"sometimes you win, sometimes you lose"

It's just that simple. Okay, so right now I'm in the losing part. I feel like a loser. All the signs point to: yes, indeed, you are.

The Man of Year? Not interested. I totally read him wrong. A fucking mistake I can chalk up under the experience category. Alongside all those other "mistakes" that I've endured. Thankfully, I didn't endure his confusing-ness very long. Just three months. Not bad. The last time it took me three and a half years to figure out the guy wasn't interested. I figure this means I'm bound to be single for the next three years and three months, due to cutting short this potential mess of a relationship.

...which is the perfect amount of time to complete my graduate degree! But thanks to my own ineptitude, (read: loser), I can't go to the one school I've been determined for a while to attend, because I was too busy doing other things to find out when the deadline was. I doubt I could have somehow managed to squeeze in practicing for the GRE on top of applying for the Iowa Writers Workshop and finishing my last semester as sucessfully as I did (all A's, again. see, sometimes you win...).

I'm sure some pysch student could simply say it was a matter of where my priorities were and if I really wanted to go, blah blah blah. Maybe it's no coincidence. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I won't know for sure 'til the years go by and I realize that my capricious error resulted in something else far better.

in the meantime, something has happened between Marilyn and I that has ripped me apart from her. It was a very benign event, I suppose, but it was tangled up with other things, and perhaps, truly, it was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I'd rather not go into the whole complicated affair, but suffice it to say, I feel like a total loser. I know that what I'm doing is okay and completely reasonable, but another part of me knows how much she depends on me and wants me around. the truth is, I'm more upset about the potential loss of her friendship than anything else going on in my life right now. things between us were going so well, and for the first time in a long time, I felt understood and cherished as a person. it is a very hard thing and eventually it will be resolved, but for the time being, it is a constant throb that accompanies me everywhere.

I went grocery shopping for the first time since I've moved into my apartment (yes, three whole months have gone by) and when I went to put some things in the fridge, I was reminded via my offended olfactory equipment that I still had leftovers from Thanksgiving in there! Due to the aforementioned terrible state of busy-ness, I had neither the time nor gumption to remove these things before. So I went through the fridge and threw all of it away, even the Mother's brand white bread that hadn't turned moldy at all, due to, what I can only presume, was a freakishly high level of preservatives [shudder].

As I threw the stinking mess away, I realized it was probably high time to clean the fridge, which I hadn't done in the first place. And by first place, I mean when I moved in. I'd always assumed I would do it someday, soon, which, of course, is a phrase I tend to reserve for things I know I'd never do, even if there was _nothing_ to do.

enter feelings of loserdom. It is a weird thing to be a single person. I have no inclination towards cooking, therefore no pots or pans or food. I eat here and there. When I lived with Eric, I was glad that he actually enjoyed cooking and thusly took on the job of making home cooked meals three or four nights a week, when we weren't tempted by the deliciousness of burritos, thai or bar food. I realize that the last time I had a home cooked meal was Christmas, and the time before that, Thanksgiving. And I can't remember the time before that.

Also, as a single person this time around, I see no need in keeping my apartment neat and orderly, since no one other than myself is ever going to set foot in here again. I've become a comfortable, veritable slob. It is covered up under the guise of being busy, but the truth is, I love coming home to my apartment and having it be a slovenly mess, and crawling into the spot of my bed that isn't covered with clothes or papers or books. It's almost like being welcomed home by an old friend at the doorway, you feel you cannot get to the person to hug them fast enough. I cannot wait to land on my little spot in my big bed and go to sleep. On my way to the bed, I dump things in piles, a pile of clothes not dirty enough to wash, a pile of junk mail, a pile of mail I should file, a pile of things I must not forget to bring with me in the morning, there are literally little designated piles all over my apartment that only make sense to me and make the place look disgusting. But it is my mess.

