The Memoir Outline: 1-3

1

Family outing to the Oceanside pier. In preparation, Ronnie drinks.

Instead of going to the pier with us as planned, Ronnie has me drop him off at the Headhunter Saloon. I take Lyle down the pier for a milkshake and fries. Sunset, pelicans, surfers. We race and I pretend to lose. He wants to take off his shoes, but I daren’t let him. Too many fishermen. And splinters.

We go back to pick Ronnie up. He’s standing outside the saloon in a circle of people, smoking. He doesn’t want to come with me. I get money out of the ATM and give it to him and tell him to take a cab home.

I take Lyle to Chuck E. Cheese and wait for Ronnie’s call. They’re open late. I play games with Lyle. 20 minutes, Ronnie calls. They kicked me out of the bar, he says. I need you to come get me, they’re calling the cops, he says. I say too bad, and I hang up on him. Lyle and I play some more. He calls a few more times. I don’t answer. He calls again. I answer and I tell him we’re on our way.

I pick him up and take him to Weinerschnitzel to get some food in him. At the drive-through window he says, please don’t be mad, but I kissed two women at the bar.

2

Ronnie’s drunk. He’s banging against Lyle’s bedroom door. Lyle and I are inside. I’m holding Lyle close to me and reading him a book on the other side of the room. Ronnie kicks the door in and breaks the door frame. Get away from us, I scream. I’m calling 9-1-1, I say. He takes my phone. I pick up Lyle and get by Ronnie but he grabs my arm and pushes me and gets in front of us and blocks the front door. You’re not going anywhere, he says. He puts a hole in the wall with his fist. He walks towards us. I take Lyle into my and Ronnie’s bedroom. We’re both crying. Ronnie is banging on our bedroom door.

Ronnie stops banging and yelling. I sing and rock Lyle to sleep. Lyle falls asleep. I open the bedroom door and Ronnie is passed out on the floor in the hallway.

3

Ronnie and I are fighting. He’s drunk. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow morning to get a divorce, he says.

I get my phone and my keys and my purse.

Fine, I say. Actually, fuck you, I’m leaving right now, I say. I fucking hate you and I hope I never see you again, I say. I go over to pick up Lyle out of his high chair. Lyle’s crying. Ronnie gets to him first and grabs Lyle and picks him up. I try to pry Ronnie’s arms loose. He won’t let go of Lyle. I stomp on Ronnie’s foot. He doesn’t let go. Lyle is crying. I’m crying. Ronnie is yelling. Thank you for the worst ten years of my life, Ronnie says. You’re not taking Lyle, he says. You’re insane, he says. If you’re leaving, then leave, he says.

I leave Ronnie and Lyle.

I go to my car. I’m crying in the drivers’ seat. I turn the ignition and put it in reverse and I start backing up, then I put it in drive and start driving down the apartments’ parking lot.

I pull out on Mission Rd. I don’t know where to go. I’ve been texting my co-worker Evan a lot lately, complaining about Ronnie. At work last week he said I should leave Ronnie.

I text Evan while crying and driving. I did it, I say. I left Ronnie, but I don’t know what to do, I say. Come over here, he says. I say, I can’t, that’s too scary. Then let’s get to the scary part, he says. I say okay.

I drive over to Evan's mom and stepdad’s house where Evan lives. He meets me on the steps in front of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in his uniform and cap. He’s wearing a button-up plaid, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and his hair is flat against his forehead.

I park and walk up to him, slowly. He kisses me. He lifts me up. He carries me into his house as we kiss. He takes me to the living room and he starts taking off his clothes. I take off mine. We have sex on the recliner. Then the couch. Then the floor.

When we’re done, we get dressed and he cooks salmon, collard greens and mashed potatoes. He pours me a glass of wine, and him a glass. After I drink my glass, I try to put the cork back in the top of the bottle. I don't usually drink wine. Evan laughs. Usually when two people open a bottle of wine, he says, they drink the whole thing. I laugh and pour myself another glass. I don’t like to drink much, he says. It hurts my stomach, he says. I finish off the wine. We eat the food and talk.

We go upstairs to his bedroom and we have more sex.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 4

We're engaged.

I'm just gonna give that some space.

I broke up with #30  - on February 14 of all days - because this sex and love addict from one of my meetings was obsessed with me and I totally bought into it (plus, I didn't like #30 that much, remember?). Nothing more came of it than a kiss (THANK GOD) and him leaving the state to go join the Navy (he was all ready leaving for that; it had nothing to do with me).

