That aside, I've been playing Oblivion like it was the only video game in existence for weeks, devoting nearly all my free time to it. Sad, I guess, but aside from a weekly gaming session and my job, all I've really got to do with myself is either be creative or entertain myself. I should probably be spending more time on the former and less on the latter, but hey, I'm fuckin' depressed. Let me mourn in the only way that takes me mind off the hot poker of heartache that is pretty much perpetually lodged into my forehead and leave me the hell alone.
In other news, I've begun a rather ambitious writing project with a new friend of mine named Ashley that co-features everyone's favorite misanthropic heir-apparent to Mike Hammer, Gerad 'Machina' Donighal. The work-in-progress will be posted to N! Prime when finished. In the meantime, any of you can read the current, raw text on whiffofgrape. I post that because I know none of you will read it, so there's really nothing to risk, there.
I told myself when I started this that I wasn't going to spend more time talking about Cynthia, but I'm going to make a liar out of myself.
The guys I work with tell me that I just need to get laid. As if that was the problem. Sometimes I wish that I was so base and atavistic, that these problems could have such simple solutions. I doubt if I was that Cynthia would have loved me in the first place, but maybe that would have been for the best. Funny how understanding and suffering always seem to go so close together. Ignorance - or in this case, being a heartless, misogynistic hound - really is bliss. I try to laugh off their idiocy, but I can only force the smile for so long. Yes, thank you, I'm not getting enough sex. Yes, it's been a while. A long, long while. That's not the problem. If that was all my problem was, it'd be not only easily solved, but I'd live a charmed existence.
Sometimes I just want to fucking hit them. They have no idea how lucky they are. They go out and drink and get laid by someone different every week. Women are interchangeable to them, no one any better or worse or more meaningful than any other. When they date, they cheat on their girls with all the nervous regularity of compulsives and the casual ease of sociopaths, and then they show up at work to brag and boast about the stupid women they deceived or conned into bed. And these guys, they tell me "just need to get laid". They attempt consolation and ask me if I want to go out and drink and get laid with them, or they counsel me to take up with some easy girl to blow off some steam, or just move on altogether.
I do not think any of them have ever actually loved, or even know what that is. Love isn't some cheap trinket you get to pitch away because it's no longer convenient. Love takes work, and it's dangerous, and it leaves you changed for having known it. It's sharp and it's poisonous and it's mean, and at once the most wonderful goddamn thing in the world.
We didn't break up, is the thing. We were forced to stop seeing each other. If I were to just take up kit with somebody else, what exactly would that say about me? About her? Or what she meant to me? Clearly, if my first line of thought after losing her is to replace her, she didn't mean that much. As it stands now, I'm not even interested in anybody else. After having known her, I feel like it's all valleys from here on out. Anything less than her would be silver medal bullshit. Settling, something I've never been good at. Even if that wasn't the case, I couldn't run off and chase somebody else, not now. It would cheapen everything I felt about her to simply turn away. You don't turn your back on somebody you love just because you can't be with them.
Still, things have been hard. We haven't spoken for many weeks, and very probably won't for still many, many more. I don't know what she's doing or if she misses me or how she even feels about this. I get only vague impressions from a handful of mutual contacts. I still want to apologize. It was never my intention to cause her grief. For now, however, my hands remain tied. What's strange is that through it all, I trust her. She told me she loved me, and I believed her, I believed that she meant it the same way I did. Maybe she'll move on. If she does, I hope it's because she finds someone who makes her happier than I did. That's all I can really hope for her, that she'll be happy. As for me, I'm neither terribly accustomed to asking for things for myself or to being happy. Maybe it's simply my lot. Anyway. Who knows.
I miss just talking to her, you know? It's insane. I have plenty of smart friends I can talk to, but somehow, talking to her, even about the most boring academic minutiae, was always a thrill to me. We'd talk for hours just about literature or music or games. Yeah, I know, I know, you've all had that ex or that steady or whoever. I guess you'd have to really understand how I feel about people in general for this to mean anything coming from me. People I can talk to are rare. People I can stomach for hours upon hours are rarer still. It surprises me even now, upon reflection, to see how witty and sharp she was. She has a wonderful, brilliant, hungry mind, and I always respected her inquisitiveness and her reasoning, and the way she so effortlessly softened my sharper edges. She tempered and tamed me, and more than that, she made me happy. Happy. Me. I could scarcely believe it, but there it was.
Fuck it. Some guys cheat on their girlfriends like they lived in a world devoid of consequences. And some of us get to watch while the rest of the fucking morlocks squander and take completely for granted what some of us would die for. It makes me want to laugh and puke at the same time. Maybe it's time to just enlist early.