When he suggested brunch in the South End, I should have said no.

Brunch? South End?

Nothing against any of it, but that's just not me.

But I said yes. Because he was hot. And funny. So he got a pass, though mostly for being hot.

I'm tired of sleeping alone. It may be over 60 degrees in Boston today, but the nights are still cold and my bed, while big and comfy, usually just feels big. I don't necessarily want to have hot, dirty sex before sleeping -- although I certainly wouldn't say no -- but, damn it, I want somebody, and not just anybody, for some afterglow, cuddling, spooning, snoring, and lots of morning breath. (Don't get any ideas -- I'm not kinky about it, I just find it intimately and endearingly human.)

I simply do not know how to meet people in real life.

Michiganian Transplant at Malden Stop & Shop? - m4m - 27

I'm not typically one to post other's words to me here on Twenty-Something, but sometimes situations warrant it. Yes, because I am a self-absorbed blogger, I'm sometimes OK with posting an email sent in confidence onto the internet.

This weekend, I recieved this email from a (non-blog-related, real-life) Boston-area friend that was flattering, surprising, and confusing. (The subject line was "superfly.")

Patrick-- it's been a while since I been telling you [how] happy and hard it makes me to look at your pics and read your messages. And best I can tell the feeling might be mutual.

So all I ask is this-- do I have a chance? Not just of getting in there for some hot messin around for a few good nights, but something longer term than that.

Cuz I'll tell ya, from my perspective, I wish I had that chance. You are a very handsome winsome guy. You seem grounded, sexy, a well-read readhead, confident and as yet unbroken by the world; In other words dude you're one in a million. Muyltiple millions.

And it's weird on me 'cause I don't know where we stand. I know you know that I'm seeing some one, but that is more of a mutual agreement to avoid loneliness than it is a fervent bond. So all I ask is you let me know where I do or might stand. Be totally honest -I can take it and it's better that way for all concerned.

Now I don't often get emails from friends-with-boyfriends, confessing feelings and asking about mine, offering to leave their current guy for a shot with me. In fact, I don't think I've ever gotten such an ultimatum. Guys I like don't tend to like me back -- in fact, that seems to be why I like them in the first place. And guys that like or persue me? I usually think there's something wrong with them (because they like me) and run away. And if, god forbid, feelings were ever mutual -- I would find another way to sabatoge it. Because when something's mutual, something might work... and when it works, that's when you can really get hurt.

So, no, I have never really gotten a confession like this from a taken someone that I'd ever consider. But here one was, staring me in the face. An offer to be with a very sexy, smart, and sweet man. All I had to do was say the word.

I knew that there was no simple answer, at least not for me. And it would take me some time to consider my feelings for said friend. So I crafted a careful response. Said that I was flattered, that I might be open to the idea, but I needed time. I didn't say no, but I didn't say yes, either. I said everything short of "let's do this thing."

And I heard back today, simply:

dont bother...i'm taken and it wont work out. good luck bro

I have been dating a Harvard man for a little while now, and tonight we're taking our relationship to the next level.

We're going to a hockey game. And not just any hockey game. "His" team against "mine." That's right. The UVM Catamounts take on the Crimson tonight here in Boston. And we're going. Together.

I tend not to post about guys I'm dating here, unless they've passed into significant other or bad boyfriend territory (which, judging from my history, tends to be the same thing). It just doesn't feel right to post about someone or something new, especially when a Google search can easily bring you to this blog. And who knows who's reading it -- friends who don't comment (*ahem* mollypagejessicadaniellegreg *ahem*), past, present, or future suitors, lesbian reporters policing the blogosphere, or a certain ex-boyfriend. Actually, those are all people I know about -- so who knows who else?

But today I'm feeling like fucking self-censorship, fucking it right up it's tight, nervous asshole. I feel like not worrying about who's going to read this. So -- no thought to who it might piss off or hurt. No anxiety over whether or not I'll still be dating Mr. Harvard in the future and might regret this. No consideration of what kind of "trouble" I can get in by posting about a new relationship. No... I'm just going to write. Because?

I like this one.

(Which is exactly why I should not be posting anything on the internet about him. But I gotta gush, just a bit.)

Mr. Harvard is 29 and he's a man. Successful. Together. Hot. He's kind and sweet and loyal. He's tall and trust-worthy and everything I need right now. He's a most amazing kisser and he's taken me completely by surprise. We're taking things slow, but it's been about a month and I'm happily along for the ride, wherever it takes us.

(There. Gush over. I feel much better.)

This is my first hockey game since last season, when I went to several home games with said certain ex-boyfriend. This feels symbolic, important... and good. It already feels like a victory, for both our teams, Vermont and Harvard.

So... Will the Cats continue their five game winning streak tonight? And will I continue the many good-date winning streak with Mr. Harvard? The answers to these, and many other thrilling questions about my oh-so-exciting world, can only be found here at Twenty-Something, my self-indulgent and masturbatory blog.

Oh, and speaking of self-indulgent and masturbatory -- check out the Hack some MIT kids came up with for the Harvard-Yale football game a few weeks back:

It's true what they say. It is huge. And I kinda love it.

Today's text-messaged horoscope?

You're not about to let someone see your weakness until you feel comfortable with them; it's risky to appear vulnerable.

Passion is the quickest to develop, and the quickest to fade. Intimacy develops more slowly, and commitment more gradually still. - Robert Sternberg

Why? Because I'm angry. I'm afraid. Furious and terrified, actually. And I'm on the edge of... something.

I'm not there yet. I'm not ready. I'm on the edge of being ready, well and truly ready, for the first time in many moons, ready for something. And that's downright terrifying.

I spy the great guy who's been my rock for the past 3.5 years, through the amazing highs and horrible lows. Thank you for everything. No matter where I go, you'll always be in my heart.

Thanks, Dunc.

"I was terrified of the day he would figure it all out."

It's an unused line from an unfinished chapter of "Make The Man." Sam, our hero, has fallen for closeted Adam Duncan -- whether he wants to admit it or not. This bit is a flashback to the beginnings of their behind-closed-doors relationship. Duncan returns to Sam's dorm room after a night of partying, with the revelation that he'd played a drunken (is there any other kind?) game of Spin the Bottle. Duncan proudly boasts to his lover that he kissed not just girls, but two guys during the game -- one straight, one gay. The boy is obviously pleased with himself, intoxicated and innocent, boasting not out of conquest, but out of sheer "I kissed a boy in front of my friends" novelty glee.

And Sam? Sam is shattered. As Duncan lays his drunken frame atop him, Sam forces himself not to react, to hide his hurt and rising jealousy -- but in that very moment, he realizes the truth about his relationship.

Fiction? Call me the Anti-Frey.

I just came across the scene in this current fit of insomnia -- it's approaching 1AM, and my 6AM alarm is quickly approaching; why did I take a nap this evening? -- and I'm finding myself struck by it. Fuck, I've just been punched in the face, thrown to the ground, and kicked in the gut repeatedly by this find.

As Sam struggles with his desire to forbid Duncan from kissing other men, as he realizes that their relationship is enabling Duncan to stay in the closet, he finds himself happy to be trapped in the closet with him, in his dorm bed, under Duncan's weight.

"I'm holding you back, I thought. And I was, I knew I was, or at least felt it in that moment. Adam Duncan was new, new to all of this. Sure, he'd fucked a guy, and I never had. But I had experience, or something like it, that he didn't. I was nineteen and out. I thought I knew what it was all about. I was terrified of the day he would figure it all out."

And then...

"An image of his first night out at some gay club flashed in my mind. He'd go alone, probably with a fake ID, and he'd be so nervous he'd have to get wasted as quickly as possible. But then he'd be shirtless and sweaty before it was done, the center of attention. I pictured him giving in, kissing all those guys, those guys that weren't me, exploring, getting lost -- and I cringed.

"The knowledge that everybody wants you is intoxicating. I'd never felt it, but Duncan would."

