Drama

I'm not sure what's worse - the drama that we carry inside ourselves or the unresolved drama in life that effects those around us. Maybe it's a combination of both to some degree.

Version 1:

It's easy enough to find unhappy men. Men unhappy in their marriage, in their unfulfilled career aspirations, in themselves. I guess what's hard is to find the courage inside to move forward and not dwell for too long on the stuff that depresses you. But how long is too long? When the inevitable conclusion is staring you in the face, does delaying the issue make it any less painful?

I've come to the conclusion that the man I've been dating since 8/13 has become a curmudgeon way before his time. I recognize now that he's been on the autobahn to this attitude because he has low self-esteem and that is something I find harder to deal with than his self-absorbed, crabby, opinionated ways. Add to his cocktail a set of health problems he's waking up to and it makes him seem more like a man who's approaching retirement instead of the age of 41 years he actually is.

Rules are for games. And I felt like a looser in the game of life where he carried the rule book. I was sad for about 5 minutes. I know I was stupid to get involved with a man in who was still breaking up with his wife after almost four years of continued co-habitation.

I took the long way home in Friday night traffic from LA. I watched the harvest moon follow me home. This is the first Friday night I've been home in 7 weeks.

Version 2:

My sexual prowess in bed was compared in contrast to a fat, loud, lying cancer infected alpha female diagnosed as clinically bi-polar who took medication in amounts considered overdosing to most. It's always an ego boost when someone under psychiatric care says fucking a crazy person on a mood swing was better than fucking you. Moron.

The fan must be on. The window must be open. There must be at least two comforters or three or more pillows on the bed at all times in all seasons. The door must be closed. The lights must be on and "without candlelight, I don't feel like I can get in the mood". These are the rules I had to play by in order to deal with  an ADD/OCD/diabetic man in bed. I closed that play book. I shut the door. I walked away barely shedding a tear.

Version 3:

He eats and he eats and he eats and then he drink and he drink and he drinks. His consumption is out of control and it's due to his diabetes and not much more. He's waking up to the fact that everything he knows is wrong, everything he thought was true is now false and you cannot live life without consequences. It's not a time to start a relationship. I can't fix him nor was I out to in the first place. I only showed him that dietary dilligence allows you to feel better one meal at a time, one day at a time. And now it's time to move on.

Version 4:

When someone from a website I contribute reviews to posed the question, "Any racial preferences?" I almost wrote, "Race isn't as important as employed non-alcoholic, not married and not having to take any mood stablizing drugs in order to function in society." That would have been the cruel, honest facts I was dealing with. Shit, what a walking mess of a man. And that's not even the half of it.