DISCLAIMER: Upon reading this series of blogs, some of you may wonder, “Why did he think anyone would be interested in reading this stuff?” Well, to be honest, I DIDN’T think about that. I wasn’t worried about the entertainment value. These blogs relate to a major chapter of my life finally coming to an end, and I felt like writing about it here. Yes, I could have written it in a journal at home instead of broadcasting it on the net. In fact I tried, but for some reason it didn’t give me the same sense of catharsis that blogging about it does. So here, for better or worse, is the latest blog.
In August 2000 I had my own place, but I was still not in a J-free zone. Like I said before, I was still in that abused child kind of mentality where I couldn’t admit my abuser was wrong. I can think of a few “J-isms” from this time. Most…no, make that ALL…of these stories involve me being ditched for females. (You have to know: every single girl J dated was “the one,” so he naturally had to break plans with me to spend time with them, no matter how far ahead of time those plans were made.)
One of these stories involves a weight room that was in J’s apartment building. You needed a key card to get into his building, which you wouldn’t get unless you lived there of course. I started talking to J about how I wanted to get back into fitness, and we should both do it together somehow if possible. He said that was an awesome idea and told me about the room in his building. We wound up going there…once. The next night, the excuses started right away. I got stood up for one girl…then another…then another. Meanwhile, there was a gym less than a block from where I worked. (When I told J about it, he referred to it as “the gay gym” because there were indeed a lot of gay and lesbian clients there.) After being stood up three times, I decided I didn’t want J’s life to dictate whether or not I could get fit, so I went ahead and joined the gym. Later on I called him and left some angry message on his machine, telling him to never ask me over to the weight room again because I had a gym membership now. He left me a message later on that night, saying something like, “You didn’t want to have patience. Instead you went ahead and joined the GAY gym! If you had used logic…” And when he got to that word, I erased the message. When he called me later to hang out, I said, “By the way in response to your message, I DID use logic: no matter how committed you say you are to going to the weight room with me, you will ALWAYS cancel plans if a girl wants to hang out. Therefore it would be in my best interest to join a gym!”
The second story involves music. J couldn’t play any instruments, but he wanted to write lyrics and sing to any songs of mine that had music and no words. The only thing is, he would say to me, “Come up with some punk riffs.” First of all, I hate 99% of punk music. Second, that isn’t how I write music. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to write a punk song.” In fact, it is damn near impossible to explain how I write songs. Usually though what I do is pick up the guitar and start noodling around idly. While I do this, my mind will wander. When a thought sticks, I start to let that guide how I play the guitar. If it’s something to do with anger, then I tend to hit the distortion pedal and wail on some power chords. If it has to do with love, then I will come up with a chiming, melodic tune. To me it just feels fake if I sit down and try to purposely write inside one genre or another.
At any rate, one night I decided to humor J and told him I’d like to try coming up with something he could write words to. He seemed all fired up, but it was late so we arranged to do it the next night. Sure enough, next night came around and he said to me, “Well, so and so said she wanted to come over, and I’d kinda like her to. Besides, we weren’t gonna do anything important, right?”
I exploded on him. “Not going to do anything important? You have nagged me for MONTHS to come up with ‘punk riffs,’ and then when I finally say I will, you stand me up for some other woman who probably won’t even wind up coming over!” And therein we reach the punchline, folks: without fail, the day after I got stood up, I ALWAYS found out these women never even showed up!!!
By now the average reader might wonder why I would hang on to someone like this. Well, it was because I had no other friends out there. That all changed when I got a job with a company called LandAmerica.
Read on to Part 4 if you feel like it…