Friday, April 28, 2006

Honesty, and the Loss of My Best Friend

So I'm sitting there, flipping back and forth between The Office and The O.C. last night, stoned, and I got to thinking (Look out!!!)…

My heart is broken. What's odd about having a broken heart is that the pain doesn't reside in the chest, but in the stomach. It's not so much a pain as it is an emptiness, a hunger that you know can't be seen to.

He's not dead; he's just a two-faced, back-stabbing hypocrite who cut me off at the knees because it suited him to do so. He doesn't do anything unintentionally, though it appears that way to everyone who doesn't know him as well as I do. It's really pretty slick if you think about it. Smooth, even.

I really am devastated. I've known him for almost 9 years now. He saw me through some pretty bad moments, and I don't know what I would've done without him.

I guess it's time to find that out. Because I'm so indescribably angry with him that it makes me want to use the profanity that's made me so famous around here. So here I sit feeling like I've taken a 2x4 to the back of the head, which, ironically, is how Keanu Reeves prepares for scene studies.

Of course, there's a female involved, which is queer because he's pretty much a gay homosexual man of the queer variety. I.e., he don't like the ladies "in that way".

Let me back up just a tad here. It is held by many notable scholars that in ancient Egypt, somewhere around the vicinity of 5500 B.C., space aliens from another planet in outer space visited a spot somewhere along The River Nile and showed the local residents living there how to brew beer. It was the first of many phases in an invasion…

Okay, maybe not that far back. My friend made it a habit of chiseling away at my self-esteem whenever he thought I was feeling just a little too good about myself. That's not inherently a bad thing, but his timing and method suggest, since hindsight is 50/50, that he was doing it as a way to feel better about himself. So last July I decided I'd give him a break from me and my bad influence, such as it is, with regard to smoking and drinking and making fun of myself.

Unfair to him? Probably. It's also extremely presumptuous of me to think that I could have any influence over someone such as himself, and a little cruel as well, seeing as how we were so close, close enough for me to absorb his catty criticisms lobbed my way, really putting the "b" in "subtle", masking his contempt of me in feigned praise for others to misinterpret.

We started hanging out again shortly after the holidays. And we had a new neighbor, T. She was awesome: pretty, smart, friendly, open. The 3 of us became basically inseparable until the day after my 2006 SederFest. The details still aren't clear at all to me, but since then I've been aggressively excluded. A couple days before Seder, he realized he was not going to be able to go, so it was just going to be me and T.

Bummer. It's always funner with him, but we'd get by. We were talking about this and that, &c., and things of that nature when all of a sudden out came the claws, and I was back on the defensive. This time, instead of being the good Lutheran boy I was brought up to be and cramming all of my hurt feelings and ire back into that bottle and quickly putting a cork in it lest any emotions escape – no, this time I decided to stand up for myself. And right then and there we got into a bit. Things were beginning to escalate verbally, so I quickly left T.'s house where we were because I thought it a tad uncouth to bicker in her living room. So I went home (down the street).

Then he called, and I was completely honest with him about the past and how I was made to feel, thinking that being genuine, straightforward and sincere would not only help us through a rough spot in our friendship, but would actually make the friendship stronger.

That was 3 weeks ago, and I've not heard a civil word from either of them, though they continue to be inseparable. I'm no fan of the word "fag". I've come to understand that "fag" is to "homosexual" as "nigger" is to "African-American". But the phrase "alternative lifestyle trollop" just doesn't have the same edge as "fag hag". So my apologies to those among us more sensitive than others.

Calling a girl a fag hag is quite demeaning, if not altogether extremely accurate. It's also a knee-jerk reaction by assholes like myself when a girl is allegedly not interested us. But she was. All the signals were there. Seriously. My friend even said she spoke to him about what kind of girls I'd dated, what my type was (I don't have a type), and if she thought I'd be interested in someone like her.

Apparently that conversation was a bit too much for him, because that's when the worm turned. I haven't felt a shoulder this cold since a girlfriend a few years ago was yammering on and on and on about everything that was wrong with me, paused long enough for me to ask, "Anything else?" to which she announced, "Yes, an apology would be nice," to which I responded, "Accepted!" She walked over and poured beer on my head, for which she later apologized. Good times. (She had/has a great sense of humor, and, if you recall, this is the one who asked me if her dress made her look fat, where I responded, "It's not the dress." Yes, she did laugh.)

So T. is quite happy with the hag role, from what little I've been able to tell.

So I'm broken hearted. On two counts. I really enjoyed spending time with both of them, and with each of them individually. My friend and I have a lot of history, and it's crushing me to think about that not being important enough to work things out. And who knows what might have evolved with T. had the relationship as a whole not turned south for the winter?

Did he actually poison her against me for whatever reason? Did he see her alleged affection for me as some kind of a threat to their relationship? This, like retired generals commenting on Rummy's competence, is simply wild speculation that is both insane and technically learning impaired. But it gives me something to think about when I swim laps.

There may be a gaping maw in my soul large enough for even Oprah to squeeze through, but that doesn't mean I haven't maintained some semblance of a sense of humor, if you can call it that, and that I didn't learn a thing or two from the experience, if you can call it that.

Women who see men as "fixer-uppers" probably need to "remodel their own kitchen".

Never under any circumstances underestimate the power of the fag in the fag hag relationship. They are all knowing, powerful and relentless. They are worshipped and feared as gods. If you come between a hag and her fag, keep in mind that's it's already not a fair fight, and that while there's no possible way you can win, there's every possible way that you'll get hurt. Badly.

Clearly my invocation of the term is just my hurt talking, causing me to lash out and grasp at whatever straws I can get my hands on. And if chango is offended, I can only say that by judging your posts I've found you to be decent, reasonable and fair, and, as such, might just be on my side in this case. But who knows? I'm sure those grapes were sour anyway. It would've been nice to find out for myself. And I don't mind sour grapes that much.

Never under any circumstances trust anyone ever. No matter what.

You really can only depend on no one other than yourself. Carolyn Burnham was right.

Finally, never under any circumstances ever be completely honest with someone, ever, unless they're on The Internet, or dead, or both. No matter how much they beg, plead, cajole and beg, don't do it. No good can come from it.

I hesitated to post this, but, after all, I'm just a faceless typist on an anonymous bulletin board in cyberspace, and it doesn't really mean anything anyway. I, being the presumptuous pinhead that I am, thought some of you might want to know.

Now don't get me wrong: I hate John Lennon. Paul was a better songwriter. But occasionally he'd have a gem or two squirt out, and this is one of my favorite ones that I try to remember in times like these:

Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you're busy making other plans

It could always be worse. I could be a single black woman in Detroit with 4 kids, working at the K-Mart for minimum wage, whose oldest son joined the army to make a better life for himself but instead got killed in combat during a mismanaged war. So… you know… there's… that.

Live and learn.

Have a great day!

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