NOTE: If you are easily offended by offensive things then please go somewhere else. I suggest pbskids.org or barbie.com, you wuss!


SCROLL TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS PAGE TO LISTEN TO MY HILARIOUS AND WILDLY OFFENSIVE PODCAST!

Friday, January 31, 2003

I think my main problem is that I'm just too optomistic, too expecting the happy Disney enging to come my way instead of looking at things as they really are - cold, smelly, and run by white people.


MOOD: blownawaybutvaguelycontent

BACKGROUND: Smackdown (you got a problem with that?)


I mustered up the courage to call her again a few days ago. I came up with some false front about asking her about whatever, but I knew why I was calling her. No more bullshit. No more cute Steve-O being hurt like this. Just straight out ask her what's going on. I mean, you do not break up with Reverend Steve by just shutting off all contact with him and hope he goes away. No, fuck all that. I wanted an answer and I was going to get one.


You kiss me, you love to me, you let me into your heart, your life, your family. You tell me how you want to spend the rest of your life with me. You say you want to be with me, you want to spend eternity with me, you want to move away from all this and have it just be you and I happy. Then you just close your eyes and shut your ears and pretend that I'm not there.


What I wanted was for her to break up with me, which is obviously what she's trying to do by NOT breaking up with me (damm, Steve, can this get any more Jerry Springerian you ask, to which I answer just you wait, my young padawan learner). Just do it, you know? You know you want to, so just get the balls to do it, right now, you're either in love with me or you're playing me for a goddamn fool. So just do it and do it now and that's it.


And of course, she wasn't there.


I leave a message saying to call me back as soon as she gets back. And who calls me? The Big HIM, her ex-husband. I tell him about my brother getting into an almost life-threatening bar fight and ask if he'll be at the bar so that I can talk about it. And he says, yeah, we'll be there. The wording just sent a brick right into my stomache, the way it was phrased and delivered, the words we'll be there just instantly sending me the painful message that I had been waiting by the telephone for over a week to hear. The whole truth. The big news. The no-spin zone. The bullshit pain in my chest.


And that's what was waiting for me at the bar - my love and the Big HIM holding hands, staring into each other's eyes, kissing, in love with each other once again.


And that was that.


And for all intensive purposes I should be crying and drinking my depression away right now, all quiet, moody, sad, depressed little Steve who has once again been to optomistic to see things for how they really are. And I am doing all that, but in my own way. I'm not drinking, still, which is some sort of miracle, what with the love of my life getting back together with her ex (just like Bobbie did a few weeks ago - I seem to be a Latino send 'em back to their ex-boyfriends machine - maybe that's my mutant power) and my brother, you know, almost dying and all that. But somehow I'm still sober, not that I want to be. I want to drink all my pain away and be left with nothing by the cold, icy numbness of a drunken haze and not have to worry about how I'm going to bounce back from getting my heart ripped again.


But somehow, for reasons that if I knew how I would be a best-selling self help writer right now (can you tell I'm a manager at a bookstore yet), I am happy. Not really happy. I mean, I'm not skipping and singing songs from Cats over here. But Im not drunk and I'm not crying. I'm just quiet sort of content inside. Sure, i'm depressed as all living fuck but somehow I have this unnamed feeling of quiet content cool mixed in with my sadness and it's that that's waking me up every morning and sending me to work and making me go on with my life.


Well, that AND the fact that Stone Cold might be coming back.


Hey, I never said that I was the smartest guy in the world.


And on a final note, no one ever calls my cell phone. Well, shit, no one ever reads this damm blog thingey either, but that's way beside the point. So, anyways, my cell phone number is (916) 548-2037. Call me. Leave me a message. Say hello. Tell me your thoughts regarding America's role as a world power, or, about Hulk Hogan. Whatever.


And more than likely, Col and the Big HIM are reading this. Maybe they aren't. I don't really care. But if they are, I just want to say one thing. I love you both. With that in mind, fuck the both of you assholes.


See you.

No comments: