Relationships.

When I think back to the girls I have been in love with, I realize they have all moved on with assholes, cheaters, morons and imbeciles. It's ironic that I felt I was not good enough or that I lacked something. I know that I have my flaws, and when you are trying to date someone, sometimes the flaws are all they try and see. But as long as I have felt that I was the problem, seeing the outcome, perhaps it wasn't me after all. They've surely had people they've compared me to let them down and cheat and lie to them. So, the question is, what, exactly, was I being compared to?  

It's easy to look at the situation they are in and revel in it. To some degree I do, but I don't feel any better about the bad things that have happened to them. And the ones that I have "loved," I think the same is true for anyone: I carry little pieces inside of me that cut like knives (I know what you were talking about, Bryan Adams!) when I see them or hear them. I tend to avoid them for that reason. I'm not sure that I'm really out of love or in love. But there is something that bothers me about my past, still.

It's difficult for me to love. It has to do with how things turned out, or the things that were said that eventually got back to me, or the harsh realities that were set in, or finding out that I was just kept around as a backup plan. My love life has been a terrible mark on my past. I've never been able to hold a relationship long or impress someone enough during a date. As a result, I have an emotional disconnect from humanity, which makes it even harder to do anything more than go through the motions. Complicated by the fact that I purposely stay busy to avoid such decisions or impulses, I think I wont ever get it figured out.

Now, it may sound like I blame the women I dated or tried to date. I don't. The blame is in the mirror. There are a lot of things that I would do differently but that boils down to the fact that I am different. I still keep my imagination, I still hold on to child-like qualities. I have no intention of ever being deemed an outstanding member of society. I enjoy the mischief I occasionally get into. I don't fit into the molds women have set for me. I'm not handsome, I'm not a cowboy, and I'm not James Dean. But like James Dean, I am a rebel, someone that sees things for what they are and I have a brutal case of honesty. This is all a result of my past and my failures that have made me who I am. I am a decent guy who just happens to be devoid of a lot of societal bullshit.

I've spent a lot of my time in life observing people. There are a few reasons for this: I don't trust them, I don't like them, and I am just that curious. What makes me most curious about their lives is how they conduct their own relationships. I see intelligent, mature women fall into the same pitfalls as a young, naive girls for little reason other than they just want to be told that they're beautiful. And I see guys taking advantage of this...because...well, it's easy to do. Tell them what they want to hear, it's the oldest trick in the book. You can be in bed with anyone in as little as 3 months. Tried and true.

This is all because people have made their relationships into a game they play. Scores are tallied both positive and negative. And few people are willing to wake up. Time doesn't make things better. I see a lot of women who hold off dating someone for months if not years because the last relationship didn't work out, only to end up going down the same road. Guys have this "warrior" culture when it comes to sex. Peer pressure and stupidity seems to have a huge influence over today's young men. Our pop culture doesn't make it any better.

I don't wish ill on the women I loved. I do wish them the best, despite how I was made to feel or what was said. I won't lie and say I'm happy with how things ended up...but I am happy with other things in my life. I'm not prince charming, I'm the first to admit that and a couple of you wouldn't let me forget it. Attraction plays a huge role in the beginnings of a relationship and that's a part that I do tend to fail...yet, I have no desire to play the game as you would have expect me to play it. If you want honesty, just ask for it and hold yourself to a higher standard, albeit a rationally thought out one.

As I said, I'm no Prince Charming.... but I am King Arthur. I have my kingdom, that's more than some of you can say. This is all more than I wanted to say.

All Heart.

It wasn't easy for her to care: In fact, it just didn't come natural. Her hair slipped behind her sunglasses and made her eye twitch. She saw that she was doing 80, but it didn't feel a bit over 55; a firm believer in driving fast with he windows down and it was a great day for a drive.

There were no cars on the road. Small town life is easier lived than thought of, or so it seems. The radio was playing some old Tom Petty song and her fingers reacted accordingly on the steering wheel. She kept thinking how warm it was tonight and that in a mere hour she'd be clubbing it up with her girls. The thought of the binge nudged her curiosity. Where would she end up tonight? Oh, the possibilities.

The tire wobbled before it blew out and sent her car into the guard rail. The windshield cracked as the car spun around seemingly from nothing. The steering wheel pulled a hard left against her hard right and her wrist snapped. The spinning car gained speed before settling comfortably over an embankment and her mouth smacked the steering wheel as a conclusive kiss upon arriving to her surprising destination. She tasted blood and couldn't move her arm. The door opened and she rolled out.

Her thoughts first wandered to "I'm gonna be late to the club," before finally setting upon "Holy Fuck." She felt her teeth: All there. Her wrist wasn't so lucky. The bone etched its way through the skin. She clutched her forearm with her left hand and held the wrist in air. Blood trickled down her arm. She threw up on herself and worked her way from her knees to her feet.

The Mustang was busted. Candle Apple paint littered the side of the bank as she made her back up to toward the road. In an act of conceit, she brushed the dust from her jeans and shirt while sacrificing her comfort to a sharp pain emanating from her wrist. There was dust in the wound and it felt like a thousand small fires.

Two directions presented themselves to her as new found options: "The way I came or The way I'm heading."

Given her trip toward her destination wasn't really working out, she headed back towards town. It wasn't long before some kind stranger pulled up and offered her a ride to the hospital. She smiled then collapsed onto the ground.

She woke up surrounded by doctors. It seemed as if all was a split second dream that made no sense. Like any newly woke person, those few precious seconds that blend our dreams with reality felt so wonderful. And then of course, throbbing agonizing pain. Words were tossed around above her in the confusion: scalpal, parents, awake, hear, parents again. She was finally able to pick something coherent out of the barrage being hurled to her.

"Everything will be OK."

She was overcome by sleep immediately. She had no dreams, it was a state of black. If she was aware, then it was surely death to her. She awoke, not long it had seemed, to the news that she'd been asleep for days hailing from the mouth of a young nurse. A Doctor who smelled of cigarettes and stetson entered not long after to ask her some questions.

"Any family?"

None.

"friends?"

Not really. None that would care enough to come out.

"Boyfriend? Someone that could stay with you?"

No.

Three questions made her feel like the loneliest person in the world and it almost brought her to tears.

"Anyone that you could call?"

Maybe.

"We had to amputate your hand."

And the world stopped. She cried and screamed and struggled. The bed did not give, nor did the straps. She was now a freak and made to feel like one. A beautiful twenty something that had the world in her....well...."hands."

She'd been called superficial before. She brushed it off as being chatter from some jealous bitch out to steal her thunder. When she spoke, people listened. It's what being young and beautiful meant. She abused every second of it.

The usual questions came to mind in the moments after: Why me? Does god hate me? What did I do to deserve this?

"You're gonna be here for a little while, we need someone we can call to let em' know you're here. I promise, I'll take good care of you." He said, smiled, then left the room as if he'd delivered the line that would make everything ok.

She always thought doctors were smug but now she had her proof.

The next few days were difficult to say the least. The lacerations that were inscribed on her face were bothersome. She couldn't put her make up on. Her "girls" wanted pics, probably to discuss and pity among their clicks she thought. It was hard enough putting her makeup on. At least she still had her teeth.

Eating breakfast in her room, she noticed the wheelchairs and beds going down the hall. It helped pass the time, that and Oprah. Sometimes people would come to chat, she shooed them away in disgust. These were the lonely days. The best was yet to come.

I'll finish this later. I just had to write something.