the sad song that i had eternally tied to your memory has suddenly, and abruptly, lost its sting when i heard it today.

and that is probably sadder than the song, or the distant memory of you that the song inspires, itself.

high plains drifter

the first one mattered to some extent
the second one mattered to a lesser extent
and each one after, i could give a shit.

and such is the story of dating in your thirties.

its a weird time for me right now. single. which can be great.

PROS:
- there's no one to answer to
- there's no one to consider
- there's no one to argue with
- there's no one to hurt over

CONS:
- there's no one.

its been 3 and a half years since my last relationship, and its the longest break ive had in my dating career. and it makes me wonder, will i ever be able to fall back into it again?

it seems that at 32 years of age, im no longer nomadic: in action or thought. its a settling down. an acceptance of your life as it is, and as its going to be...from here on out. and that is the scariest fucking thing to me.

im settled in my ways, i do what i want, im a creature of habit, and change is intimidating at this juncture in life. it seems like a recipe for staying stagnant...and single. im slowly realizing im the old guy at the bar. not the OLDEST guy, but the old guy amongst youthful people. let me explain:

at the bar theres two kinds of people. young people and people over-50. the young people are on the upward swing: the patrons of the bar who are discovering themselves, their social lives, and roofies. The over-50 crowd are the ones who failed at a life and have no one, and nothing to go home to...the downward swing. And are most likely the roofie-ers.

somewhere between 30 and 50 there is an attempt at a 'normal' life...a bar-less life...a stable, settled-down life. generally speaking everyone at the bar can fit into the two catagories. (Unless the name of the place is "Shabooms" or "The Wrinkle Room" but thats a whole 'nother blog entry.)

im finding myself to be one of the anomalies, bleeding out of my respected catagory and into the age of plateau (between 30-50) except my high plain is desolate, dusty, deserted. no children, no wifey, no lifey.

and sitting here writing this, on the high plain that is my desk, i see: a charles bukowski book, a subway sandwich wrapper, an empty bottle of 5 dollar vodka, a razor and a can of shaving cream, and a half empty bottle of cologne.

look at my desk and what can you surmise about me?

im not a beastie boy...and im no eastwood, either.