Seven Months and Four Days Later

On New Years Day, I made the pledge to write more this year than last. Twelve days later, I met a girl and all of that fell apart. Six months after that, so did everything else. And now, on the fourth day of August, 2009, I feel as though I have finally picked myself up enough to put thoughts to words once again, and to try and make some sense of it all. Christ, what a year it's been.

Without getting into too much detail, I met this girl (who I will henceforth refer to as AP) at Nectar's on Monday, January 12, and I was crazy about her immediately, and within a week I was calling her my girlfriend. She met my family on St. Patrick's Day, and they instantly accepted her as one of their own. We spent most nights and available days together, and spoke on the phone constantly while apart. We watched movies and tried new beers together. We celebrated our birthdays together, with my gift to her being her first ever taste of lobster. We played catch. We played Scattergories and Scrabble and Gin Rummy. We skied together at Stowe and Sugarbush, and then partied late night with the locals. We went to Thunder Road and let out our inner rednecks together. I got her tickets to a sold-out Wailers show at Higher Ground, because I knew of her love for Bob Marley, and we went to see P-Funk because of my love for George Clinton (who we got to meet backstage, and who gave AP a big, wet kiss on the cheek in exchange for a small amount of my pot--she was sick afterwords for ten days). We went to Albany to see the remaining members of the Grateful Dead, and then to Boston to see Phish at Fenway Park, where I gave her her first ever dose of LSD. We even saw Touchpants together. It was perfect.

Or so it seemed. Looking back, I now see all the obvious cracks and fractures that I tried so hard to deny, and it's clear to me (in hindsight) it was never meant to be. She was seven years younger than me, and stuck in the mentality of the high school cheerleading captain that she was three years prior. She worked in a deli two days a week, getting paid under the table so she could still collect unemployment, and slept most days until two. She hated to be called lazy. She drank vodka by herself and snorted Vicodin out of boredom, but hated that I smoke pot. She wanted to get back on Prozac, and was offended when I suggested something more natural, like sunlight or exercise. She hated my car, but loved her Volkswagen more than anything. She hated my apartment, but hated it even more when I would comment on hers (she lived in a room without windows in the same house as her mother, along with four other people). She never wanted to do anything where drinking wasn't involved, and was openly offended when I suggested she might have a problem. She hated when I pointed out the obvious, and she loved to call me a hypocrite. But oh! I ignored it all, and I loved her just the same.

And then six months later, the bottom fell out. We were downtown for Burlington's Independence Day celebration and fireworks, and had a heated argument on Church Street over whose fault it was that we arrived too late to have dinner at Three Tomatoes; mine for taking too long to get beer, or hers for showing up at my house an hour later than she was supposed to. We ended up watching the fireworks separately and alone, in the rain, and then met up at Club Metronome later that night to drink beer and make good as though nothing had happened. As it turned out, though, she was giving her number out to random guys that night, and got so drunk that she got us both kicked out of the club. Once we were outside, she was picked up by the BPD for being so belligerent, and they thankfully gave her and I a ride to my house rather than tossing her into detox for the night. In the end: My fault for buying her that last shot of whiskey, because I should have known better.

A week later, we were supposed to go see Ween at Burlington's Waterfront Park for the Lake Champlain Quadracentennial Celebration, but we had another nasty argument the day before when she tried to blame something on me that was clearly her fault (I don't remember what, but it was clearly something stupid, and not worth arguing over). She told me that I should go to Ween by myself, which I did, and I found out two days later that she had a new boyfriend named Chad. This is when it all fell apart.

This all happened shortly after my car died (the water pump went 400 miles after hitting 200,000), which happened the same day that Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died, and the day after Ed McMahon died. As if that wasn't depressing enough, I left my backpack in my cousin Rick's car, with my wallet in it, and when I went to call him to tell him, I dropped my phone in the toilet, killing it, too. Not only was I now without a phone, wallet, girlfriend or a car, but I had also lost everyone's phone number, because in this age of cell phones I don't actually know anyone's phone number except my mother and one of my two brothers. See also: Rock Bottom.

This all occurred in late June and early July, and it has taken me until now, August 4, to finally pick myself up enough to write about it. Where January through June was filled with so much bliss and denial that I never had time to write, July was filled with so much gloom and depression that I didn't want to do anything except sleep, which really has turned me into the hypocrite that AP so desperately loved to call me. On the flip side, though, I haven't drank or smoked in almost two weeks, and riding my bike back and forth to work for the past 6 weeks has been a blessing in disguise, I'm sure, but what that blessing is I still haven't quite found out. I hate it, and I hope to Jah that I find a car soon. Wish me luck....

By the way...Happy 48th Birthday to President Obama, who continues to run circles like a caged hamster on a wheel, trying so desperately to get us out of this mess that seems more and more likely to be inescapable. These are tough times we're in right now, for sure, and my poor little broken heart suddenly seems like spilled milk in comparison. Woe is me.