Halloween

Of course there's a man in a Rod Kimble costume at the coffee shop this morning. It’s 9:00am—why the hell does he need to be in costume already? That’s too much Halloween. Life stings. Life is mocking me. And it isn't funny. The natural ironies in life can suck my balls.

Last night, I went to a bar for dinner and drinks and a burlesque show was going on. So many beautiful women in costumes, which I suppose is okay; and a few dressed like strippers, which I also suppose is okay, were scattered everywhere. There’s a pole dancing fitness gym in the same hall as the bar. The ladies dancing are members of the gym. But, I left right before the show started. It got too crowded for me. One lady sat next to me and said something but I wasn’t listening. The bartender took my drink and food orders but never spoke to me after that. I remember these days—the days feeling invisible. There must be something in my: face, eyes, and body language, telling people to stay away. I worked with a five year old disabled boy on Wednesday and he asked me, “Are you sad?”, which really gutted me because I thought I was hiding it just fine. How does he know? I asked myself. I cried. I cried in front of him. “Yeah, I'm sad.”

And the other day, at work, we had an all-staff meeting about the shooting and a few counselors and therapists spoke to us after we broke into small groups and one of these sonsofbitches called on me to share, which in hindsight, seems unfair to me. I lost it. In front of twenty coworkers, I lost it. Therapy should be voluntary. My boss was there, right behind me. “He killed our kids," I said, as I tried to hold it all in. So much of that night felt phony. And my lady was in the process of breaking-up with me, which is really why I lost it—it’s the real thing I was holding in. But my boss and coworkers think I'm grieving the kids . . . Maybe I am the phony one? I broke, like the dam did. (Pick a broken dam) Everything flooded. I had been so calm and in control before the damn dam broke.

I should be in Iowa right now, under the covers with her, but I didn’t get on the plane. No, I stayed. I barely slept the night before my flight; ideas of going there anyway fought against the impulse to stay. But chasing her when she wants to run away seems insane . . . I almost did it anyway. I looked up hotel rooms and rental cars and calculated how much it would cost me. Drinking and writing—while waiting for her—is how I imagined I would end up spending my time. It sounded miserable and meaningful. I thought about writing a book on a bender during the week but alcohol is what got me in this mess. I thought about offering her a friend to spend the week with. I thought about apologizing in person, but I let her go. I didn’t chase. No, not this time. So, I am single again. I can already feel the shift. I hate it and I love it. I feel invisible again. I feel inspired. Something is missing. And it’s my fault it’s gone. The old me resurfaces and I greet him like an old friend. He’s familiar but very different. Relationships are hard. They really are. And I am dogshit at them. It would be a miracle to fall in love again. No lady will ever be like her. No, if there is another one after her, she will be different. I just fear it’ll be her I miss forever.

I wish it wasn’t like this. The plane had my name on it and I let it fly by. I’d rather get high than try that hard for a lady who runs away. We are cowards and our masks are brave.

The man in the Rod Kimble costume hops on his bike and pedals away. He’s pretty committed to the costume but my lady is the only one I want to see in it. Seeing him in it makes me sick. I hate Halloween. It’s too cold and dark for me.

CH 11/3/26