My greatest fear during my two-and-a-half year relationship with the "real" Duncan was the day he'd come out. Though I cursed his closeted status every day, though I thought I wanted him out so we could really be together, I knew that once he was, we would be through. And I knew it and I feared it from the very beginning. This is one of the only pieces of the story I began to construct after I met my real-life frat-boy-friend; in fact, I wrote this in the first months of our involvement and, as the "Last Modified" date on the file reminds me, I haven't touched it since 2003.

So now, in 2006, he's out now and we're not together. He still says he needs me. He says I'm his best friend. And for once, I really don't know how I feel about any of this. Except, you know, kicked in the gut by an old Word file...

"No matter how much I suspected he thought he loved me, I wouldn't be enough. I wanted him so much. Wanted him to love me, all of me, and only me. And yet I knew I would never get what I wanted.

"I knew what I was signing up for back in January. But this wasn't it.

"I was trapped there in the dorm bed, his weight against me. Was this love? The routine, the jealousy? What a strange thing to crave."

I still need to let that sit for a moment.

It may not mean much to you, dear reader, but to me, I'm realizing, that's kind of a big deal.

Since I've spent most of my twenties in long-term relationships -- my first a bit over a year, and my second over two-and-a-half -- I've had built-in Valentines for the past five years. The whole VD spectacle never mattered much to me, not since I was kid, trading superhero valentines with other boys (and, by teacher's mandate, girls too) -- but when you're older, when you have a boyfriend, it's kind of just automatic. You get used to it, I suppose, used to having somebody on the big day when the world tells you that you should be with somebody. You get used to going out to dinner, getting a card, maybe a flower. You get used to not sleeping alone -- whether the person is in bed with you or hundreds of miles away.

You get used to the idea that somebody loves you.

This year I haven't thought much about the impending "holiday" -- at least not until today. Upon realizing that it is, indeed, tomorrow, I found myself stuck with the above revelation. Five years of Valentines. And this year -- no one to "Be Mine." I didn't think it would bother me, but I guess it does.

Tonight I find myself listening to Daniel Bettingfield's "If You're Not the One" -- yes, on purpose -- and thinking about the past, about the loves of my life. I'm left with fond memories and bad tastes, a longing in my heart and a general respect for my single status...

And -- come now -- how else does Patrick Raymond deal with the past?

00s-Something: VD Edition
• 2001 - We are going to keep it simple. We agreed. I only buy him a balloon. It has a hippo on it, or maybe an elephant. On second thought, it could've been a monkey. But by the time I tie it to his car while he's in class, I decide to give him another surprise. So then comes the flowers. The mix CD. A nice card. Some chocolate body paint... Joe and I have been dating under a month and I am totally caught up. I think I am falling in love with him...

• 2002 - Joe, my now long distance boyfriend, visits for the weekend. We have a nice dinner at an expensive Italian restaurant immediately after having hot sex on top of my desk. I don't remember what gifts we exchanged or what else we did that weekend, but I do remember the restaurant had a very tasty seafood dish. We drink wine. We break up the next month.

• 2003 - I spend the night in my dorm room alone while Duncan, my secret frat-boy-friend, is out at a party. Though I tell myself I'm not, I'm waiting for him, knowing he'll come home to me, even though the expectation was never spoken. He does, late in the night. He lets himself in and slips into bed with me, drunk, cold, and beautiful. He tastes like fruit punch and he falls asleep in my arms. It is perhaps the simplest and best Valentine's Day of my life.

• 2004 - February 14th is spent en route to Cincinnati -- but my love and I quietly celebrate both the non-holiday and our health at the Olive Garden earlier in the week. It's an odd and reflective year -- and odd that I have a publicly posted record of the occasion.

• 2005 - While in Minnesota, I cyber-fight with a then-estranged Duncan. I return home a few days later to find two red carnations waiting in my apartment along with a note saying "Sorry." We make up and break up some six months later.

• 2006 - Single. I will rise at 6AM to hit the gym and then likely put in a 14 hour work day. Evening meetings will keep me at work until at least 9, after which I will likely retire home, alone, and lock myself up in my room, sinking into bed with the Olympics. I may like it. I may hate it. But this is my life right now.

At least Batman loves me.

And he always will.

The moon was full or nearly so, and I was feeling bold. We stood side by side overlooking the city of Burlington at 1a.m., my six-foot-two frame nearly towering over all five-eight of him, just like I like it. The view wasn't much from the top of the mall parking deck, but when his shoulder lightly nudged me, I knew I wasn't the only one who saw something in that night.

I turned to him, my intentions clear.

"Kiss me," he breathed, as if he had a choice.

I slipped one arm past him, placing it on the small of his back, and drew him into me. He looked up and then -- we kissed. We were kissing. The cold November air swirled around us. And it was good.

Conversation was decent -- not as sparkling as it was online or the phone, but it was playful and smart, slightly better than average, equal parts comfortable and awkward. But midway through the meal, I realized that I was following his lead with conversation as well, letting him call all the shots. I was quiet, shy, nervous, and uninteresting. I was choking, or so I thought, and then it hit me: This is my first date since Duncan and I broke up. This is my first date in three years. That realization didn't help the quickly deteriorating situation.

He ordered dessert and I followed suit. After he revealed that he was a notoriously bad tipper, we left the bistro and walked for a bit in the cold, dark Montpelier night. There was no after-dinner plan, and I realized that we were walking to our cars. There was a handshake, vague mention of "doing this again," and the specific assertion that the ball was in my court. There was no clear expression of interest or rejection. I hit the highway back home convinced that I was not ready to date yet and that I would never see this man again.

About a week later, and not long after his call, I saw him through the wall of windows, bouncing and bounding towards the coffeeshop, and I projected my feelings on him -- nervousness, excitement, dread. He wore a bright green shirt under an Oscar de la Renta blazer, a bold, unmatching red scarf tight around his throat. This is not the kind of guy I date, I thought -- and yet the sight of him made me smile to myself, but only for a moment. I was careful to look down at my drink before he could catch me staring.

I looked up again only after I heard the door open and knew he was headed my way. I gave a friendly grimace to the right of my face as our eyes met –- his, deep amber spotlights, hidden by his designer glasses and enhanced by his thick, brown eyebrows -- and, somehow, I knew that night would be different.

Yesterday, when I got home from work, I was gripped with the sudden and immediate desire to finally watch Before Sunset, which I picked up on DVD used a month or two ago at Blockbuster. So I did. Now I'm not a big Ethan Hawke fan, but 1995's Before Sunrise -- which spawned this 2004 sequel -- is one of my favorite films. Top Five, perhaps. A few years back, I was excited to hear that auteur Richard Linklater was making a follow-up to such a great flick, but for some reason I avoided it when it was in theaters. I avoided it when it came out on DVD, too. I avoided it even after owning the damn thing for over a month. Despite hearing overwhelmingly good buzz about Sunset, I couldn't bring myself to watch it. I was afraid that revisiting the whole affair might just ruin it.

Was I right? Fifteen or so hours after the end credits began to roll, I'm still haunted by the film. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Overall, it affected me, perhaps more than the first one. I found myself both enthralled and disgusted, pleased and disappointed, by the whole thing, and afterwards, I spiralled into a small sort of funk that I now teeter back on the edge of, even as I type. I loved this film. I hated this film. I was shaken by this film.

I am a romantic. Try as I might not to be, I am. That's why the original is one of my favorite films. I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it... And the follow-up was just as sweet and passionate as the first. Seeing Before Sunrise in high school, back in 1996, was important. It was one of those rare formative films, one that actually, truly shaped the kind of lover I would become, the kind of love I longed for. So much so that everytime I am on a bus or train, I fantasize about what might be. Every single time.

There are moments I love, and there are moments when I love the whole damn movie. The chemistry between Hawke (Jesse) and Julie Delpy (Celine) is still there. It's palpaple. When they are sitting on the bench at the film's midpoint, gazing at each other, my heart ached for them to touch, to kiss, to be together. In the car, as Celine reaches out to Jesse, and they almost connect... it's electric. It's maddening. When Delpy dances at the end, I want so badly to be heterosexual, to be Jesse, to have her. But, ultimately, watching two thirty-somethings carry on this way, after nine years apart, fills me with a great sadness. Why, when the film ends on such an ambigious, but hopeful, note? Because I don't want that to be my sad, silly, romantic future. Will I, in my thirties, still be chasing the same romantic ideals as I do now? Will I be past all the dramatics yet, happy, settled, in love? Or will I be unfullfilled, chasing after one foolish notion or another? There lies the film's flaw -- nine years later, I don't want to relate to these two. And yet I still did. This, ultimately, is why Before Sunset shook me.