But anyway, so, #30 fell absolutely head-over-heels with me, by the way. He was heartbroken when I broke up with him after meeting with #31, and I was surprised. I didn't know he liked me that much.

I still broke up with him (#30...I'm calling him "Jason") one more time. He smokes weed, and I felt really tempted to smoke one day. He supports my drug and alcohol recovery, and so he does it out in the backyard of his parents' house and cleans himself up so he doesn't smell...but just me knowing that he was doing it was making me want to smoke so badly! So I broke up with him again in March, because I can't take that risk.

But he said I was breaking his heart, again, and we talked about how his smoking weed was affecting me, and we figured out some alternatives to ending the relationship. I am glad; I gotta admit, I'm so tired of being "out there" - you know, single, or serial relationshipping/dating, whatever - that I was willing to go ahead and keep trying with him. So he smokes a little weed? It's not the worst thing in the world. Plus, now we actually talk about things - finally!! He cries a little more than I do, but that's okay. He's sensitive (well, bipolar, you know - but that's okay, too).

Oh...

So, I decided to go ahead and propose.

Crazy? I know it would appear that way. And I never thought I'd want to get married again, least of all to a guy with so many mental disorders that he has to take eight different medications and see a therapist and a psychiatrist. But he is also so kind, loving, intelligent (high IQ's often come with an array of disorders, I hear), talented, fun, comes from a good (not-broken) Christian family who adores me. He was all ready talking about marrying me someday. It sounded almost too good to be true - until I bought him a ring, got down on one knee, and asked him to marry me, for real, then - and he said, "Yes," of course.

So that's it! I'm done, right? It's a victory story, the way I see it.

The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz helped to teach me what Love is. It's a great book, and I highly recommend it. I also spend a lot of time reading the Bible and working the 12 steps, and I still go to meetings (not the sex and love ones any more [sorry, but fuck those]).

I'm so happy today. I want to write a book!! It's time!! My classes are over for the summer, and so is my job, for now. I do have to find another job; Jason and I want to be married in a year's time and have a place to move into with each other. A two bedroom, so my son has his own room when he's with us (he and my son are developing quite the relationship, too! It's great!).

But....man...a book...can you imagine? I can...but until I get on it, that's all it'll be - imaginary! So, what should I write about? Should it be an autobiography? Should it be fiction, based on my experiences? If the latter, should it be first person perspective, or third? Should I write a series of short stories, with different protagonists, or the same protagonist? What's more interesting, my childhood, or my adulthood...or both? Or should I write creatively about something or someone that has absolutely nothing to do with myself? Now's the time to call upon my varied English education (and professors), whip out some old books, and pick up reading again, avidly.

All I know is, I have to write. I just have to. These past few months of focusing on school and securing my fiance have taken up all my time (yeah, you can laugh there), and now I'm exploding with creative desire. My photography class provided a great outlet for creativity, but I just had to give the loaner camera back to my school's Arts Department. I'm still singing, and Jason's going to help me record a CD (he's a sound engineer/singer/songwriter and has his own mixing studio and equipment). But it's writing that's always been my first and foremost passion, ever since I was four and learned how to read and write rhymes a lá Seuss and Mother Goose.

But, it does feel like I've turned the pressure valve a little to the left here, and I can *sigh*, smile, and get a good night's sleep. Oh, but I just want to say one more thing:

YAY!!!

One More Letter from the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend: "The Dumpy Sad Ex-Boyfriend"

I'm going to write a post tonight or tomorrow about my ex-boyfriend, "Evan", who has been sending me sad emails. As a preview: he was hired as a delivery driver at Pizza Hut where I worked in 2011 as an assistant manager. Same age as me (at the time, 27-28). I left my husband of ten years (together ten years, but married at 7) to be with him in October. Told him I loved him two weeks later; he told me not to use those words. I broke up with him. He wanted me back. I cheated on him. He wanted me back. I broke up with him. He wanted me back. I cheated on him. He wanted me back. Ad infinitum, until December 2012 - I broke up with him and it didn't matter that he wanted me back. I didn't go back to him until July 2013 (in December I wanted to be alone and recover, but kept getting into relationships; finally I wanted him back because he was "better" than all the other guys I'd been with - I loved him more, and he was a better lover, I mean). Broke up with him again in August 2013 to be with someone else, again. Broke up with that guy and went back to Evan, who had planned a 3-month trip to Canada with his best friend/novelist John (Evan's an artist - he was gonna paint) while we were broken up the last time. I wanted him to stay; he wanted to go. He left. I realized it was for the best and I didn't want him any more and decided to be with someone else. That's all a bunch of crap but it catches you up.

