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Just a brief update...
  • Lost my job with Watkins College, it's a long story but the gist of it is that me and my boss couldn't work together. He wanted to dictate, I wanted a team environment for discussion. He wanted to issue orders for projects under my control, I wanted to talk about solutions not be force fed ones I thought were bad. Especially for my projects. He called it argumentative and disrespectful, I called it unfounded. In the end I'm glad I'm gone, I don't think I could have put up with working under him much longer.
  • Worked my budget, pulled money out of my emergency fund and found out I can survive (with drawing unemployment) paying all of my bills till August-September. The market is slowing right now though so I have to hope that I can find work in my field in that time frame. I have high hopes. For now I'm just relaxing with my free time and applying to jobs here and there.
  • I told her how I felt about her, and that it was hard for me because these feelings were unwanted by her as well as I; and that I wish I didn't have them and could remain her friend just like always without this burden - but it's not something I can ignore and it's the reason why I'm emotionally unstable, leaving cryptic blog posts and such. So much to say, unsure of how to say it.

She said she was glad that I felt that way, that she couldn't offer me anything other than what she had already given (friendship), that I was a good friend and a good person to talk to, and that she only cares about her current love and doesn't have eyes (or want to have eyes) for anyone else. She's very devoted, and I think that's part of what attracts me to her. I know I push her away because I'm persistent (not trying to convince her to leave him or anything of that sort - but knowing how she's doing, asking questions about how her day was, being there; etc), and maybe I push her away because I'm always there. Always; Maybe I push her away because I know she's in a bad situation, and I tell her what I think is practical to do but it doesn't fit what she wants to happen. Sometimes she's looking for reassurance and I can't give that to her, and I hate myself for it.

You see, it was a few years ago that I just left. She and I didn't speak. She settled with some guy who was abusive to her and very controlling and he molded her into part of who she is today - he's partly to blame why her and I don't connect so well anymore. I regret what I did, the things I said when I was there; I regret every passing minute that I wasn't there and she needed someone. My fear is that if I go now, today, in any misguided attempt to remind myself why I care - or to find out if she cares if I'm gone or not; something will happen and I'll get pushed away further - or worse, lose her all together to something or someone. So I can't leave. I can't walk away from her like I have with so many women before when I've been fed up. She's Different and I don't know why...

Then there's unfounded fears I have, but they're there - like worrying if you're going to have nightmares when you close your eyes. You never know, and there's nothing you can do but dive in. I'm not the only one like this, chasing her - she has at least two other single guys that have promised to give her the world complete with kitchen sink, marriage, whatever she needs just like I have... (maybe more, I don't know; I don't ask, they make me jealous but not in a hateful kill-the-competition way). I feel like a voice lost in the crowd because of this, but there's nothing I can do to change it and that's for the best I'm sure. My fear is these guys (at least one of them, I've heard briefly of one, I know a lot about the other douche bag), while they're probably nice guys overall, how do I compare? If I'm putting myself out there to be there for her in a time of need, and she turns to someone else in that time - out of convenience, or for whatever reason; where does that leave me? What should I think?

I don't know. I don't want to know, I hate the thought of that day ever coming and hope it doesn't; but secretly I do - how can you not? I think anyone would aspire to know their future if given the chance, to ponder about what would be, what could happen. I want to know, but I don't because I'm afraid of the answer.

She's afraid to ask him to catch a plane and come live with her (she has the money and means to get him here) because she's afraid of his answer, afraid it might be a "no". I can tell her I know how that feels, I know all too well. It's a horrible feeling.

I give her these daylogs. Strange? Maybe, It's not a plea. It's not a "you should see it my way, I'm really great." Because I don't think I am, I think I'm certifiable; that perhaps if these thoughts were given to a psychiatrist she would prescribe an anti-depression, anti-psychotic, and restraining order. Maybe well deserved, but I give her these daylogs because I want her to see into the mind of someone who is willing to share their thoughts, their feelings freely; not with any anticipation that it will make any difference, inspire any changes in her, make her "see the light" or as any sort of self validation... But because the simple act of knowing the true uninhibited thoughts and feelings of others.... I don't know how that feels, is that liberating? is it a burden? Knowing that someone else knows how I feel, for me, that's.. liberating in a sense, because it doesn't matter what happens when those words are spoken. It's done. I guess it doesn't leave anything for the imagination, you'll never wonder what I'm thinking because I'm always willing to tell you.