In eight hours, his plane will land and, for the first time in five weeks, for the first time since we broke up, I will have to face my now-ex-boyfriend.

To say that I'm anxious would be a understandment of some hyperbole that I can't even think of right now.

Five weeks ago, when I dropped him at the airport, it was with a heavy heart. We had spent an amazing week together and I couldn't wait for those five weeks -- then supposed to be six -- to be over, to have my boyfriend back with me. After two-and-a-half years together, we were in a good place. We were to move in together that fall. We'd be separated for a long, hard six weeks while he took a job in New York City -- but upon his return, we were to be better than ever.

Now I find it hard to believe that five weeks have passed. That I have been single for a month. I find myself dreading the moment I have to lay my eyes upon him again, and the moment after that, and all the moments that are to come in this new world where we're not together and he's coming out. Things are so messy that I don't know how I'm going to look at him -- but I know that I have to.

What happened? It's easy to point to the big stuff, the stuff that pushed us over the edge. The lying and cheating and betrayal. It's easy to just point to that, to not look at those things as a symptom of trouble elsewhere in the relationship, of the baggage that two people brought to the table over and over in this attempt to be together. There's not enough distance for me to truly, in my heart, recognize that we are in two different places and we broke up because of that. We broke up -- or we should have broken up -- because, at 25, I'm clearer each day with what I want out of life and love, and I wasn't getting those things from my partner. I couldn't get those things from my partner.

I wish it had ended like that. I wish we could've been too mature adults and talked about all of this, and come to a mature conclusion, before things go so horribly, horribly messy.

I still hurt because of what he did. All I can do is point to it, his sins. And what he did? Perhaps someday, after all the smoke has cleared, I can understand it. Perhaps I can forgive it. But right now? It torments me every day. It makes me sick in my stomach, in my soul. I write of this now only because... well, I feel I need to.

What did he do?

He lied and he cheated. Within an open relationship, he found a way to cheat. Again. He hooked up with two men in New York and denied it. What's worse, I asked him directly about it, giving him an easy option to come clean. I asked him to tell me anything he might have to clear the air about -- I asked him because I was willing, for the last time, to put my trust issues aside. To give him one more chance, to trust him. If he lied to me again, I told him, we would be over.

"Are you sure there is nothing that you have to tell me?" I asked one last time.

He said no. He swore to God.

I gave an uncharacteristic ultimatum, and he still lied to my face -- err, ear. It took some cyber-trickery on my part, but a few days later, he admitted to sleeping with these men and lying about it. He cried and carried on, begged for forgiveness.

And I dumped him.

He wrote me a poem that night. And beyond that, he continually professed his love, saying how much he wanted and needed me, over the phone, in emails, and in text messages. It was a tough time, but soon we slipped easily into a kind of friendship. We casually, and through the distance, allowed each other back into our lives as cautious friends.

But I would later learn that, within a week of our break-up, he had staged a betrayal of a... brutality I had thought only existed in soap operas. He let some aging actor, a stranger, one of those he cheated on me with -- he let him take something that I was never allowed, not really, in our years together. He let this stranger, on their second meeting, fuck him. And then he told me all about it.

To think of it still makes my fists clench. Makes me want to cry. Makes my heart sink, and break a little more. I don't think I've ever felt anything stronger than the anger I felt when he told me, anger which was just poorly masked pain. I screamed and howled into the phone at him as he sobbed, begging for forgiveness.

It was not a pretty sight.

And despite his vow to never see this man again, he's continued to. They appear to be dating. Of all the thousands of gay men in New York, he had to chose to pursue something with this one -- one that, technically, brought about the end of our relationship, and the one that he let fuck him. He could have fucked half the city, behind my back, while we were still together, and it wouldn't have hurt as much as this does.

I wonder if I can ever get over this. I mean, I know I will get over him, over us, but this betrayal, it's sort of shaken me to the core. I know I will get over this, all of it -- I have to -- but right now, I can't help but wonder how...

He returns, tonight, farther along in his process than at any point in our relationship. He returns a betrayer, not a friend, not the boy that tried but couldn't give me what I needed. He returns from five weeks in the Big Apple a new man, leaving behind a new "friend" in the city along with the remains of our relationship. Two and a half years later, he's coming out -- and, just as I feared, away from me. After all this time, after all that work, I've lost my best friend and my truest love. I feel like I'm left with nothing but a few good memories that are overshadowed by a really big hurt.

I need to face him. Tonight, at the airport. I'm as prepared to do this as I'll ever be, and it's on my terms as much as I can muster. Maybe, once I see his face, I can leave him -- and all of this hurt -- behind me. I don't expect closure, not tonight, maybe not ever... I don't even expect confrontation. I just expect it to happen.

I just need to see him again. Then I'll know my fate.

As some readers and friends have noted, in supportive emails and IMs, things here at 20sum have slowed in the past few weeks -- nearly to a hault.

Why is that? some wonder. Is everything OK?

My answer? You got a new 90s-Something last week, for the first time this month. What more do you want?

But seriously, folks -- Everything is OK. Not everything is great, but I am doing fine. Obviously, as regular readers know, a lot has happened in the past few weeks. A lot of things that start with the letter B. Birthday. Break-up. Baby-Mobile. Boston, and a Boy that gives me hope. These and other changes have me on the edge of a new world -- one that's not quite brave yet, and a little too scary.

I haven't been posting because, well, I've been busy -- but, really, all I want to do is write about Duncan. About the break-up. About all the shit that comes along with this. OR -- I want to write about a new guy who makes me smile, but who may have come too soon, and it certainly seems like I'd be jumping the gun to gush about him on here, let alone be starting something with him.

I have been writing a bit about it all, but posting what I come up with feels wrong. It feels too vulnerable. It feels to angry or attacking. This blog has always been about expression and honesty -- but right now I think I've been doing a lowsy job of that with the people I care about, in my real life. I need to start there

I desperately do not want to be in the midst of a breakup or a breakdown right now. This is a process, a process I want to be done with yesterday. I want to be over Duncan and this relationship immediately, even though I know it doesn't work that way.

Lately, I feel like I'm walking around every day with the mantra of I'm Fine, I'm Fine -- trying really hard to convince everybody, especially myself. I don't want to be a needy sadsack in the midst of a messy break-up, don't want to be that friend, who's fragile, high-maintence. I guess the bright side is that I really am fine 90% of the time -- but that's still a long way from 100%. If I am going to be that "needy sadsack," it should be with real people in my real life.

II don't want this to be a crutch. (I also don't want these posts, even this one, to seem like passive-aggressive jabs at Duncan, or a "call for help" friends who read 20sum.) If anybody gets to see me vulnerable, it should be my loved ones. If I'm going to be talking about this stuff, I should be doing it with my real friends. With my family. With Duncan, even. Not semi-anonymously on the internet. Much as I love the hundreds of strangers that visit this site daily...

Besides, I don't want this to be one of those blogs. Bitter. Angry. Bitchy. Well, any more than it's always been...

My life is changing, evolving. So am I. And so, too, will this blog.

Stay tuned, won't you?

[Warning to readers: Another post-breakup post follows. If you are a reader who dislikes these -- saaaaay, from Philadelphia, with an IP Address of 170.115.25.13, who likes to comment -- you may not wish to read further.]

Note to self: Don't watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind again for at least six months. It may have quickly become one of your favorite movies in recent months, but if you continue to watch it, you may find it so unbearable that you simply hate it.

I couldn't function at work yesterday afternoon so I took off (surprise surprise) and ended up with said DVD in my player. I thought it might help with post-breakup feelings, but instead it fed into them. In hindsight, all I can say is "DUH!"