That guy (#27: The Propane Truck Driver) had sex with me and told me he had herpes. I realized I didn't want to be with any one any more because I didn't like who/what I'd become, plus, I probably had herpes, for all I knew (have been tested lots since; don't have it). But I saw it as a gift from God (choirs of angels singing). Entered sex/love addiction recovery very seriously on October 16, 2013. Relapsed November 21 after the woman who brought me into recovery (Margaret) killed herself and a guy at a concert who'd scored a film he'd created about a guy committing suicide asked me for my number when I went up to talk to him about it. He asked me out on a date and we had sex even though I told him I didn't want to have sex until marriage after what I'd been through the last two years and that I might have herpes. I kept seeing him through December 9 even though I knew I needed to get back to recovery and being alone (me = selfish; he had a lot to offer).

Now it's December 11. I'm on Day 2 again of recovery (I had made it all the way to Day 42 the first time) after adding another name to the list (I'm sorry, "James"; I really am), and I'm going for no less than 90 this time. Ideally, I'd actually rather not date or get into a relationship until either my divorce is final (I filed two years ago now - waiting on him, though), or until I reconcile with my husband (not sure which will be the case - not even sure which one I want). (James didn't like the fact that I wasn't divorced, and it hit me - duh).

So right now, I'm just rooting for me - I get to recover now. Grow up. When most women are "bachelorettes" and "coming of age" between 18-24, I was with my husband. I never got that period of being alone and coming into my own Being. So now I am, at 30.

I'm also continuing on with my relationship inventory, which I'm posting here on this blog. It's part of my healing process. And I plan on using some of it, eventually, for a memoir that I'd like to publish in 2 to 5 years (probably closer to 5, so I can make it really, really good). For now, it's scattered, not continuous/congruous/cohesive/coherent (in many places). Leaving things out. Just gathering information, facts, thoughts, feelings. Focusing on relationships. Need to read more memoirs for examples (like Mary Karr's - I had stopped reading when Margaret died....time to get back on the horse).

I have posted a few of these emails from Evan as I prepare to write about him (he's #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend). (I don't mean to dehumanize them with nick-names. Rather, one of the main points of this inventory is to see where I've hurt people. But their names - like Evan, James, Bruce, Ronnie - those are all made up any way, so the descriptors actually make it easier for me to remember who they were. Sad, I know.) So here's his latest email; he keeps reminding me how much I hurt him, and it's good, in a way (although after this one, I plan to block them, since I'm powerless not to respond and I keep making myself late for work, since he writes after 2:00 am I get them in the morning).

I had asked Evan to stop trying to suck me into his vortex - I'd heard that phrase somewhere and wanted to use it - so that's why he begins this way:

Sllllluuuuuurrrrrrrp!  I'm trying hard to be an un-vortex.  Part of me wants you to be happy, part of me wants to have you, and still another part wants you to feel the pain that I feel because you've shown what my love is worth.. and its embarrassing to have to realize it isn't much.  I wish I was a more lovable person and that I inspired loyalty, but I don't think I'm that kind of person and knowing thyself is part of transcendence.  I always wanted to have my own family to look after since I was young.  I thought loyalty and honesty were the things a family man had to have and I guess I just see that as silly now looking at ours and other past relationships.  I don't know who else to express these things too.  If they bring you down a little... good.  Filling your life with nothing but positive people and places is a fools errand.. not being affected by the negative I think is the secret. 

Anyhow I'm not always negative.  I don't think others would put up with me as long as they have if that were true.  I think because you've now lapped me in terms of dating that it puts me in a different class... Like I can't keep up.  I'm not good enough for you.  I know you say its the spiritual churchiness I lack and the income, but if I was a quiet churchgoer with a pad I still think you would think yourself in a different class because of how many men you've had at your fingertips over the past few years with no 500 pound gorilla in the room to scare them off.  We skinny boys can seduce a whole lot of women but its the strong scary ones that keep them more often than not.  I really think that is what rolls across your mind when you roll your eyes at my sad messages.  I'll stop bumming you out soon enough.  I don't keep too many friends, dove, and I keep the ones I have for a long time.  So when you just move on past me because I take off (for a damn good reason) I'm still wanting to talk about my problems with you... only YOU is the problem.

