"Love is a slippery eel that bites like hell."

-Matt Groening


This is mostly going to be me rambling a lot. There's no real story, or point; I just feel like writing. If you're not into it, use your browser's "back" button to pick another story, or use one of the links on the bottom of this page.


I cursed out my reflection in the mirror this morning. I couldn't believe the things he did last night, and I can't believe I let him. Being drunk is no excuse. Things got out of hand.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have multiple personalities, and I didn't kill anyone. What I did last night, I did to myself, and I should have known better.

Maybe I should clear up the statement I made on the top of this page. There is a story involved, but I'm going to try not to tell it. I'm a little depressed, a little melancholy, and in need of spilling my soul.

I've never been very good at being depressed; I don't think anyone is. I'm not the type to walk around taking my problems out on other people, whether or not they are involved. I'm far too closed a person to do that.

Usually, when something happens in my life that should bring me down, I just ignore it. Work through it somehow, and never let on to the effect it had on me. I store it up. After a while, usually once a year, all the pains and troubles build up to a point that I have to do something about it. So I grab a walkman, some poignant music, and go somewhere to be by myself for a few hours. I listen to the music and bring all the emotions back up. I relive every trial of the past year, and sometimes even go back to older ones just out of spite. The worst thing to have in the world is a good memory.

I cry my eyes out, and the next day I feel much better.

I started this little trend in college. I used to go lay on the lawn, listen to the Talking Heads, stare at the stars and cry for hours at a time.

Once, it started raining, but I didn't care. I just laid there and let the rain drops wash away my tears. I was sick as a dog the next day, but emotionally, I was much better.

After college, I discovered that alcohol helps speed up the process a little. This past summer when I was in Turkey, I felt the need for an emotional enema coming on, so, with some Talking Heads CD's and a bottle of Jack, I laid down on the roof and let loose.

I drank over twenty ounces of whiskey that night. Almost the whole bottle. How I didn't die, I'll never know. After I passed out the wind kicked up, and almost blew me off the roof. The strange thing is, I woke up the next day with little or no hangover. I can feel one coming on again (an emotional outburst, not a hangover.

I already have one of those); I guess that's why I'm writing this. I'm hoping that I can get it all out on the page and avoid the pain involved with my normal self-flagellation.

I heard a story once. It's sort of a joke, but not really. It's from an Opera.

Guy walks into a bar looking very depressed. Bartender gives him a drink and asks him what the problem is. The man says he's just world-weary, has lots of problems, but nothing the bartender would be interested in. The bartender tells the man that he should go into town to the circus. In the circus is a clown named Pagliacci. He's the funniest clown in the world. Whenever the bartender gets down, he goes to see Pagliacci, and the clown helps him forget his troubles for a little while. That's what you should do, the bartender tells him. Go see Pagliacci.

There's only one problem, the man replies. I am Pagliacci.

That story has always had meaning for me. I've always been the entertainer. The life of the party. On the few occasions I wasn't in the mood, for whatever reason, to be the center of attention at a party or get-together, my friends would always think there's something wrong. I can't just sit at a party and watch what's going on without someone thinking I'm depressed.

And when I am depressed, I know better than to go to my friends.

It's actually sad that I don't have anyone to go to with my problems. Don't get me wrong. I could go to my friends with it; they would probably love to hear it, and love to help, but I just can't. It's not my thing. As much as I like to help my friends when they have problems, I don't want anyone helping me with mine. Oh, there are rare occasions when I do talk to them, but they are few and far between.

The hardest part about writing these stories for me is coming up with a quote for the top of the page. I don't have a book of them or look them up anywhere. I just remember hearing them somewhere. That's just some of the useless, trivial crud floating around in my brain. Lines from songs, dialogue from movies and quotes in general.

Usually I spend hours just staring at the page, with nothing written except "My Latest Escapades," the date and a pair of open ended quotation marks. I wrack my brain to come up with the perfect line to go with the story. When I finally find one, then I start typing. The quote I use is perfect, and says exactly what I need it to. It's like it's the only line I could have used; nothing else would fit.

For this page, on the other hand, I must have changed the quote four times already. There are so many that fit well. I'll probably filter them into the writing here and there just to get them out.

They say that those who forget the past are destined to repeat it. I remember the past, and still I make the same mistakes. This past month has been one huge deja-vu episode. I've been here, made mistakes, and now I'm doing it all over again. It's like I have no control, and I just can't stop myself.

