, losing my religion

Elvis, suspicious minds, or anything Elvis, Scratch that, avoid everything Elvis

Miley Cyrus, wrecking ball

Beastie Boys, She’s crafty

Beatles, not any song in particular, just because I fucking hate the Beatles, (but secretly know every word to every song they made, ever)

U2, because, just because I hope they invent a time machine and go back in time and never make any music, because they suck… Yes, really

Ok I feel better now. Peace. Fuck it’s late.

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