So anyway... I jut smoked a shit ton of weed and laughed with a couple Canucks for the past 5 hours... So I'm not getting great sex with someone utterly new and fascinating who is fascinated with me while working a dream job and hanging out with a cool kid... I still know how to have a good time.  If your dumpy sad ex-boyfriend sends you the occasional depressing email what's it to you.  Just don't respond or be a total asshole until I run off like in "White Fang" with Ethan Hawk and that wolf-dog.

Margaret part 3, and the Acapulco Parking Lot

I have to believe in God's will otherwise I'll rack myself with guilt. The last night we hung out she really wanted me to come inside after the meeting and dinner, again, but I wanted to go home and write. I need to start setting boundaries, I thought. I'm gonna do something I wanna do, damnit. I conjured something like, "Aww, I'm so sorry, it's late, and I'm tired. And I have to work tomorrow, so, I should probably just go home. Hey, gimme a hug. Everything's gonna be okay. Pray, meditate, read the Book. Look, he's done, you gotta let him go. Let go and let God. You'll feel so much better once you turn it over to your higher power." I don't think it resonated even slightly. Her eyes were an abyss of sadness.



I had gotten tired of her constant complaining about him. I had tried my best to be sympathetic (or at least act that way) for about a month. I'd been through the ringer myself, and she was helping me to recover and dig myself out of my hole. But as I got better, I watched her get worse. If I can recover, why can't she? It had been almost two months since Crawford had broken up with her. But they were still under the same roof, so she couldn't really move on. She had a hard time with acceptance. She wanted him to just stop what (she thought) he was doing (indulging in his sex addiction with not-her). "He's in the disease," she said. "If only I can just make him see it!" It was painful for her to be so in love him and be around him but be rejected at every turn and told that it was her, not him (and refusing to believe that). "How can he do this to me? He was so in love with me! I know he loves me. And then he tells me that, as far back as 6 months ago, he didn't even like me and stopped wanting to be around me? But he was telling me he loved me all that time...so which is it? What am I supposed to believe? I just need to make him see it -- he's in the disease."

He left to go camping one week and she had me over almost every night before he got back. We smoked cigarettes in the backyard (I don't even smoke) and ate Mexican food over candelight and incense and talked about our respective problems with (her = man, me = men).



As for me, I was done with them. The last guy I had been with had told me, four days after we'd had sex, (paraphrased) "Oh, yeah, I've had genital herpes for 22 years, got it when I was 18, and, sorry for not telling you, but I didn't know we were gonna have sex." Wtf? ¡Híjole! One huge difference between Margaret and me: I do see my part in it. Sterling was the 27th guy I'd "been with" in some form or another in the two years after my marriage, so it was bound to happen at some point, the way I go about things. Funny me...I trust them all so openly, always thinking this one will be different...maybe this one's The One. Fuck, it's an understatement to say that I'm lucky it wasn't AIDS. Then I'd have to go around and talk to kids in high schools about abstinence for the rest of my shortened life. Jesus, thank you God.



Actually, I met a woman with AIDS the other night, at a meeting, as fate (or God, as I like to believe) would have it. Before I got to know her, or that she had AIDS, I had been called to the podium to be the first of the meeting's 3-minute general sharers. I let everyone know about Margaret and discussed how important it is that we all "stick together and hang together, or else most of us will finally die alone" (guilt). Mary, who was to be the main speaker after intermission, was sitting in the front row and listening while I shared. Later she stopped me and spoke to me at the break. She held my hands in hers and pulled me close and looked deep into my eyes with all the earnestness at her command. She described her "white light experience" and told me what she felt on the other side of the tunnel during her brief visit. She said she felt the greatest love, warmth and comfort that one can't even imagine. After that experience, she knew (to believe: to have confidence or faith in the truth in) that if someone is suffering, as Margaret was, God allows that person to come home to Him to experience that Infinite Happiness and Abundant Love. Later, when she spoke to the group, she informed us all that she had contracted AIDS 23 years ago from an artificial insemination. But she was alive, she felt, because her work here wasn't done. She was probably the most spiritual person I've met yet, and, meeting her the day I after I found out about Margaret's suicide is what I like to call a "God shot".