My relationship with "Duncan" is dead. Any hope of sustaining a friendship? Looking increasingly unlikely. And increasingly undesirable. Things are messy, so very messy. And I chose to watch a movie about two fucked-up, tortured souls with a love so warped that's its perfect? A movie about two people who love each other so much but can't help but hurt each other? Sometimes, I am a mashocist.

So the question of the day -- If I lived in the world of Eternal Sunshine, would I subject myself to the procedure and erase him from my memory?

Right now, right this very instant, my answer is a very strong yes.

Ah, the process of breaking up. In case you hadn't guessed, of the Five Stages, I'm slipping out of "Denial" and right heading towards "Anger." At 95mph.

Yesterday, while I was still at work, before watching the film, Duncan revealed something so... "evil, selfish, [and] cruel" (his words - not mine) that it pushed me for the edge. I felt a rage stronger than anything I've felt in my life. Stronger than love or happiness, stronger than loneliness or sadness. Stronger than any anger or jealous I'd ever felt. For few, very long moments, it was raw, unrestrained, and utterly primal -- and I was completely overcome. Perhaps the only thing that could overshadow it is the terror that followed it -- I scared myself, bad -- and maybe the regret for making myself so vulnerable and expressing such disturbing emotion to him, Duncan, over the phone.

I'm starting to realize that it wasn't really anger. It was raw pain just manifesting itself like that. It's what I do, how I work.

I'm also realizing that this breakup is a big deal. And I'm not really allowing it to be. "I'm fine. I'm fine." I'm not. I'm functioning. I'm not a total mess. But there is pain that I have to deal with. There is shit. And it's not going to be pleasant. The most important relationship of my life is over. This isn't the I've lost my best friend. And it's been in a horrible, horrible hurtful way. Sure, I dumped him but only because he gave me no choice. I'm still the fool. I've been betrayed and, fuck, I hurt. And just when I think I can't be pushed any lower by him? You guessed it.

I didn't think I would be back here again. I just want to be at the end of this process. To be over it. Him. But it doesn't work that way.

Today, without hestitation, I would erase him.

I hate this.

What a long, strange, wonderful, sad week it's been... They say "Quarter Life Crisis." I used to say, "Fuck you, Mayer-poser." But now...

My life is different than it was a week ago. I am different. And it's not just new glasses, a haircut, different facial hair, those lost five pounds. It's deeper. It's more profound. It's not just another birthday. It is a milestone.

I feel like I am -- or I'm at least becoming -- a whole person for the first time... in a long time? Ever? A change is gonna come. A change has happened, is happening.

But this change, it's not without it's growing pains.

"Duncan" and I broke up last night. 2 1/2 years. Over. Gone. Done. And though we've all heard it all before, this time is for real. The details? They don't matter. Not here. I hesitate to even write about this "news," to post it. But I realize I have to. Not for your sake, dear readers. And not for yours, Dunc. But for my own.

I am deeply sad and deeply hurt but, somehow, inside me, I know it is what needed to happen. Despite the pain, I made the right choice -- for both of us. I still love him -- that doesn't just stop instantly -- and I still want to believe in him. That he can come out, figure himself out, and become a whole person. That he can realize how great he really is and believe in himself. That I can do the same. And that, maybe, we can reconnect -- maybe not in love, but in friendship. Someday.

Belief. Makes things real. Makes things feel... feel alright.

Last night at 2a.m., restless, I found myself parked outside of his old dorm, the one he lived in our first months together. I found myself gazing up at his old window, remembering all the days I gazed out onto warm spring mornings while he still slept, the sun shining, the shuttle-buses noisy as they passed.

On the cosmic radio in his car, the album rock station I listened to played "Under the Milky Way" by The Church.

Wish I knew what you were looking for
Might have known what you would find...

I grimaced, hit SEEK. It found Alanis.

You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you --

I teared up. SEEK.

Jack Johnson.

I can't always be waiting waiting on you
I can't always be playing playing your fool

What the fuck? Fed up with this creepy radio, I hit CD. It resumed in the middle of a song.

It was the Garden State soundtrack. The one I bought him at the Target in Minneapolis.

So let go, Jump in
Oh well whatcha waiting for?
It's alright
'Cause there's beauty
In the breakdown.

I shut the stereo off. I didn't cry, but I should have. Instead I made a noise, something so guttural it scared me. It was short and deep, so deep that it didn't sound like something that could ever come out of me. It felt like somebody's stabbed me in the gut.

I half expected the stereo to come to life. To play Hedwig.

That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.

I sat there in the car, my chest tight and my stomach sick. But I was numb on the outside, only tiny tingles of realization touching my skin, the tips just barely grazing me. It's over. I wanted to let loose that guttural howl, to scream out into the night, out at that dorm, out at the past, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Instead, I headed home to my empty apartment, feeling truly alone for the first time in over two years.

But, despite all this... 2 1/2 years. Not wasted. I wish it could've ended better, differently, but...

But?

Absolutely no regrets.

Haven't you heard? I turn 25 on Tuesday. Happy Birthday to me.

25 marks the official end of adolescence, or so I've come to understand. The frontal lobe of my brain has (or soon will) finish its development. I will, physiologically, neurologically, finally, be a man.

Frontal lobe? What's that? Well, it's considered "our emotional control center and home to our personality" [neuroskills]. It sounds like a pretty cool part of the brain. Perhaps the coolest. And I was glad to learn that mine is finally complete. Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Frontal lobes have been found to play a part in impulse control, judgement, language, memory, motor function, problem solving, sexual behavior, socialization and spontaneity. Frontal lobes assist in planning, coordinating, controlling and executing behavior. [wikipedia]

...our mental ability to think beyond the moment, to remember the past or muse about the future, is a function of the frontal lobes. "A central feature of consciousness is the ability to control the fourth dimension, time. Humans can effortlessly move their internal mental set from the present moment to a past remembrance and just as easily project themselves into a future event." [Writing World]

It is, and that's what this is about. In short, a fully developed frontal lobe allows adults to fully and maturely see what's possible, today and tomorrow, and to make decisions based upon this.

Possibilities. Funny thing, I used to think that all I've ever seen was possibilities.

454 days, 4 hours, and 54 minutes ago, I lamented this dreaded birthday because, for me, once upon a time, it was more ominous than 30, 40, or even 75. All my life, I lived by the motto "Married by 25, Kids by 30" -- when I was straight, when I was gay, when I was single, when I was partnered -- that was the big plan. Thankfully I abandoned that strict mantra a while back, even rebelled against it. Rejecting one rigid path -- marriage -- for another -- not marriage, never. Man, was I ever a foolish early twenty-something!

At twenty-five, see... at twenty-five, I have the sudden clarity of a fully developed frontal lobe. It's all very Zen or Matrix or something. I see it all. I see the error in my ways.

I might get hitched. I might not. It's that simple.

Not very profound, huh?

But what's new is that I'm starting to figure out what I want, what I value, truly. It's a process that's been going on for a while, but it's all starting to make sense a little better. It's like I just got a new pair of glasses, the prescription just a little stronger, and I'm seeing the world just a little clearer. [Ed. Note: Please excuse this poor imagery, as I did, indeed, get new glasses today.]

Dust is settling, lobes are finishing. And I'm learning what kind of man I want to be. What kind of life I want to live. What kind of man I want to love.

And I know I want a true partner, a realistic relationship like those I envy. I want to write. I want a dog. I want a kid. I want a house -- no, a home, finally a home -- to settle in. And I think I want it to be in Vermont, maybe back here after years away, perhaps never leaving. And I'm learning that there are many ways to achieve all of this -- to be happy.

What else do I know?

Shit.

I don't want this all tomorrow. Tomorrow, after all, is my birthday. And tonight? In another life, tonight might've been my Bachelor Party. But come Tuesday, if I have a cake, what might I wish for as I blow out the candles? Now that would be telling...

None of this is new ground, really. I'm not going to kid myself and pretend I know anything about any of this. I have no wisdom, really, only my honesty. And though, sometimes, 25 feels old, even to an "old soul" like me, I know I've got miles to go. And that's actually pretty damn exciting.

My frontal lobe is telling me all sorts of ways to end this post -- thoughtful, insightful, perhaps profound conclusions -- but all I want to say?

