I've been laying in bed, thinking about the New Year.
I came to San Francisco January 15th, 1998. El Nino was pouring record amounts of rain over the Bay Area. I was 23 years old. I'd just finished a summer and a semester of premed requirements. I'd graduated 8 months earlier, lived with Mandy in Austin, befriended her peeps, then garnered the oomph to get the hell out of Texas and try the queerest city in the world.
It's just shy of seven years later. I spent December 31st, 2004 with friends, wishing them a Happy New Year either over the phone or in person.
But now that I've officially closed the massive door on my relationship with Brian, I feel pretty lost.
I suppose this is how most people feel when they break up. Of course, we've been breaking up over the past month and a half, so any pang I write about here will ring shittily pathetic to anyone who's heard me wail since mid-November.
I know I've drawn way too many parallels between real life and a certain HBO serial whose virtual storyline I've matured to accept as fictional. Before I do a "Here I go again," let me just say that anthropologists and sociologists would likely confirm that using archetypal characters to explain our humanity is a virtue of civilized communication. Oh, what the fuck, here I go again:
Brian and I were together for 9 months (see the following reference to "B-Lo" from a March entry). I've been in bed this morning, thinking about some of the more intense, romantic, intimate moments we shared. It's safe to say--unless someone pulls this off the net during my bid for the presidency--that Brian was a different kind of boyfriend. As much as I sprinkled grains of salt all over the intitial dating (and am now sprinkling them all over my wounds), we became very close very quickly. So this mix of sadness, gratitude and pissed-offedness can probably be expected. It doesn't really change the quantity or quality of love, but it sure as fuck has catapulted me into an existential crisis.
Revision is all part of a breakup, right?
I woke up this morning--look at the date again, January 1st--thinking, "Well, I'm over it. It's done." The finality of saying to him, "I can't carry this 'maybe' into the next year" brought it all down. I asked if he was more certain about anything. He said, "Maybe I am. I've been enjoying concentrating on other things." Despite his waffling with the note "But I'm not convinced of anything," I exhaled a sigh of relief, embarassment and exasperation, capped with a silent "It's over" and then an outright expression of the end in words I can't at this moment recall.
Now, as much as I know from the horse's mouth (that's a vagrant insult to his not-so-horsey countenance--I'm trying to make it easier than it is), he's not out to desecrate the best of our relationship. But I still feel antsy and dramatically insulted that he would sleep with someone else. While we dated, I would've encouraged it. But now that it's over, I can't stomach the thought. Of course, I've been gearing up to do the same, but I'm not the one who finished things off. I'm just the one who decided to ask the questions that brought the guillotine down.
All of that said (as though having said it will make it any less painful to reread or hear about other people reading), I've taken on the archetypal drive of our beloved friend Charlotte McDougle (nee York, soon-to-have-become York-Goldenblatt). (I'm having a little difficulty remembering the future pluperfect. Any English majors out there?) This could all be sparked by Dan's recent move to L.A. and his even more recent cohabitational move with his boyfriend. He's started the year boldly. And I want to do something akin to it.
I've decided this is the year I get married.
As much as I would like this to be a political statement issuing a huge "Fuck you" to the Unnamed Asshole who is governing the Executive Branch, this is truly just a sad move by a 30-year-old homo who's looking for love. In my brighter moments, this would be a confident declarative statement, instead of the flimsy, pathetic drawl I hear right now. But since all words are candidates for revision during this post-natal breakup period, I'll leave it said as it is. I can always change the arrangement later.
I came to San Francisco January 15th, 1998. El Nino was pouring record amounts of rain over the Bay Area. I was 23 years old. I'd just finished a summer and a semester of premed requirements. I'd graduated 8 months earlier, lived with Mandy in Austin, befriended her peeps, then garnered the oomph to get the hell out of Texas and try the queerest city in the world.
It's just shy of seven years later. I spent December 31st, 2004 with friends, wishing them a Happy New Year either over the phone or in person.
But now that I've officially closed the massive door on my relationship with Brian, I feel pretty lost.
I suppose this is how most people feel when they break up. Of course, we've been breaking up over the past month and a half, so any pang I write about here will ring shittily pathetic to anyone who's heard me wail since mid-November.
I know I've drawn way too many parallels between real life and a certain HBO serial whose virtual storyline I've matured to accept as fictional. Before I do a "Here I go again," let me just say that anthropologists and sociologists would likely confirm that using archetypal characters to explain our humanity is a virtue of civilized communication. Oh, what the fuck, here I go again:
Brian and I were together for 9 months (see the following reference to "B-Lo" from a March entry). I've been in bed this morning, thinking about some of the more intense, romantic, intimate moments we shared. It's safe to say--unless someone pulls this off the net during my bid for the presidency--that Brian was a different kind of boyfriend. As much as I sprinkled grains of salt all over the intitial dating (and am now sprinkling them all over my wounds), we became very close very quickly. So this mix of sadness, gratitude and pissed-offedness can probably be expected. It doesn't really change the quantity or quality of love, but it sure as fuck has catapulted me into an existential crisis.
Revision is all part of a breakup, right?
I woke up this morning--look at the date again, January 1st--thinking, "Well, I'm over it. It's done." The finality of saying to him, "I can't carry this 'maybe' into the next year" brought it all down. I asked if he was more certain about anything. He said, "Maybe I am. I've been enjoying concentrating on other things." Despite his waffling with the note "But I'm not convinced of anything," I exhaled a sigh of relief, embarassment and exasperation, capped with a silent "It's over" and then an outright expression of the end in words I can't at this moment recall.
Now, as much as I know from the horse's mouth (that's a vagrant insult to his not-so-horsey countenance--I'm trying to make it easier than it is), he's not out to desecrate the best of our relationship. But I still feel antsy and dramatically insulted that he would sleep with someone else. While we dated, I would've encouraged it. But now that it's over, I can't stomach the thought. Of course, I've been gearing up to do the same, but I'm not the one who finished things off. I'm just the one who decided to ask the questions that brought the guillotine down.
All of that said (as though having said it will make it any less painful to reread or hear about other people reading), I've taken on the archetypal drive of our beloved friend Charlotte McDougle (nee York, soon-to-have-become York-Goldenblatt). (I'm having a little difficulty remembering the future pluperfect. Any English majors out there?) This could all be sparked by Dan's recent move to L.A. and his even more recent cohabitational move with his boyfriend. He's started the year boldly. And I want to do something akin to it.
I've decided this is the year I get married.
As much as I would like this to be a political statement issuing a huge "Fuck you" to the Unnamed Asshole who is governing the Executive Branch, this is truly just a sad move by a 30-year-old homo who's looking for love. In my brighter moments, this would be a confident declarative statement, instead of the flimsy, pathetic drawl I hear right now. But since all words are candidates for revision during this post-natal breakup period, I'll leave it said as it is. I can always change the arrangement later.
posted by barn | 10:06 AM
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