Thursday, September 24, 2009

I'm going dark.

Life is just too much at the moment. My heart can't divulge any more crap to the general public.

I have so little energy and realize that any energy I have needs to be directed to finding my teeny-tiny little sunlit corner of life. This is hard to do when you're all kinds of fucked up, like I am.

So I'm going to stop writing on this blog indefinitely.

To my four or five readers, thanks for reading my bullshit over the last few years.

And to those who discover Sixty-Four Twelve by mistake or happenstance and decide to read my bullshit (like that actually happens), thank you for being here.

God bless you.

Because it is bitter and because it is my heart.

I don't know where to start except I am so fucking angry and disappointed right now.

I am furious.

You know what? If you are a man and you're just looking for some pussy, consider:

Women are people.

People must be treated with respect.

If you don't treat people with respect, you will hurt them, one way or the other.

Once they're hurt, it's very hard to undo the hurt.

To the pussy guy:

Do all of us a fucking favor. The next time you want some pussy, just say, "Hey, I really want to fuck you. Nothing more. I don't want to talk to you afterwards. I don't want to make any kind of future anything with you-- whether it be a weekend a month from now, a dinner tomorrow, a phone call to you. EVER. I just want to fuck you, then... nothing. I don't want to see you, hear you, touch you, talk to you, anything-- ever again."

Don't say instead:

"I'm at peace with you and feel so good about you."

"I can't wait to hold you in my arms, baby."

"I'm so looking forward to all the firsts-- our first kiss, our first dinner together, seeing you come off the plane at the airport."

Just don't say it. Don't.

Just keep your trap shut.

Because you know what? After 30 fucking years of hearing from my father: "Men will say anything just to get you into bed," and me not believing him, me being the eternal optimist, thinking he's wrong! How could anyone ever do that to me? I realize he's right. That son-of-a-gun is 100% correct, on the money.

In the meantime, I'm bitter and hateful and angry.

I hate this. Hate it.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Tenterhooks. Headache.

Weeks of phone calls, emails culminating in beautiful, magical weekend.

Hotel-- art deco, beautifully restored, swank. Room-- mid-century modern, fireplace, corner view, Egyptian cotton sheets. Accoutrements-- French champagne, bouquets of flowers. Food-- room service, fabulous Italian restaurant.

Man-- successful, warm, sexy, funny, intelligent. Me-- happy I've met him and I'm there with him.

Thirty-six hours of bliss, together.

Home. Me-- a week of pre-occupation. Him-- a week of travel, business.

Emails-- his-- two, one asking "How are you?" and "Everything's good" after his arrival in a particularly dangerous Central American country.

Phone calls-- his-- two, one after his plane landed in Atlanta after our weekend, the other the night before he left for Central America. "I've been thinking of you," I admitted to him. "I've been thinking of you too," he answered.

All's I can think is, and hopefully I might add, he continues to do so.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Yesterday at Hamlet Hall...

... a momma bear and her two cubs dropped by to see us.