It's getting late. I love my boyfriend and I love my friends. Happy 25th to me!

A couple hours ago I dropped my boyfriend off at the airport. I may not see him for another six weeks. He's spending the next two-and-a-half months on a job in New York City and I'm not sure if I will be visiting. I'm happy for him -- it's a great opportunity both personally and professionally, as he's never even been to the city -- and I knew this was coming for months. I even had a test run with a two week seperation while he visited family. I was prepared for this. But after spending a really great week together, it was harder to say good-bye that I would've thought.

My heart sunk the instant our hug ended. I turned and I started back to the car. It sunk faster, deeper. By the time I got back to my apartment, I was downright sad. We are in a good place with our relationship and the reality of this separation has finally sunk in. My lazy, hazy days of summer will be spent without him this year. I'm without my best friend for six whole weeks. I know New York will be great for him, and summer here in Vermont will be good for me, too. But still...

For all my bitching and complaining about the kid, I'll be damned -- I miss him already.

Two years ago today, Duncan first told me he loved me.

It was our last night together before graduation, and he was sober. We lay on the futon mattress on the floor of my dorm room, where we'd spent so many nights before. I was on my back. He was on his side, snuggled up tight to me, his head on my shoulder and chest like a pillow -- just like I like it.

Our senior year fling had become something more than either of us had signed up for. It was supposed to just be hot, secret, no-strings sex. He was taking one of his first peeks out of the closet. I had just gotten over my first, real boyfriend, Joe, and I wasn't exactly eager to start something up. It was the perfect match-up for the casual thing we both were looking for.

But the boy who followed me home from class a few months earlier had become some kind of boyfriend. For a stretch of nearly three months, we spent literally every night together -- sometimes even without that secret sex -- hiding out in the sanctuary provided by one of our single rooms. We would study together, have dinner, watch Adult Swim, cuddle... all things that seemed so harmless. We were just hanging out. We weren't dating, and this sure as hell wasn't a relationship. But, despite having happened in the closet (or perhaps because of that), the ease with which our non-relationship evolved in those early months, the deep intimacy I fell into with him effortlessly, almost from day one, kept me sane and happy during my last months of college. I wasn't going to let myself fall in love, but he took my heart by surprise.

I think I knew I loved him the night I found out my aunt died and he let me cry in his arms. I first told him I loved him sometime after that when, very drunk from a frat party, he snuck in my room and ended up sobbing in my arms about his insecurities. I think it was the most vulnerable I've ever seen another human being make themselves. And how could I not tell him, even if he didn't say it back? He didn't, of course, not then. But I felt glad I'd said it. I meant it.

That last night, two years ago, we lay in silence, having just decided to just be friends, parting ways in the morning for new destinations apart from each other. It was the smart thing to do. Let go. Move on. Cherish what we had. I had fallen in love, unexpectedly, and it had only enhanced my last college memories. I meant a lot to him, he said. He was a different person than he was back in January, he said. And that was because of me, he said. I believed, in his own way, that Duncan maybe loved me back. It was something I told myself to feel less vulnerable, having said "I love you" to him on a few occasions and never having heard it back. I was ok with that but, still, I fantasized. Maybe someday, I thought back then, in a few years, I'll get an email from him. And he'll be out, and he'll be happy, and he'll tell me that he once loved me, but he didn't know it back then. He'll tell me that I meant as much to him as he meant to me. Someday, I thought. And only imagining him saying those words, not actually hearing them, somehow helped me let go of this thing we had.

But Ryan Adam's "When The Stars Go Blue" was playing -- one of the songs on the mix CD we listen to each night in bed. And someday came a lot sooner.

I was trying to fall asleep, but I knew that sleep wouldn't come easy that night. I heard him stir a tiny bit. And then: "I love you, Pat," he said.

My heart... my heart started pounding. And I couldn't help but cry. He said the words I thought maybe I'd never hear him say. And he changed the course of both our lives in that moment.

Letting go became impossible. And things became messy. Five months has become two years and five months. A lot has changed, but he's still some kind of boyfriend. He's still one of the most important people in my life. Maybe it's not as easy as it once was, but, above all else, he's become my best friend.

I still love you, Duncan.

Where do you go when you're lonely?

This song came on as I hung out in Borders Cafe earlier tonight. And it gave me a bit, a tiny bit, of much-needed clarity -- even if it doesn't quite fit what's swirling around my life.

It's one of my favorite love songs. Ever.

Gavin DeGraw -- More Than Anyone
(Listen for eval purposes only -- if you like, buy from iTunes!)

You need a friend, I'll be around
Don't let this end before I see you again
What can I say to convince you to change your mind?

(more)

So Duncan is gone for the week -- and I actually already miss him. I would've thought this phenomenon would terrify me as of late, but instead its actually comforting. With all the crap that's been happening with my parents, I've been feeling kind of distant in the "love" department. And while I'm not calling him to profess any of this, I am feeling it -- and I'm posting it on the internet. Which is something.

Two bright red carnations were waiting for me in my apartment when I returned home yesterday.

This doesn't make everything better, but it helps.

*Crash scratches his head, looks around the hotel room. It's quiet. His roommate is reading. Inside crash is screaming in frustration.*

Almost 1400 miles, and I'm still not far enough away.

It's the eve of Valentine's Day, and I'm in Minnesota. And Duncan still finds a way to get under my skin.

He loves me. He can't stand me physically. We have hot sex. He betrays me. He writes a heartfelt love note.

He's looking for "Right Now" on Manhunt...

We're fighting on IM. I'm confused, angry, tired... just as any boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/open-relationship-sex-best-friend would be on this hallmark holiday when things are so fucking up in the air.

It's snowing out and the city is beautiful, really. "We'll figure out," he says. I hope so. And soon.

So I'm working out today, sweating away on an Arc Trainer, pseudo-ex-boyfriend-type-person Duncan next to me. Kelly Clarkson pops onto my iPod. It's Miss Independent. And I'm suddenly slightly dizzy. I close my eyes for a second and think, "I'm gonna pass out." But it passes. And so does the song. And, soon, Dunc leaves his machine.

It's then that I start to wonder what was up with that moment. It wasn't physical -- I feel fine, really -- but I was overwhelmed for a few seconds.

I think about June 14, 2003. The annual June Birthday Bash in Malden, a.k.a. FlipFest. It was the summer after I graduated from college and five months into everything with Duncan. On his last night at school a month earlier, he finally told me he loved me. The next day, he left and we ended our closeted affair as just friends.

But a month later, he's visiting me in Massachusetts for the party. We are in the dark, in the bedroom I share with Yelli, on my futon mattress in the corner. The party outside is still in full swing, hours after it started. We're drunk, and so we kiss hungrily, touch desperately, and... we cry. We profess our love. He says I'm amazing, that I mean everything to him. He says he wants to be my boyfriend. It is everything I never thought I could have with him.

It's then that Mike, from the party, bangs on the door -- "Miss Independent is playing! It's your favorite song!" he shouts to me -- and then he opens it, finding us alone in the dark, but seeing nothing. He laughs, embarrassed, and shuts the door. Soon after, we face the party, red-faced, trying to make people believe we were just talking.

Today, on the Arc Trainer, everything -- past, present, and future with Dunc, everything from our first meeting to his first "I Love You," our first "date" to our last fight, everything from being content with him to being ashamed of my gut -- it all hit me with that song, in that moment at the gym. And just like everything else...

It passed.

It's 11 and I'm home. That was interesting, I suppose. I'm fairly drunk -- surprisingly articulate for how drunk I am. My Friendster meeting turned out to be fine. Fine if you like listening to someone else talk a lot about boring and unimportant things, treating them like they are the most important and crucial bits of info out there in the world. He was nice enough, but not my cup of tea. For a friend, or a date, or a fuck-buddy, or whatever. He was cute, I guess, but not quite like his picture. And though I went into this without any expectations, I guess I am a little disappointed. Towards the end, I was actually thinking, "I need to fuck him or ditch him" and, thankfully, I was able to get rid of him through the latter means. I'm home now and I'm waiting for some take-out. Might go to a party, might not.

