Personal

All the times that we f**ked up

May 3, 2017 GuillermoLeave a comment

It’s easy to become callous after a break up. It’s probably no different when breaking up means a divorce. And, yeah, I know. I just made a post about this not too long ago. But I’ve been doing a lot of “soul” searching these past few months. It’s the price of wanting to put myself back out there. So bear with me, o.k.? Is that cool? Thank you.

Anyway, as I was saying.

It’s easy to become callous—pessimistic, even—after a break up. Probably more so when breaking up means a divorce. Today, a “patron” parked their car in front of another patron’s car. Aware that this might need a visual, I grabbed my phone to snap a picture. Aware that I need a job to live, I realized that snapping a picture would incriminate me, especially if my intent was to post it on my online journal. So putting my phone away, I began making excuses why I didn’t take a picture when the opportunity arose. Instead, let’s use this creative writing training I have to make a visual. Imagine, if you will, a car parked properly in a parking space. You got that? Good. Now imagine another car, parked directly in front of that car in a make-believe parking space. This jack ass boxed in properly parked patron. And while we announced over our intercom (are they still called intercoms?) that jack ass should come and speak to us at the front desk, the jack ass never materialized. This, of course, led to speculation. Speculation led to the conclusion (in my and Crissy’s minds, anyway) that this is a case of a jilted lover.

Now I partook in a lot of callow behavior during break ups. And I fell into the pessimistic trap. I did the woe-is-me routine. I scrawled on my adolescent bedroom’s wall (it’s still there, to this day, people). I wrote angst-filled poetry. There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of, and some that make me sick to my stomach.

And yet, I’ve come out the other end. I got over it. Sure, there are moments when I sit here and think about the good ol’ days. I think about how things would be if I had tried just a little harder. But no one’s got time to live in the what ifs. Especially if they’ll never come true.

There’s a scene in (500) Days of Summer that comes to mind. No, it’s not that scene. Not that scene either. Yeah, towards the end. The movie’s ending right before its epilogue. Where Summer and Tom have their talk.

As I’ve said in my last post about this, I don’t believe in soul mates. And if I did believe in fate, then each of the people unfortunate enough to love me should be considered soulmates. Because wouldn’t that make sense? Wouldn’t I have encountered all these people in order to prepare myself for that ultimate soul mate?

But what if…What if things were different?

Personal

a dumb screenshot of youth

April 26, 2017 GuillermoLeave a comment

I don’t believe in soulmates. The idea of destiny having any role in who I fall in love cheapens the experience. Besides, the math doesn’t pan out for soulmates. The idea of meeting the one in your own backyard isn’t fate; it’s convenience.

I’m enamored with the idea of “sole mates,” though. The idea of out of the billions of potential people, you’re the one with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. So when I meet a happily married couple (or even a long-term, unmarried couple), I silently root for their happiness.

Not sure if I’m past the age where all my friends are getting married. There are still single people in my circle, after all. But divorce is in season. And I think death isn’t too far off. And the existential crisis starts setting in (but that’s a post for another day).

We spoke about divorce. Namely that of my coworkers’. While I never married Jeanna, the motions that they went through feels familiar. They just handled it better than I did. Or, at least, the way went about it seemed less destructive than path.

I lived my life on the stage. There was nothing too taboo for me to discuss in the public forum. And while I didn’t stay silent on the matter, I was asked not to divulge the details of our break up. And I don’t think I ever did.

When the discussion turned to signs that they missed or were suspicious of before their divorce, I remember the way it was when we broke up in 2008. How, even then, I didn’t handle it well. The things I learned about her and how I learned about them. The helplessness I felt when she slipped through my fingers.

I wasn’t the best boyfriend. I was hardly a partner. My selfishness got in the way a lot. And back then, I wasn’t ready to admit to that. And I did some pretty shitty things to people I loved. Still love.

Sometimes I wonder what’s the proper procedure of moving on. I’ve had my flings. I’ve had my one night stand. I’ve offered my vulnerability to someone who took advantage of it. But when I see people fresh out of a divorce already building a new life with someone else, it irks me. Because what does it mean that someone can get over a marriage of 10 or 13 or 20 years within a matter of months. Unless, your new relationships are just new to the public.

I’m not casting stones. I’m just confused.

