I'm so lonely I can hardly see straight... literally. My eyes wanna cry, but the facade that I present to the rest of the world just won't let them. Seemingly happy, I go about my life day to day. Explaining away any sort of less-than-contentment with "I'm just so freaking busy," I deflect any sort of owning of emotion. I simply work; that's my reason for being.
And yet with work, there's so much to do, yet I wonder why I continue to do it. What really does it all matter? I can buy a hot tub to put in the back yard: then what? The purchase will occupy me for a few days, but that can't be the point of life; occupying time until we die.
This weekend, Larry and I were talking about my life, and he said something about writing my personal ad. There was a time when I would've been intensely defensive, wanting to control exactly how my dating mode self was presented. Now, I'm ready for anything. I'm three clicks away from writing it myself, starting, "I'm lonely..."
That's the true personal, but who wants to respond to that? We all wanna believe we've got tougher exteriors, rely less on others than we really do. Responding to a personal ad where someone admits he's lonely is almost like admitting you're lonely, too, and that's just not something one wants to do. For some reason, we have this belief that if you're lonely, it's somehow your fault. There's something wrong with you if you're lonely, not the situation or the people around you. Yet I know that's not the case... I have flaws, but I don't deserve to be lonely.
And yet I feel near powerless to change things.
Not every day since the last time I wrote has been spent in this emotional place, though. It's largely been spent in the work one. Watching The Amazing Race 4, seeing a masculine, attractive gay couple with the appositive of "Married" gave me goosebumps a few minutes ago, and now I think how much things have changed since I started writing this journal. Will my book even matter when it finally gets out; delayed once again by another incompetent online typesetter.
I know I'm not a bad guy. I know I'm worthwhile, but I've almost found myself falling into a self-fulfilling prophecy of intentionally being an ass so people don't like me.
So, I wanna scream. I wanna cry. I wanna go back to work and push myself into the mindset of nothing being wrong. Yet I know things'll never get fixed that way...
Now back to work.
June 21, 2003 - Saturday 8:22AM
It's Saturday morning. Things are good. I'm not depressed, lonely, or even stressing out. I am a little worried about Jamie, but we'll get to that in a second.
Yesterday afternoon, I met up with Randall, my new assistant, to go see Alex and Emma at the theatre. It wasn't a particularly great movie, but it was decent and he liked it, so the trip was fine. We got a pizza and watched various Simpsons episodes, and when saying good-bye, we only gave each other a hug but the time spent together was really nice.
Indeed, talking this week at work, I told him that I thought we were both truly going to benefit from knowing each other. He has hobbies, and friends, and rough life experiences. I have the life he thought he wanted before his got a little off course. Together, too, as cheesy as it sounds, I think we'll come out better people in the end.
I mean, had we just met in a friend capacity, I would've likely never made it past a couple meetings. I really liked his spark and enthusiasm when we met for the job interview, but on his third day of work, he didn't show. Eventually, I got a hold of him, he pleaded, and I said I'd give it another shot, but I can't help but wonder how it would've played out were it a friend situation instead of a job one. I would've still been game had he begged, but would he have begged if it were just friends?
Of course, thinking about all that makes me wonder if I'm too hard on people in the friend department. Why do I find myself near friendless? And yet, while wondering that, I can't help but look at the opposite side of the coin. There, I see the guys I've met recently who offered nothing, like the fat, short, sex-obsessed, masturbatory-intense size queen wedding planner who acted like I was a freak when I wanted to wash my hands before dinner. What did he offer? Was any friend better than none? I don't think so, but where have all the good guys gone? I used to meet them from online. Everyone important in my life I met online. Where are the new folks?
Indeed, my latest plan is to get my book published and hopefully find someone interested that way. Or there's the idea to start a movie-going, dinner-eating club for regular San Diego guys who happen to be gay, no queens or freaks allowed.
And yet in the realm of love, I see Reichen and Chip, the married guys on The Amazing Race 4, and I find myself longing to be half of a cute gay masculine powercouple. The CBS web page about them starts, "Twenty-eight-year-old Reichen is a pilot and teaches at a flight school in Los Angeles. A former US Air Force officer and a graduate of the US Air Force academy, he is married to his teammate Chip." *swoon*
And yet, I understand if I were with Jamie, we would be the cute gay masculine powercouple. I love him lots, but it just doesn't seem to gel couplewise. Like last night, I got a text message, and I responded to say that I was hanging out with Randall, just watching TV. I didn't hear back from him last night, and he didn't answer his cell phone when I called then or again this morning. The uncertainty of wondering what he did in response to my text message, whether he went to the bar and then went home with someone, or even if he just went to sleep miserable, creates negative feelings. It's like I understand him not wanting me to date other people, but at the same time, I don't want to stay home alone miserable and friendless. So it's a complicated place to be in, on all fronts, for all involved, and I have no ready solutions.
But, life's good, and things'll work themselves out in ways for which I can't hope to plan. Today I'm gonna work on the book, do a little cleaning, and just chill. Life is not bad, and I'm gonna enjoy it.