Some people on here have told me this is unhealthy, to have these feelings. I would love to be able to agree with you, to walk away without a care because I truly have no chance - We all want what we can't have I guess. Sometimes when we get it, after awhile, we forget why we wanted it so bad.. I know I'm sick, and I don't think there's anything I can do about it, nor that I want to.

I've been listening to Placebo most of the week, currently playing Sleeping with Ghosts. That's all for now..

  Soul mates never die,
        Scuzzy

She was there about quarter past three, right when she said she'd be. Her car was something like your average student's white sedan, but a hail-damaged bonnet had been replaced, a metallic aqua coloured hood with yellow outlines on the thin triangles that divided its length into 3 parts. The triangles were filled with a darker metallic purple, and a thin yellow strip filled the slight indentation that ran the length of the car about halfway down the doors.

It was a clean car, kept in good condition by the looks of it. A real funky looking vehicle that reflected her personality.

She had her music up loud, the radio was tuned to Triple J. She also had the fans turned on full, apparently due to broken aircon. I had to turn the radio down before I could hear anything she was saying! She seemed happy and talkative, and I was glad her face was at least familiar to me from when I had met her two weeks ago.



The attendant in the emergency room won’t tell him what his blood pressure reads. Little does the attendant know that’s he’s been down this road before. Do they think he’s that stupid?

In the old days when they wrapped a cuff around your arm and listened to whatever they listened to through a stethoscope they were able to keep those secrets to themselves. These days, thanks to the wonders of modern technology all it takes is a sideways glance at the machine he’s hooked up to to get a peek at the results.

180 over 120…

He thinks to himself ”Shit, this is not good” and stares off into space.

The tech who took his blood pressure leaves and it isn’t but a moment before he’s replaced by a nurse. This is no time for idle conversation about the weather or politics or to exchange pleasantries. She’s all business. By now, they’ve gotten a hold of his medical history and she realizes this isn’t just a walk in pretending to be sick. She asks him some of the typical questions.

”One a scale of one to ten with ten being the highest, how much pain are you in?”

He considers the question for a moment. The tightness in his chest registers a five but the anguish in his brain is off the scale.

”About a five or six”

She follows up with “When did the pain begin?”

Again, he considers the question. He feels like blurting out that it’s been going on for as long as he can remember. That the downs he’s experienced throughout his life far outweigh the ups. But, he keeps that to himself.

”A couple of days ago, not so bad at first but increasing in intensity until today.”

The nurse types his responses into a computer. He wonders if it’s the computer that prompts her based on his answers.

”Can you describe the pain?”

Again he thinks to himself, “”Not in a million years” . He thinks about his daughter, thousands of miles away on spring break with her mom and step dad. Just the other day they told him that they were lounging on a beach somewhere in Texas and that New Orleans was still fun and the people there amazing. Of course, he doesn’t mention this to the nurse, it’s not important to the matter at hand. Instead, he recites his litany of tightness across the chest, shortness of breath and a sense of foreboding and doom.

A wheelchair is rolled in. He tries to get in himself but the nurse and another attendant have him by the arms. Soon he’s wheeled into another room and an IV is inserted into his arms. He’s stripped down to his essentials and wires now protrude from all over his chest. They lead to the EKG and heart monitor.

Beep…..Beep….Beep…

Steady like the beat of a drum, he takes this as a good sign.

The nurse informs him that they're going to administer some morphine through the IV. At first he protests but her argument outweighs his. Even in his confusion he at least can still reason with himself.

After the first “rush” hits his brain he wonders how a junkie can stand it. His head throbs like it’s been hit by a cannonball. He recalls the movies where heroin addicts and the like seem to get this peaceful feeling come over them. Their faces glaze over, their eyes take on a glassy look and they look somehow content. All he feels is panic.