Stream of Consciousness

Inspired by a poem I watched performed on YouTube

March 29, 2017April 4, 2017 Guillermo4 Comments

I’ve never ridden a bike in my life. And the amount of miles I’ve driven a car is equal to or less than the number of years I’ve lived on this planet. Motion on wheels doesn’t make sense to me. Even riding shotgun or in the backseat of a car is enough to make me nervous.
The number of sexual partners I’ve had can be counted on one hand with a finger to spare. It would have been two, but I am human and, therefore, am prone to make mistakes.
My idea of a perfect date is staying at home with a good book and some distance between us. It’s not that I’m not interested in you. It’s not that I don’t want to know you. It’s just being around a person I like just leaves me thinking about all the ways I’ll inevitably screw this up. Because, you might say that you’ll take me as I am, but in truth you’ll take me as the illusion I’ve conjured up for you in the first place. Beneath this veneer, I’m more of a landfill than a mess that needs reordering. And while you’re writing out wedding vows in you head, I’m already signing the divorce papers in mine.
If you ever see me reading this in front of a live audience, know that I’ve probably thrown up whatever was in my stomach in the restroom a few moments before signing up for the open mic. 12 years of public speaking has done nothing for my nerves. In fact, I am more nervous each time I stand in front of a microphone than the first time I stood on stage at the Nueva Ona Poet’s Cafe.
I talk to my dead grandmother as one would talk to god. Usually when I’m asleep. Usually when my emotions aren’t in check.
I started taking antidepressants a year ago after facing depression alone. A month’s worth left in my final refill, I haven’t taken a single one. And I’m not sure if that makes me stronger than I was before, or just more foolish.
I am not currently seeing anyone. The you in #3 was a hypothetical, a royal you.
These days I’m prone to fall into a quick, fickle sort of love for people who can hold my attention for more than ten minutes at a time. And those six hundred and fifty-nine seconds, I run the course of our relationship. What our children would look like. How the moments we’re alone would play out. A phone call from the grocery store to ask what we need and what we want for dinner. And most importantly, how and when it will end.
I’m unsure if my jaded out look on romance is the byproduct of my parents’ divorce or my own shortcomings as an adult. Or if it’s because these days I put more importance in wondering about the next time I’ll get tacos rather than wondering when I’ll let myself fall in love again.
If I were really honest with myself, I’d acknowledge the fact that I have fallen in love with someone. But she’s miles from me. And the love I have for her, this somewhat fashionista, is by far the most pure form of love I’ve ever held for a woman. And that is why she stands upon highest pedestal of my friendship.
I have trouble looking into people’s eyes when I speak with them. Read several articles on why this happens, but nothing seems quite me. The closest reason is my fear of intimacy.
Being a father scares me. This because every father figure I had left me before I came of age. My grandfathers died three years apart, and my father is more a stranger who just happens to own half of my genetic make up. While the fear can be deafening, I do my best. And each time my son’s eyes brighten up at the sight of me, I know I must be doing something right.
I never hid my sexuality, nor have I ever been openly vocal about it. And while those close to me know of my affections, I’ve kept people at arm’s length while I told them only half the story.
At the age of sixteen, I fell in love with a boy from Chicago. The emotion was both new and familiar. I never told him this.
Most of the things I pass off as poems these days are better read while listening to the music I wrote them to. In this case, Mac DeMarco’s “My Kind of Woman.”
There are moments I speak just to hear a familiar voice. What troubles about these moments is that the voice I hear doesn’t always sound like mine. It’s an echo from another time. Maybe a time that hasn’t happened yet. Maybe a time waiting in the corners.
There’s only one time someone’s ever tried to set me up with a friend. It was a girl named Jade. Someone a friend of my was fucking between girlfriends. And she thought her friend would be perfect for me, but, and call me shallow, I have a type. The person must have read a number of books greater than the number of years they’ve existed. And these books must contain more than just required reading for schools. They must have a library card. And if not that, a Barnes & Noble membership. Or, better, be employed by Barnes & Noble. And when your name is Jade, chances are that your friends don’t meet a single one of my requirements. Also asking me when I’ll get back on the horse is equally as annoying as trying to set me up with someone. It demeans my decision of being single. And, yes, I understand that my confessions of crushes and having string of flings may confuse you. These things occur in order to remind myself that I am still human. That I still feel things. That I still have the capabilities to put myself out there event though I really don’t want to deal with the bullshit that occurs during courtship. Please understand that I’m not stranger to being alone.
I can’t eat pineapple.