EVERYONE'S GOT ONE #10: BETTER OFF ALONE

First and foremost, I should apologize to you all. When I first thought to start an opinions column, I thought it would happen a lot more often than this. Well, I’ve been busy. My stupid strip club heist novel took over my life. I don’t even know if it’s worth working on, but that’s neither here nor there. The first draft is done, and I won’t be working on the second for quite some time.



Let’s get a little personal. Perhaps some of my previous entries here have been a bit TMI, as they say on the Internet these days, but fuck it. This is my platform, and I’ll say whatever the hell I want to.


We all have that one girlfriend (or boyfriend, or whatever) that has haunted us ever since that relationship came to an end. Most guys (and I’m talking to guys here; sorry ladies, but it’s different for you) wind up in a head-over-heels situation, and somehow it gets fucked up, and they spend the rest of their lives thinking about it, wishing they had one more chance.


Not me. When it comes to that One Girl, I’ve had my second chance. Hell, I even had a third and fourth chance. But a lot of my friends don’t see it that way. I’ve found myself in a very unenviable position of having to defend my own stupidity because of this.

I guess I should mention this now: if you’re not a close friend, you’re probably not going to be interested in this. In fact, I’m not sure the One Girl in question wants me to write about her, so I won’t mention her name. If you know me well, you know who I’m talking about. That’s all ye know and all ye need to know.


And don’t worry, I’m not going to start talking about the relationship. That would take far more words than I’m capable of writing. Someday I will write a novel about it, but today is not that day.

I have a gift, or maybe it’s a curse. It’s probably both. Regardless, I know exactly who I am. You will not find me in ANGELHEART, begging and crying at my own reflection. I know what’s in me and what isn’t. There is no delusion here. Because I know this, I also know that I’m a very difficult person to get along with, at least in a relationship. I’m set in my ways, and I know that if it ever came down to a choice, I would always choose writing over a girlfriend.

Yeah, I’m a dick. But I also value a lot of things that others don’t. If you don’t believe me, talk to some of my ex-girlfriends. There aren’t a lot of them, but I feel confident that all will agree that when it came down to it, I devoted my time more to writing than relationships.


Sadly, a lot of my friends know my nature. A favorite past-time among them is to set me up with their friends. It always leads to disaster. It never works. But then there are those stalwarts who think that it was a fluke. Yet at the same time, said stalwarts always warn me, when they’re setting me up with their next friend, “This time, try not to be yourself.”

That’s bullshit. I know how difficult I am. When I first started seeing people, I tried to play nice. I tried to be like everyone else. But there eventually comes a time when the truth has to come out. I’m getting too old for this shit. Every time I go out with someone, I make sure they know what they’re getting into. If they’re not into that, well, thank you for your time.


As for my time, I find it very valuable. I have two jobs. When I’m not working at them, I’m trying to eke out a living as a writer, which I’ve been an absolute failure at, so far. (Although I recently succeeded at one of my writing goals, but I have to keep my mouth shut about that for now. You’ll find out about it soon.) I don’t want to waste time pretending to be something I’m not. Considering my recent health issues, I don’t think I’m very long for this world. I have no problem with that (these issues are all my own stupid fault), but I have a lot of shit to do before I kick off. I’m not going to succeed if I’m off with someone who doesn’t know who I am.


I guess that’s an odd way to say I have standards. Many of you will find that funny, but I do have ‘em. Here’s another thing that you might not know: I have weaknesses. Sure, I’m a bastard quick with disgusting, heartless jokes, but I’m still human. And that’s what I’m writing about today.


The One Girl. I fell in love with her on FOUR SEPARATE OCCASIONS. How fucking stupid is that?


Not so stupid. I’ve known her for a looooooooong time, more than I’ve known anyone who is reading this right now (unless your name happens to be Rob or Jesse, of course). She knows me more than any of you do. She knows each and every one of my flaws like the back of her hand. And all of those times, she was willing to be with me.

At least on the surface. I know a lot of you think she was using me, and maybe you’re right. I don’t know to this day. I know she’s used a lot of people, and I’d like to think I’m different because I was around long before she became homeless, before she became a junkie, before she contracted Hep C. I want to think that means something.

I know I love her still. I’m not in love with her, mind you, but those four times, I was. She’s been around me for so long that sometimes I think she’s a part of me. Considering how many of my thoughts are in her head, she’s probably a conjoined twin at this point. Was she ever in love with me? I hope so. Again, I don’t know. You’re probably all right, in that she was using me and was never in love with me. Since I’m one man, and you are legion, I have no choice but to let that be the prevailing thought.

If that is indeed the case, then she gave me something no one else ever did. For a while, I could at least pretend that someone in the world found me, as I am, flaws and all, desirable. Someone was willing to overlook my quirks and ways and hold me and make me think I had a place in the world. I’ve never wanted to live long. I used to say that if I lived to 40, I’d kill myself on the day before my 41st birthday. Well, she made me want to live.


I feel like an alien, like maybe another race dropped me off on earth as part of an experiment. I want to belong, like everyone else, but there’s too much that’s weird about me. I’m too abnormal, and I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.

She made me feel like I belonged, like I was a member of the human race. That is worth more to me than almost anything in the world.

But because I’m a dick, writing is still worth more. Yeah, I know. But a lot of you are writers, too. Maybe you get it. Or maybe I’m pissing into the wind, as usual. What do you guys think? Let me know in the comments below.