I miss Yelli. I miss Malden and Boston. I miss college. I miss the way things used to be with Dunc. I miss having a life. But on the bright side: Duncan aside, I think if it ever comes down to it, I am ready to start dating again. And doofy little Friendster meetings and the like are thickening my skin for it. That's an up, eh?

I suppose this is exactly why part of me hates all this online blog/journal stuff from unqualified folks like himself. Unnecessary posts about unnecessary things. Forget drunk-dialing. I'm drunk-blogging.

This is on my mind:

It's quarter of nine, and I am freaking out. This non-date meet-up thing has me on edge. I've spent large portions of the last hour trying to salvage my horrible hair, so much so that I didn't give as much thought to an outfit. So what I'm wearing is very thrown together and my hair looks like shit. Plus Duncan reads this damn blog-thing now, and he IMed me while I was in the bathroom to wish me luck on my "date." Argh.

To calm myself, I just took half of one of my painkillers left over from my wisdom teeth and did a shot of "Mount Gay Rum," Mango-flavored, which my mom gave me at Christmas. I'm quite certain I may throw up and I have to leave in ten minutes. Or less. I'm so not the laid-back guy I think I am. I am a freakin' high-maintence bundle of nerves.

Oh fuck. I am not ready to date ever again. Love ya, Dunc.

Tonight at nine I'm meeting someone from Friendster. I'm not entirely sure why I'm doing this, except he suggested it (after many emails), I'm bored, and he has a cute picture online. We had a decent phone conversation (he has a nice, deep voice -- with just the right hint of "gay") and then he invited me out, to some bar I've never been (but it's close to me), and I said yes.

Of course, he is a cool hipster type, I am a complete dork, and this will be a total disaster. I have no expectations, I just hope I don't make a fool out of myself.

Wish me luck.

Walking home from work today, "Your Body is a Wonderland" shuffled onto my iPod. Now I, like you, have the same gut reaction to hearing that song in 2005: a little bit of yagita (or agita, if you will) comes up. But today I remembered that is our song. Yes, Duncan and me.

We haven't had "a song" in a while. We're not that kind of "couple." But way back, two years ago, we were more couple-y and "Wonderland" was very much the anthem of our "hey, we've spent spent every night together for two months" streak during those early days. It was so closeted and so messed up then (and it isn't now?), but it was so good.

We had a good night last night, after passive-aggresively fighting over away messages throughout the weekend. Housewives, domestic behavior, and a sleepover. I didn't realize exactly how much things had changed over the past two years. Maybe it's not as simple or easy, and maybe we only spend one night together a week, and maybe we get sick of each other a lot easier -- but things are still pretty good.

The song just kind of hit me, just right, on the walk home. For the first time in a long time, I was touched. By John Mayer.

Damn, baby, you frusterate me...

For those of you counting, I suppose today is the closest thing that Duncan and I have to an anniversary. Today, we have "been together" for two years.

When I think of this milestone, I kind of get a headache. It's hard enough to wrap my head around the fact that two years of my life have flown by. Add to that the fact that those two years have been spent unceremoniously in love with the same man, and -- I won't lie -- it's kind of freaky.

It's funny, this two year thing really isn't a big deal. It's been a craaaaaaaaaazy ride and we still have some big up's and down's. But here we are. We haven't killed each other, and that's really the thing to celebrate. I don't know what I want, from life, from him. But for now, and for the past two years, it's great.

I won't even venture a guess on where I'll be in a year, let alone where we, that big collective him-and-me we, will be. But I'm not stressed about that. Regardless of how "together" we are in one year, or in ten, I have this funny little feeling, deep down inside me, that he'll always be in my life.

For better or for worse.

Nothing about Spanglish -- not the film itself, not the experience of seeing it -- sucked outright. But still...

Things with Duncan simmered down about half-way through our dinner at Quizno's, but until then, we hardly spoke to each other. Just enough for him to say, "The road's are bad," and me to reply, "We don't have to go then." But we still went and, as is part of the joy of living in Vermont, we nearly risked our lives on the snowy highway to drive to the theater. We were civil but short with each other until I discreetly pointed out a hot guy at another table. He was part of a foursome of sexy skiers, all college-aged, all still in some kind of ski gear -- but mine was the best. He had a nice, bright blue sweatshirt on. Lots of facial scruff. Some nice blue eyes. He was the shortest of the bunch, too. After I pointed him out to Dunc, the lines of communication seemed to be reopened, and we were back to normal.

So, yes, did I like the movie? I didn't dislike it, but I didn't love it. I hadn't read many glowing reviews, but one of my students told me it was the best film he'd seen all year. I'd assumed he meant 2004 but, in hindsight, maybe he meant '05. It would be my favorite film of the year, then, by default, as it's the only one I've seen thus far this year.

The acting is great. The story is good. There's some good, important (albeit very white-washed) stuff in there about culture, class, and race. It makes you laugh (rather, the trailers make you laugh, as practically all of the funny parts are spoiled in the ads) and, maybe, it makes you a little misty. But it lacks something. Oofmph. Za za zu. Nothing in Spanglish hit me, nothing that said, "Love me!" And so I remain lukewarm.

But there is a good message, somewhere in there, about communication. And about space. That was especially timely with my relationship that day.

So after the movie, we're in the car, waiting for it to warm up. He's just scrapped the windows. I turn to him.

I tell him, finally: "Don't ever walk out on me again."

"OK," he says. He's not giving me much. No eye-roll. No regret. He just complies.

"It's OK to walk away. To need a little space. To get away from me sometimes. But just say that. Don't ever just leave."

"OK." He's looking at me, and I can't read him. "Are we good?"

"We're good."

He puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking spot. As he goes to put it into first, I turn back to him.

"Kiss me."

He hesitates for one moment, and then he does. A tiny peck.

"Now drive away. I think some rednecks in that car saw us."

Duncan walked out of my apartment in the middle of a "discussion" this morning because he "felt like i needed to leave to avoid fighting." Thing is, doing so made something out of nothing -- said discussion was really minor, and couldn't been dealt with in two minutes, had he paid it a little mind. But, no, he just left. Without saying good-bye. Which pissed me off. And, apparently, he sent some phantom text message that never went through.

And, currently, I am having an AIM conversation with him that's going nowhere, about whether or not we are going to follow through with our plans to see a movie today.

And -- oh boy -- Sarah McLachlan's ever-depressing "Do What You Have To Do" comes on random iTunes right at this very moment...

It's not going well. I just typed "whatever" in his listing of the films playing.

I don't want to act this way towards him. It's just, two years in, it's so much fucking work... and I don't like this person I am, right now, fighting with him on IM. I don't like being with a person who would simply walk out during a fight.

All I want is for him to say, "I'm sorry."

Maybe I need some space. I just don't know.

Looks like it's Spanglish at 6:35. It will go one of two ways: (1) I will instantly forgive him the instant I see him, and we will have a good time, or (2) I will be a bitch, and it will be awkward and miserable, and no fun at all. I feel like I might just dump him tonight. That's can't be good. But maybe since I've predicted it, since I've written it, I've jinxed myself, and now it can't come true.

I haven't seen all of Dirty Dancing ever, in all my gay life, but isn't there some line like, "Nobody walks out on, baby. Nobody."? No? I'm making that up, aren't I?

Tonight, driving home after dropping Greg off, I put on one of my mom's CDs. Matchbox 20. Mad Season. (It was already in the changer!) I flipped through some songs, eventually landing on "If You're Gone."

Now, it was 1AM on Christmas. I had just spent two hours at the Holiday Inn bar -- with an odd group of high school friends and one slightly flirtatious drunk, twenty-six-year old, married Marine -- and another hour in the car, driving around with Greg, listening to Melissa Etheridge.I was a DD, but I certainly felt punch-drunk. My eyes were heavy, and all I wanted to do was get home and get into bed.

And then that song...

I am twenty, a sophomore in college. It's February of 2001. I'm living in a sixth floor dorm room with my then-best-friend-that's-a-boy-at-school Tom and a beautiful view of the mountains. I'm also in the second month of my epic relationship with Mr. Ex.