”I don’t like this, make it stop” he tells the nurse.

”Just relax sir, you’ll be fine. It’s perfectly normal.”

He wants to rip the IV from his arm but he feels paralyzed. He wants to roll and toss and thrash around in his bed like an epileptic in the throes of a fit. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs that he doesn’t belong here but the words are stuck somewhere beneath his throat and can only echo in his brain.

When he wakes up he doesn’t know how long he’s been out. The clock on the wall reads 6:10, the same time it read when he first entered the room. He reaches for the phone that appeared by the side of the bed but he realizes that there’s nobody to call. He doesn’t want to hear the cavalcade of “I told you so’s” that would emanate from the other end.

Hours later, a doctor appears in the room. He’s friendly enough and has a good bedside manner. He explains what they would like to do to him. The doctor recites a battery of tests some of which sound all too familiar. He just nods his head like a robot, numb to the feeling of expression or comprehension.

Time seems to drag by in the hospital. The hours take longer than they should. Maybe because most of those hours are spent waiting between frenzies of activity. One minute he’s being whisked away to places unknown on a gurney only to be followed by lying alone in a room for what seems like an eternity. The next minute he’s surrounded by hospital staff all doing their jobs in a model of proficiency and the next minute that same room seems as abandoned as a ghost town.

The test results are back the next day. In a nutshell, they tell him his heart is only pumping about thirty percent of the blood it should, There’s some scarring from previous episodes that he can’t do anything about. He’s dismissed from their charge with a handful of prescriptions that need to be filled and strict orders to do this and don’t do that and take caution about doing the other. We’ll follow up to see how the meds are doing in a couple of weeks. He doesn’t consider himself a coward but he’s afraid to ask about the alternative. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He blinks his eyes when he gets outside. The sun is still shining a bit in the late evening sky. It’s March and what feels like an unseasonably warm breeze follows him through the parking lot. He take this as a good omen.

Today he’s back at work, stealing a few moments from his employers' gaze to pen this little story. They know what happened over the last few days and probably think he’s catching up on E-mail or finishing up that BRD everybody seems to be waiting for.

And he will. But first he figured that there was a story to tell while it was still fresh in his mind.

And he was the only one who could tell it.

Deadlier than the male...

What is it with men and mice? In at least three places I've lived, we've had a rodent problem. I mean, you could smell mouse. Worse, their pee sets off every miscued worm detector in my system, and I cough and get short of breath to the point that I have to go to the ER.

However, when I try to lay this problem in front of the Male of the House, the response I get is: "It's not so bad." Or "It's just a little field mouse, it's been cold." Or "Hey, it's kinda cute, y'know. And it's not eating much..."

Fact is, for every mouse you see, there's at least ten other mice you can't. And most mice in houses are house mice, mus domesticus — "field mice" are voles, and are actually larger. And, as I hinted before, they aren't exactly housebroken, dropping black-sesame-seed crap on the kitchen counter, dishes, pantry shelves, and in whatever they feel like appropriating. You'd think that would be enough to get the Male moved to Do Something about it.

"Hey, maybe those really are sesame seeds. I had a bagel yesterday." Or, "We have a Havahart trap, maybe that will work. We can just let the poor little thing out in the woods." Or, "Whaddaya mean, you're allergic? It's probably animal dander. The pollen count is going up, it's Spring." Or, "No, we can't have poison. And how are you gonna get rid of the dead ones? They stink up the place. And don't talk about getting a cat again." Or, "You gals always get so upset over a little thing like mice. Are you all terrified of them?"

I don't feel like it's a "poor little thing". I want it, and its relatives, out of our house, failing that, I want them dead, killed, and their careers terminated with extreme prejudice. Is it Walt Disney? The influence of kindergarten teachers teaching "I think mice/are nice"? The mere fact that Males would much rather have a beer and watch the news rather than deal with anything that happens in a kitchen? Or are they just a little scared, too?

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