Once I set off a cleaning frenzy, it tends to erupt violently and be hard to stop--at least in my case--so after I cleaned the fridge with a deodorizing, anti-bacterial cleanser, I moved on to the bathroom. Though I've still got the tiled shower walls to do--which I avoid touching while I shower as much as possible--because when I moved in I immediately placed the dingy walls in the "someday soon" category. The only thing that stopped me from completely turning into Cinderella was my friend Annie's pleading texts for company at a bar.

Joining her was fun. I got to meet one of her old college buddies, who mans the bar most nights: a tall, intellectual sort who wore a slightly intriguing (though not sure yet if I feel intrigued in a good way or bad way) pendant necklace with a tommie gun charm. I was proud to notice that even though he was tall and smart, I didn't instantly fall in love with him. I was invited to join them for dinner on Monday, which sounds like it'll be a good time.

I'd made plans earlier in the day to go see a sketch comedy troop and I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me, so I left my friend Annie and her pals at the bar and headed to the show all by myself.

and I sat next to a stranger.

and I was a-l-o-n-e.

And that is part that really makes me feel like a loser. It's not just because I'm not used to it...I hate doing things alone. I have so much more fun doing things with other people. I don't mind spending time alone, because a lot of my hobbies and interests are solitary activities, but going out in public and sitting at a show and laughing at funny things just seems like something you should do with someone.

so of course, I've been thinking a lot about Mr. Burnham. I miss him. I know part of it is just because I've had all these slightly traumatic/dramatic events happening these last two weeks, that there was the turning of a calendar, on which he is a blank space and he has not contacted me in six weeks. Aside from all that...I miss him. I don't miss the bad things. I just miss the good things. I miss him making us meals, and getting all excited about going to the grocery store and being my date for just about every silly thing I wanted to do (though this insta-date phenomenon began to fade toward what was the end). I miss the way he was when he was present and sober, and this makes me most sad, because I know he'll never fully be engaging.

And the truth is, for the first time since we broke up, I feel the weight of being single and lost. When we broke up, I barely had time to process the whole thing before unnecessary accessory boy stepped in to pick at me, and then this whole fantasy about The Man of Year gave me some hope that I wouldn't be single for long.

Now that I have no prospects and this restrictive set of criteria that literally makes most men look like clowns to me; I feel odd in my singleness. Before I met Eric, I was single for about a year and it was like I could have anyone I wanted. I was a head turner and I loved it. That was nearly five years ago. It is kind of shocking to feel like I have very little head turning abilities left. I walk around the city feeling slightly invisible. I no longer subscribe to popular fashion (the seventies bohemian look just happened to be somewhat close to my style those five years ago). I dress comfortably (therefore I probably appear to look like a lesbian to most men). I would rather read a book on the train than make cutesy "missed connection" eye contact. In bars, I look forward to talking to the person I came with than meeting someone random and potentially stupid. I am slightly revulsed by men and what has been revealed to me as their "true thoughts." Potential men loom on the horizon like huge swaths of disappoinment that I just want to avoid at all costs. I mostly feel that men are useless and just here to cause me grief, which men manage to pick up on quickly, and by no suprise, it doesn't really make any guy want to talk to me longer than two minutes. And part of me really doesn't care. I don't want to spend any more wasted time with someone who doesn't like me as a person first and a potential girlfriend/mate second.

The part of me that does care worries that my big bed will always be half empty. And worries that this whole grad school business will further steep me in independence and bitterness against men as a whole. And she, that part, that plaintive wailer, worries about the possibility that being alone--even though I keep trying to tell her it's only for a little while--will become permanent and all those girlhood thoughts of getting married and having kids and dogs and cats and a house and a loving husband won't happen.

but the part of me that won't let just anyone in is a lot stronger than that. and I know that this is all part of the experience train, and to get where I'm going I have to ride and it can either be a great trip or really fucking suck. and I'm so tired of all the trips that have really fucking sucked. So I'll let this take me where I'm going and I'm going to try not to complain at every chance I have.