I didn't believe in heaven until Margaret's suicide, but now I see why people invented it. (Ha -- okay, so, former-long-time-atheist-turned-spiritual-gone-Christian still holds on to some of her old ideas...and strives for spiritual progress, not perfection.) Believing in God and heaven doesn't remove the pain from my chest, but it does give me peace and acceptance. And the pain goes away a little more each day. And sometimes the guilt does come back, but then I have to remember, again, that I've chosen to concede that I'm powerless and to believe that it was God's will to both bring Margaret into my life as well as to take her out of it. So even if I had been there for her more during that last week-and-a-half, it might have done nothing, or delayed the inevitable, or kept her alive and suffering longer, or saved her life, shit...but see, none of those scenarios are what was, or is. What is, is, and is God's will (I do believe...I just have to remind myself of that, oh, throughout the day, every day).

Margaret's suicide doesn't, spiritually and mentally, bother me as much any more. I wish I could say the same for the people who are left (lol). When people found out that I'd been with her for awhile towards the end, they'd ask me why and how and where she did it. The "how" hasn't been released, although I suspect pills might have been the instrument. As for the "where" -- she was found in her backyard (as, similarly, her fiancé from two years prior had been found). The "why" of her suicide is, contrastingly, ultimately unknowable, since Margaret was Margaret and no one else was in her body (unless you believe in the Devil, perhaps). There're the childhood molests, the estranged family, the divorce, the not ever having kids, the deceased fiancé, this break-up, the abandonment by friends, the lack of faith or hope and presence of despair and pain, etc. I do know that she was suffering, and from the looks of things, was just "done" with the whole life thing. But...there is something that sticks with me as one of the more...moldy...layers of the onion.

Disclaimer: I haven't shared the following with any one. I'm glad I change peoples names and use a "pen" name for myself on this blog. (Oh, and about the pen name, here's the quick aside on that: #1 once asked me, when we were about to watch some porn, "So, what's your porn name?" I was like, "What?!" and before I could inform him that I wasn't in porn, he informed me, "Yeah, you know; you take the name of your first pet as your first name, and the name of the street you grew up on as your last name. Wha-la, porn name." Uh-hyuck).

Margaret told me on more than one occasion that she'd wanted to make Crawford suffer, to feel the pain that she was feeling, to make him see. She told me she wanted to throw his belongings into the driveway and burn them, and I talked her out of it. She said she wanted to snoop through his truck for "evidence", and I talked her out of it. She texted the suspected woman over and over, trying to "sabotage" him, until I told her she oughta stop. I was actually with her while she searched frantically through his camping gear in the garage after he'd gotten back from the camping trip to see if there was an extra sleeping bag or panties or any other evidence of another woman. I remember thinking, "Fuck, poor thing. She's goin' nuts." And I couldn't do a goddamn thing for her.



But she sure helped me. Margaret may have taken her life, but I will always maintain that, in a way, she saved mine. I wouldn't be where I'm at today - on this 1+ month of "no men" - if it weren't for her. We sat on her couch and she gave me little assignments to do, like, she had me write about my "sexploits" and read them to her so we could find a pattern. A week later, I had written about the first seven. But...when I went over them with her on her couch, she stopped me before I got to #3.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked.

I stammered, taken off guard, still chuckling a little, "Oh...uh...I dunno...".

"Stop. Don't you see? It's not funny."

"Oh, well, I know, but...".

"Adora, are you proud of what you've done? Do you think this is a game?" Her eyes were huge and serious. She didn't blink, once.

I looked down. I just wanted her to like me. "Well no, I just..."

"Then why are you laughing? You should be crying. I want to see you cry." Fuck, I felt like crying, then. She could see it in my face. "See? Okay, I want you to do this whole thing over. Next time, I want to see tears." This coming from a woman who had said before that she couldn't cry, didn't know why, and might go off her anti-depressants so that maybe she could.

"Okay. Sorry. I will."



For me, I guess it's just easier to look at it all with a sense of humor. Really, when I look back, I do laugh.

Here, for example, is #2:

I had heard about a $300 karaoke contest being held at one of my favorite restaurants, the Acapulco. So impulsively, I drove 30 miles to go enter and give it a shot. I had been pretty depressed, having had a restraining order set against me by my husband, whom I'd left a month-and-a-half prior for #1, and I wasn't able to see my little boy (more on that in a future post). I was in a lot of pain. Karaoke would help get my mind off it for awhile. Better than screaming and crying on the floor for another night.

