It was 1998. My mom died the day before Mothers Day. About a week after her funeral, I took acid, and I wigged out a little. I drove a hulking mass of steel to the grave yard during a freezing rain and sleet storm. I stood over my mom’s grave and the grave of my brother. It was four in the morning. The sleet was stinging my hands and face. I noticed strange human sized, human shaped forms moving around the graveyard, about forty or fifty yards away…shadows or silhouettes…hallucinations or ghosts. My gaze was focused downward on the graves when I noticed these forms. I did not dare look up. Lets see…what else did I do that year? 1998. It was a crazy year…what else: About a month after my mom died, I met a lady at work on a smoke break. I talked to her a couple of times out there. I got bold and asked her out. I asked her for her phone number. She didn’t have anything to write on, so she asked her coworker. Her coworker pulled a slip of paper out of her purse. It was a coupon for some Virginia Slim cigarettes. She wrote her number on it and gave it to me. We went out on a date. Afterwards, she gave me a handjob in that same massive Ford Econoline extended cargo van. This turned into a thirteen year relationship. That setting…those times…those circumstances….Those were probably not the best conditions in which to launch a long-term relationship. The length of time that I was together with this woman: the thirteen years: the 13…the significance of that number…I know, but I am not superstitious…so I mostly don’t give a fuck. But I am wondering right now if I am about to launch into another long-term thing….under equally ridiculous or horrifying or stupid conditions. And for the same main reason: I am terrified of life, and I need someone there to share the terror with. That would be a great headline for a profile on a dating site: “Looking for someone to ride out the terror storm of life with. Must be good cuddler.” The current headline on my dating site profile is: “Ready, set, go!” I’m not joking. That really is my headline. Ready, set, go. Ready, set, go ruin your life with me when I latch on to you and make you my everything…my reason for existence…you are it…without you I will simply die…everything I need in life, I derive from you. Without your guidance and directions and common sense and authority, I will take acid and drive to grave yards during storms…I will wander around dangerous neighborhoods in murder capitals after washing down tranquilizers with beer. I will smoke crack with hookers who have blind babies. Want to date me? No pressure. The woman I am currently dating has an issue with getting overly attached way too fast. So naturally, my instincts tell me to sprint full speed into her life. .Lucky for me she’s actually trying to deal with her problem. No sleep overs. No consecutive days interactions. She is at least trying. Unlucky for me: she is the only person I’m dating. Dating is exhausting. But in life, sex is required. It is required. It’s biological. I’ve been using that sentence a lot lately, “It’s biological.” I use that statement, fully aware of how ridiculous it is. It’s a ridiculous, vague statement for a ridiculous and vague force that is undeniable. It is the perfect statement really, a perfect statement to describe a ridiculous reality. We must fuck. Obviously I am aware that I have had problems with my life…with dealing with the forces of life. So I have tried to compensate. I overcompensated. I became addicted to spiritual advice. Instead of seeing the void, I should be seeing the empty. The good empty. Spaciousness. But I’m not going to end this post on that, no fuckin way. I could end this post on my plan for the day. I will hit ‘publish’ on this disaster. I will go back to bed and try to sleep a while longer. I will go to my little bar up the street and be bored to death by football games. I will try to talk to somebody. I will come home and conk out early. I will wake up in the middle of the night with a case of Monday terrors. I will type more stuff. I will sleep a little more. I will go to work. I will be busy, and I won’t have time to think about terror or sex. Well maybe I’ll take a little time to think about sex.
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