"If You're Gone" is a big single. It's on - either on TV, or on my computer - right after Ex has left. He goes down to his car and I watch from my sixth floor window as he leaves. I'm sad he's gone.

I am happy and I am in love. And even thought I haven't told anybody, everybody knows.

I think I'm scared
I think too much...

Saw Closer last night with Dunc. I fucking loved it. Beautiful people saying dirty things! Yes! But beyond all that "shocking" stuff, there is the Damien Rice song, and there is also something very true in this film, something about men, and sex, and jealousy, and love. I think Clive Owen's character, Larry, is simply brillant (and Clive Owen, himself, is just edible and amazing). In fact, I think I related very much to his monster of a man on screen. He is a caveman who can love, hate, fuck, be tender, be cruel, be a sex maniac, demand details, sob, and manipulate his way back into a relationship and then fuck with the guy who messed everything up.

Yeah, I saw a bit of myself in that.

Perhaps I am a man after all.

For my gift, I get to spend New Year's with him, in a hotel, in Boston. I'm surprised by this, and happy, too. Here's hoping it doesn't turn into a huge disaster. Fingers crossed, ok?

OK, I give up.

Banker stood me up. Again. Je suis un grand imbécile.

He didn't call, as discussed. And the number he gave me turned out to be some girl's cell phone... GRRR.

...to "see other people," apparently.

So I talked to Banker tonight, on the phone. You know, the one who stood me up on our non-date on Saturday. He has a very cute voice. We made small talk. We also made plans to meet up for an after-work coffee thing tomorrow evening.

It's no big deal. It's another non-date in my book. And here's hoping I don't get stood up again.

I am done wrapping presents for the night. I Love the 80s is on. 1986. Hey, remember Garbage Pail Kids?

Got drunk last night, by myself, in my apartment, and then ventured out to Pearls alone. Rejection will do that to you. It was fairly busy, but very dark. I couldn't see anything. Got a #9 and was very shy. Chatted a bit with a couple people I knew, including the cute, straight bartender I love. Left after one drink. Then annoyed Yelli during SNL with a drunk dial.

Duncan was at a party all night, from which he text messaged me around 2, unprovoked, saying he'd be over soon. I passed out and then woke up at 5AM, with him nowhere to be found. I proceeded to freak out and stay up until 10. I slept a bit and then fought with him shortly thereafter. It sucked.

Went Christmas shopping ALL afternoon with some students. Spent too much money. But felt better. And D are better now, too.

I feel so silly. Over the past week, I've talked, exactly twice, to this guy online (yeah, no wonder Dunc and I are having "problems"). Let's call this guy Banker. Now, Banker's brand new to town (this week!) -- cute (juding from one pic), smart (college educated!), young (26!), and seemingly together. We chatted randomly earlier in the week, then again last night. He seemed like the kind of guy I could flirt with online, and maybe become friends with in the real world. And since I'm lacking in the Friends-in-Burlington Department, and was feeling kind of lonely last night, I decided to take a chance.

We decided to meet up, in real life, for dinner tonight. I gave him my number, and we made a plan for the next day.

I told Duncan last night when he came over for sleepies. He was cool with my "date." Today, Big D and I went out to lunch, and I then spent the afternoon making a killer Holiday iMix for my student employees. I was really, as much as I hate to admit it, sitting around by the phone, waiting for Banker to ring me up, to make dinner plans, and make a new friend.

Five o'clock came and went. Then six o'clock. I started to get hungry. Seven came and went. Eight. And now, here we are, at nine o'clock.

I've been stood up.

Yeah, I feel silly. And maybe a little shitty. And I keep thinking -- what the fuck? Why didn't he call me?

Did he get into some car wreck out in the snow? Did the phone get shut off at his new place? Did he Google me and find that unflattering picture of me on the staff page of my department's website? Did somebody "get to him first" and bad mouth me? Or was this cool, cute, smart, seemingly real and genuine guy really just -- a fake?

Aw, fuck this. I do have a "boyfriend," afterall. How can I bitch? ... I don't know what I'll do if/when I'm ever back on the market and dating. I can't even handle making new friends. Rejection sucks!

I feel sorry for myself, and maybe you should do the same. Pity party for me.

Maybe I'll brave the snow and go out, alone, for the first time in ages. I kind of feel like an adventure.

Duncan and I almost broke up tonight. I'm loathing drama of any kind right now, especially relationship drama, so I'll spare most of the details. Let's just say it started as a small spat and quickly escalated into something larger. I walked home from work, fuming, in the rain. He scoured the streets of Burlington, frantic, in his car. We fought, came close to that edge again, and then ended up saving things before we plunged past the point of no return.

So I guess we're good. I don't really know how I feel about all this. Is it wrong that I don't want to think about any of it?

Well, fuck me.

It was The Birthday of The Ex (Joe), and I thought I would be a good ex myself, and send him a birthday greeting. It was a short note, with a short update of my life. Which mentioned that I have a great job which sometimes allows me to hang out with rock stars. And might've included a bit about my approaching (and scary) two-year anniversary with my mysterious new beau (Joe met Duncan, briefly, in August '03). It was brief, civil (hell, friendly even!), and did not do anything to rub anything in anyone's face.

So I send the email around midnight. Literally 5 to 10 minutes later, I received an Instant Message from him. Here's the jist of the exchange:

J: "hey"
P: hey, I just emailed you
J: "i know... reading your email made me sad"
P: why?
J :"you have your shit together, and I don't"
P: I don't have my shit together...
J: "I haven't really dated anybody since you"
J: "I have Ani DiFranco stuck in my head... Untouchable Face..."
P: [some delay] how come?
J: "just seems fitting, after your email"
P: i'm trying to listen in iTunes... but of course its freezing up [which was the truth]
J: "Sorry for being an ass... thanks for the email..." [signs off abruptly]

There was more in the middle, but that's the general jist. Crazy, huh?

So part of me feels like total shit that I upset him on his birthday, because I honestly didn't mean for that to happen. I really only mentioned the Duncan in like two sentences, and it was very tame. "We are still together, almost two years. I am pretty happy." I wasn't trying to rub anything in his face, cause I just assumed that he had completely gotten over me and had moved on. But then I think, "oh shit." He's alone on his birthday. I'm still his "Big Love," the one and only guy he's seriously dated. And here I've gone and gotten into another thing, this one less than a year after our big breakup, and it's become a LTR that's outlasted the little barely-one-year thang that Joe and I had. And that felt so epic to me until I got into my current thang with Mr. Aiden Shaw. So... yeah... I guess I can sympathize. I get it. I can feel bad.

Another part of me feels like, "Fuck me, and my untouchable face? FUCK YOU, BUDDY!" He's the freak who was meeting guys behind my back. He's the one that dumped me. And as much as I'm grateful, because my life post-Joe has turned out pretty good, I was completely broken by that at the time. He hurt me pretty bad, and left some scars I'm still dealing with. So that part of me is totally flipping him off and singing Mariah Carey. "Someday... the one you threw away will be the only one you're wishing for..." (Hey, he can quote Ani, I can evoke MiMi!)

And still another part of me is worried that I'm obsessed with this now, worried that I still have some feelings for him. I suppose I do - I mean, I know I do. I always will. He was my first big love, so of course there will always be something leftover from him. But here I thought I was completely over him and just felt nothing, maybe some anger. But it's weird... I dunno. Drama drama drama..

But then there's this part of me, and I'm not proud of it, but there's this part of me that feels -- no, knows -- that I've won. I've moved on and, yeah, in a lot of ways, I do have my shit together. And he's a mess. And he still wants me, wants my untouchable face...

Dude, seriously - check out those lyrics. Good song, but some FUCKED UP SHIT!

Link

Ally McBeal. Ever seen it? Now that was, at one time, once upon a time, a quality television show. Recently, I caught one of its season finales in reruns, one I caught first run back in 1999. The episode spotlighted the disillusionment of the titular character and the deterioration of her long-held dream of finding the man of her dreams, her soulmate, "The One." Will she ever find him, or will she have to settle for less, like the rest of her world is telling her to do? That question doesn't limit itself to a season finale cliffhanger or a TV show premise -- it's a bigger question, for my own life, if not the lives of every human being on this planet.

