I'm A Lucky Guy

I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky. I have a perfect life. Couldn't understand why I get stressed.

The urge to put a pair of scissors through someone's neck is a healthy urge. It's a primal urge. It's, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.

I'll admit, I have some incredible aspects of my life. My daughter, my friends, the fact that people seem to like what I write -- those are good things. I don't discount them. To say I'm lucky and have a perfect life is a stretch. It comes not from a place of ignorance, but of blindness.

Lucky guys don't throw up blood. Perfect lives do not include fifty percent custody. h soundtrack and then Shit Gets Done. That doesn't happen, though. The love scenes never work out the same because those positions don't work as good as you think they would. Those flowery speeches where love is declared to conquer all come pre-equipped with stammers. The rain never falls just right. The girl sometimes gets away ... and you don't get her back.

For once I wish it were perfect, and that I was lucky, and that all those problems would be solved within ninety minutes. There's no gaffer, though. No credits to roll. And this guy's life doesn't come with a score. It's filled with awkward moments, distrust and a sense of dread as I wait for the other shoe to fall.

Real is the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Real is "I Stand Alone." Real is a handgun in your face one night, held by a random stranger. Real is sex that should somehow feel more fulfilling but will do ... for now. Real is a marriage that falls apart for no apparent reason, a break-up with as little reason, a daughter who wants her family back and a sense that the main character is no longer marching toward his doom, but has instead entered the final stages like gangbusters. Real is what happens when your plans go to shit.

When I started this blog, I was going to cover things that interested me. Music, movies, video games and so on. It wasn't meant to be my therapy, but it has turned into that. Personal private thoughts in a public forum. If I said these things on a street corner I'd be prophet crazy. Here, safe from direct stares, I can play God.

If I were lucky, if I had a perfect life, I'd be asleep right now. My daughter would be in her room, close enough to mine that I can sometimes hear her gentle sleep breathing. I would be able to reach over and wrap my arms around someone, keep her warm because I'm good at that. Know that I wouldn't care what she looked like in the morning because that's a reality I enjoy. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee and actually eat ... and not wonder when it was coming up. I would have a best-selling book. My job would be less stressful. I wouldn't be worried about my little girl, and I sure as hell wouldn't worry that I am going to die alone.

Instead, I worry. I'm getting my items together to sell and give away. I'm thinking that alone is how it is going to be, and I'm not too keen on that. I don't know how to meet people. I don't like people. I've been lucky enough (yeah, I said it) that in my past relationships they sort of just happened. Guess what? I'm 38. That shit doesn't just happen anymore.

I finally feel my age. Older, actually. I shouldn't care about this shit, but I do. I shouldn't give a fuck, but I can't help it. Yeah, a perfect life for a lucky guy. I can cure cancer with a touch and make puppies dance on command.

Maybe I need to see life through this person's eyes. See what they see. Maybe I'm mistaken. I can tell you this, though, I'm the one living my damn life. I'm the one up at midnight thinkin' I'll be lucky to get two hours sleep. I think I have a pretty good grasp on what my life is and how my luck should play out.

What is that Rollins Band song? "Gun in Mouth Blues." Click. Bang. Yeah, I'm a lucky guy.

Hey, Pig

I got an e-mail about this blog. The person wouldn't comment on here, afraid I may say something. The blog, according to her, is depressing. I'm dragging her down. Bumming her out. "I know I'm not your best friend, but if you lost a friend, so what? Get over it. Friends come and go."

I refrained from responding. Friends do come and go when you don't care, but when you keep the gates like I do, any friend leaving is like losing a limb. (And truth be told, I think I can salvage this lost friendship if I'm given a chance.) What I wanted to do with this letter writer was show her how it feels. I wanted to drag her into the gutter and put a cigarette out on her cheek. Instead, I got a phone call from another friend from back East, and I was thrilled.

I was kind of explaining the situation (and I thank her for offering to show up at my place wearing nothing, and if that ever happens I will take full advantage of the situation if the mood strikes me), and she said something along the lines that all this heartache goes away, gets better, and you forget about it and move on.

I begged to differ. It goes away, gets better, but you don't forget.

I compared it to being shot in the face. The bullet catches your lower jaw and just tears it to shreds. Your tongue is a mess. Teeth are gone. You are rushed to the hospital. Surgeons do what they can, and they are pretty amazing, so they've got you back together. Your jaw, however, is wired shut. For the next few weeks you'll have to sip soup through a straw while your wounds heal. You'll have an IV, too, but you've also got that delicious chicken soup. You can't forget that. Once the wounds heal enough, the docs will clip those wires. Now you'll need therapy so you can talk again. That won't be fun. And did they mention the scars? You'll see them everytime you shave.

You don't want to forget that pain. You don't want to be shot in the face again. Yes, you'll get better, but only a fool forgets. Only a fool wants to relive that.

The shit I write here is my therapy. It beats carving up people or burning down banks. It keeps my mind off my mind. I'd be doing it even if nobody was reading, and I don't know how many people actually are. (If the publisher of my poker book puts this blog on its site, I think more will be coming my way, though.) I don't care, however. It's out there. If I can connect with just one person, which I think I have, I'll have done my job.

Not every post is going to be about how AT and T is staffed by morons or how great Voodoo Rhythm Records is. Some are going to be dirty little wounds that quickly grow into infections.

A co-worker, who is also a friend, told me today that I was the luckiest guy. That I always had women at my desk. I told her she was crazy. That I'm not lucky. That women don't swoon over me. In fact, I think most women hate me. I have issues. I'm not a "bad boy" (meaning I don't beat women or think I am the center of the universe), and I think I'm socially awkward. I have never had an easy time meeting women, but the one's I've met have been great. I don't do the dating thing. I try to treat the opposite sex as equals, and I try to be a nice guy. All those things are sexual/romantic/social poison. I don't have all kinds of women at my desk at work, and I don't think I'm a "good catch." I think I've been lucky ... in some cases very lucky. But the losses have been great, and that's hard to deal with.

My luck, as little as there ever was, has run out. I'm broken, bruised, battered and bitter. I'm also tired. I don't care about this anymore. I don't want to care. I have fallen under the spell of apathy when it comes to my life, and that scares me. I'm not boiling animal skulls anymore, or shooting the windows out of cars parked at the bar, but something is brewing ... and that something can't be good.