But I got there too early. Nothing had started yet. So, I went to the brewery across the parking lot to have a honey ale to "loosen up". I took my time with it to savor the taste, and it seemed to do the trick. When I got back to the Acapulco, the karaoke still hadn't started, so...well, I'd all ready gotten the ball rolling. Here's how it rolled:

I sit down at the bar. I feel guilty for sitting at the bar and not buying a drink. I get myself a margarita, double, with Patron Añejo. A table of Mexican guys start talking to me. Angel (okay, that's another name I just can't bring myself to change) comes and sits down next to me and asks to buy me a drink. I accept with only slight hesitation. We show each other pictures of our kids on our phones and complain about our custody battles. We get drunk. I bomb my Adele song. I go to the bathroom and hide for 30 minutes and contemplate jumping out through the window to escape. I go back out and he's still waiting for me outside the door. The DJ starts DJ-ing. We salsa til my legs feel like they're gonna fall off. I say I need to go "charge my cell phone" and "will be right back". He follows me to my car. He says he needs to charge his phone and asks me to come to his car. I do. We get in. After some conversation, he kisses me. He tells me how beautiful I am. He says he wants to "make love" to me. I let him, but I can't wait til it's over. When it's over, I tell him I have a boyfriend. He (shocked but forgiving) asks me for my number. I give it to him. He lets me go. I go, drunk (shocked and devastated and full of self pity) through the In-N-Out drive-thru for a burger.  I sob in my car in the parking lot in between sober-me-up bites.

Um...see? Fuckin' hilarious.

Damn.



But, "Resentment is the number one offender. From it stem all forms of spiritual disease. It kills more [people] than anything else." I've heard that plenty of times in recovery, and I understand why I need to not resent people, situations, things that happen, myself - anything. I know I need to turn my resentments into compassion -- especially my resentments against myself.

Here are some more:

"Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today."

"All of my problems are of my own making." (I guess that wouldn't apply to something like, I dunno, cancer, but for the most part, it's true.)

"If I have a problem with any one else, the problem is really with me."

"God, grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

Some people who "knew" Margaret say that she used a "permanent solution to a temporary problem". Well, shit -- if it gets that bad, where life is the problem, then hell, I just don't even know. I like to think nothing's that bad, but maybe that's because I tend to be unaware, by choice. Until now, anyway. Now that I'm writing about all this shit, and yeah, realizing that no, it's not really that funny...I can see how people could just get so bent out of shape over it all and just wanna be done with the whole damn thing. So I'm glad I have my son to live for (I do have him on weekends now) and I have 12-step meetings for four different recovery programs, lol. And I have God. My belief in a power greater than myself means I don't have to understand everything, but it does mean I have to realize my powerlessness over many things, and accept those things as they are and be at peace with them. God is either everything, or else He is nothing. And all the things I've done, I don't even need to blame myself for, because it's all part of God's plan for me.

"Religion is for those of us who are afraid of Hell. Spirituality is for those of us who have been there."

Introduction

If I had known that, after leaving my husband of ten years, two years ago, I'd somehow become romantically/emotionally and/or sexually involved with 27 men in 24 months, I - perhaps - would have tried a different solution to my marital problems. I'd equate what-I've-done to hitting myself on the head with a hammer - 27 times - to get rid of a headache. You guessed right - it didn't work.

I find myself now completely demoralized and devoid of identity, wondering what the hell just happened. So, I'm going to write about each of these relationships to figure out just who I've been and where I've gone wrong (and who the hell I really am, and should be). Thankfully, I have stopped this insidious cycle, though by no temporary moment of sanity on my part -- I just happened to jump off the last horse on the carousel because riding it may have left me with something unpleasant between my legs. Thanks for telling me before I got on, jackass. (But I'll get back to this in #27: The Propane Truck Driver. I know, he sounds like a real winner.)

Someone said Einstein said something about insanity being something like "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". Well, amen to that, with a few hallelujahs. What was I expecting? Prince Charming. What did I get? 27 bad apples. This one will be different. This one doesn't live with his parents. This one's not an alcoholic. This one's fully employed, and a father. This one's a spiritual guru...ad infinitum. Well, I mis-use the phrase, because there was finality, thank goodness; I should say, "...ad nauseum". I'm suffering from a nasty bout of indigestion right about now.

In my next post, I'll start with my very first relationships -- my relationships with my family -- because doing so will shed some light on how I got here. I suppose it's cliché to start with childhood -- or maybe it isn't, and J.D. Salinger isn't God. But don't tell that to guy #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend. Holden Caulfield was his idol.