Seeing the show transplanted me to 1999, when I saw myself the nineteen-year-old gay male counterpart to Ms. McBeal. In my head, I was young and optimistic in the face of great adversity and disappointment. Hoping, wishing, praying that there's someone out there for you, made for you, and yet knowing, deep down, that it's an unlikelihood. I thought, like all nineteen year olds, that I knew everything.

Now I sit here, a twenty-something, who, like all twenty-somethings, pretends that I don't think I know everything. I sit here and say that I'm lost and directionless, a fool, but still, I look back at 19 and think that I am so much older, so much wiser, so much better due to the passing of just five years.

I didn't know shit then, I don't know shit now.

I write a lot, here and in my "unpublished" works, about life and love, and sometimes I think I'm smart and I get it. But overall, in the pit of the hole that is me, I know I don't. And maybe I never will.

A few nights ago, I had a dream, one in a series of very vivid, memorable dreams that came to me over a few nights. But this particular dream lingered more than the other. None of it will make sense to you, of course, but someone impersonating writer Augusten Burroughs was there, and he was lecturing me on my mistakes. About not having kids or something. I woke up feeling kind of shitty. Augusten was just as much of a dick as he comes off in his new book, and it wasn't really him. But still, the Ally-in-my-soul was affected. Or something.

It's been a long time since I've thought about baby names or a wedding guest list. In fact, in rummaging through old files on my old computer, I found an actual wedding guest list I started when I was 20, maybe 21. It's so silly I just wanted to delete it and never mention it to another person. But there it was, a list of these people that were part of that life with that other guy. There were a lot of people on it, and I didn't immediately recognize at least a dozen names. But there was everybody I knew in my life back then, and I do mean everybody. It was like a desperate person's Friendster or Facebook profile, lots of acquaintances, few real connections. And I wanted all these people to share in the day when I was to become --"Mr. Patrick Kelleher"?

If that wasn't enough to make me want to send a cyborg back in time to shoot my 20yo self in the head, I also found a Word Doc with baby names:
Boys: Riley Andrew, Liam Marcus, Noel Phillip, Noah Benjamin, Ira Allen
Girls: Susan Martha, Serena Anne, Jillian Emily

...How fucking gay.

In-group. It's OK.

*ahem* Well, it was 2001 the last time I changed either file. And it was probably late 2002 the last time I seriously thought about getting hitched or naming babies.

I remember one fall day in '02, strolling along the Waterfront with my friend Dan. I was still pretty shattered by the break up, but I was keeping it in. There was a gay couple, kid in a stroller, and it just triggered me to open up, just a little, to my friend. "I have less than three years to get married," my then-22 self said. "And then I have to have kids by the time I'm thirty. How's that going to happen without Joe?"

Dan, in his gay bitch sort of way, verbally slapped me in the face and back to reality. "Are you kidding me?" he said. And we talked. And I dealt. And, seriously, I think that was the last time I really thought about that whole timeline. Last time I thought, "Hey, I'm gonna get hitched! Hey I'm gonna have babies!" The last time I was a Charlotte.

God, I have changed. I'm still neurotic and needy, just like Ally. But do I still believe in love? Abso-fucking-lutely. I'm just more realistic about it. And much less "Civil Unions and Chinese Baby."

But, God, I do have this thing that pops into my head every once in a while. It's silly, maybe more embarrassing than those lists. Whenever I hear "In My Life" by the Beatles, I picture my wedding reception. And it's not Joe there, I don't know who it is.

I'm such a fucking girl.

'Twas the night before Easter and all though the house... Uh, yeah. I got nothing. Maybe Jesus is running around somewhere, but not here.

I'm at my parents' tonight, for the first time since Christmas. It's weird how a place can be home in some moments and completely alien in others. Guess that's what happens when you're mid-twenties. I'm, like, almost an adult.

So, yeah, weird to be here. Easter tomorrow - which means some sort of Godless specticle of a meat-feast, which somewhere along the line became the holiest of holy meals that my little I-talian non-practicing/slash/ex-communicated Catholic family celebrates. I like the ham; I could go for less noise. Ask anybody who's met them - I come from the loud family. And tomorrow will be a twisted-mirror of that Fat Greek thing, if you've seen it. Except nobody's getting married, Jesus is dead, and I'm gay.

Merry Christmas.

Also - my house is full of allergens. My mom smokes, which is my poison, as well as my aunt, who's here for the weekend. The dark clouds loom in almost every room, which equals, for me, itchy eyes, sneezing, scratchy throat, and headaches. Ahh, home sweet home. Can't forget the pets, either - there's Ben, the dumb golden retriver who I once hated by now adore, and the THREE cats -- Annie, the eldest, and the two new kittens, Orange and Black (I don't really know there names, as i think every member of my family calls them each something different, but I like Orange best). They're all so adorable that I can't not pet them and love them. But, sadly, I've been coughing -- "Gollum, Gollum" -- since around minute ten of this visit.

In addition to the allergy attacks, there's also lots of food - I mean, LOTS OF FOOD. And I swear, I'm gaining five pounds just sitting here. But when I look at my steadily growing mother and grandmother, I guess it doesn't look so bad.

Ah. Family.

Even now, as I sit here in my quiet (for once), sleeping home, Duncan is somewhere out there, with his family, celebrating Passover and mourning the passing of his grandfather. We are in such different places right now, and I really can't imagine what he's experiencing right now. He found out about his grandfather on Thursday and headed right to me within 10 mintues. It was hard to see him deal with the loss -- or not deal with it, as the case may be. We've been having our issues as of late, but it seemed the tragedy reconnected us.

Wherever he is, whatever he's experiencing, I just hope he's OK.

Last time I was here, that very long week around the holidays, I thought a lot about faith, belief, and all that hooey I've been spouting off as of late. This place, especially around Catholic holidays, makes me think a lot about that kind of crap.

It's odd that I don't really know what I believe half the time. Do I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior? Do I believe in God? Do I believe in destiny? Do I believe in love? Ah... crap crap crap. I honestly don't ask myself these questions often. I used to, in high school, when I was so desperately trying to find myself. But I've sort of sunk into this status quo, of pseudo-spirituality, of love, of homosexualiy, of all that. Somewhere along the line, it all became me, but I don't know - is it really? Family tends to bring all this out in me.

I have to have faith that this isn't me. The destiny in which my family seems to all be fullfilling. In June, the fourth and fifth of my generation of cousins (including me) graduates from high school, and it looks like neither of these two are headed to college. Which makes me not only the only one in my generation to graduate from college, but the only one to persue it -- and only the second in my family to achieve a Bachelor's Degree. They get married, have kids, fight, eat -- live their lives, their status quo -- and it's just OK. There's little change. There's little striving towards something better. It all just is.

I don't know what any of this means. Except I'm tired.

But I will close with this...

Belief. It's a good thing. But lately, maybe I've been putting my faith into the wrong places. Maybe, just maybe, I need to stop looking at other people - and believe in myself.

Happy Easter.

There's too much sky, not enough blue
There's too many questions to why I love you
There's too many clouds, not enough sun
The rain must fall on everyone

Last night, Home Movies, one of my favorite TV shows and certainly one of the highlights of my week, aired its final new episode. I didn't know this until after the episode finished, and I felt overwhelmingly and pathetically sad. Sure, it's a cartoon. Sure, it's silly. But it's been a clever, amazingly smart silly, squiggly cartoon that has had an extremely excellent season. I think what upset me that most was its sudden, unexpectedness. I didn't have time to prepare.

The quiet passing of Home Movies just adds another loss to quality TV and, even sadder, to my life. My new love, Wonderfalls, was axed after just 4 quality episodes. Angel bows next month after five seasons, just one year after its sire, perhaps my favorite show ever, Buffy, went off the air. Friends, a show that premiered when I was a freshman in high school, and has been an odd constant in an often unstable life. I watched the first episode with my grandmother when I was 14. I watched many more episodes in college gathered with various friends. And I'm not sure where I'll be for the grand finale next month.

And, of course, my beloved Sex and the City. *snif* That loss still cuts deep.

I think Will & Grace just did an episode on thi