The really strange part is that when these things happened to me the first few times, it was slightly different. It's like I'm an actor in a play, going over the same lines night after night on stage, and one day, I switch parts. So now all the lines I used to say are being spoken to me, and all the things that I used to hear are now coming out of my mouth.

And even though I know that nothing that was ever said to me made a difference, now that I'm speaking these lines, I still hope they'll work. Does this make any sense? I think I'm babbling again.

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that in a lot of my past relationships, I've always been the quiet one. I always hedged my bets, never really told the girl exactly how I felt. They would always ask and want to know where the relationship was going, but I would always be vague. I enjoyed being with them and figured that would be enough. Why bother putting a title on it. I knew we were going out, or seeing each other, or dating, or whatever you want to call it. I just never wanted to admit it. I guess I wanted to keep my options open. I just never felt that deeply about them until much later. I liked them, and cared for them, loved them (but was not in love with them) and would do anything for them, but I was protecting myself.

Now I'm the one asking what's going on, and I'm getting my old, patented answers back. But I still keep asking. I'm asking the same questions I used to never want to answer. Of course, I know what the answers will be, but I can't stop myself from asking anyway.

I've actually thought about calling each one of my ex's and apologizing to them for the pain I put them through with my indifference. It's a really cruel thing to do, but at the time, I didn't take their feelings into account. Now it's all making sense.

A few of my ex's told me that I gave them the urge to beat their heads against a brick wall. I never understood why. One girl was a clearer thinker than the others, and told me she had the urge to beat MY head against a wall. Try to knock some sense into me. I now know exactly how they felt. I guess what goes around really does come around.


"Two guys walk into a bar. Which is pretty funny, because after the first guy walked into it, the second guy should have ducked."

-Howie Mandell


I even saw it coming. Never even occurred to me to duck. Hell, I didn't even flinch.

I've always been very analytical. Over analytical, even. Whenever anything of significance happens in my life, I spend the next few days going over everything that was said, pulling it apart word by word to look for hidden meaning. I try to find out what was said, what was really said, and why. I guess I really am a typical Libra in that respect.

I always tried to lead my life with my head, never my heart. In fact, for a long time, I kept my heart in a fireproof strong box with a big fat padlock on it and a seventy-four digit combination. I just had to make sure it was safe. A few weeks ago, I actually decided to take it out, and put it in charge for a while. My head hadn't done a very good job of finding me happiness, so I figured it was time to give my heart a shot. I wore it like a badge.

I guess I forgot to un-pin it from my shirt when I washed it. It's been folded, spindled and mutilated. AND it stained all my clothes to a nice rosy pink.

I'm tempted to lock it up again, just for safe keeping, but I'm afraid that if I do, I might forget the combination next time I want to take it out (seventy-four digits is a lot to remember).

I never chose to like this girl; it just happened. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. She knows how I feel (because my damned heart won't shut up about it sometimes), but doesn't reciprocate. She says she likes me, but apparently doesn't like like me.

Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

I've been in love a few times in my life. Once with a girl I never talked to (read the First Love story to hear about that one), once with a girl that loved me back and now with a girl that won't or can't return the feeling.

I'm trying to figure out which one's worst. To love someone and never know if it's mutual, to love someone and have it returned, then break up and go your separate ways (I guess that would count as loved and lost), or to love someone that just doesn't love you back. It hurts. She's in my every thought. It actually seemed for a moment there that it would work out. Maybe it was all in my mind, but I liked it.

I know I should stop chasing her. Just let her go and find someone else. But part of me wants to keep trying, to somehow change her mind (but if I could change her mind, would her heart follow?), or at least get her to concede to give me a chance. But, honestly, that's not what I want. The girls I've been out with in the recent past have had to deal with my not returning their love, just spending months or years going out, as they hoped that I'd fall in love with them sometime soon. I know how much it hurt them. Some of them caught on quicker than the others and got out of the relationship before their hearts were broken too badly. Some of them didn't, and I know they're still a little bitter about the whole thing. I'm sure they would be quite happy to see it happen to me, but I don't think I can handle it.

I think it's time for me to finish this little novella. It actually helped to write it down. At least now I know what I need to do. This is better than therapy.

Maybe tomorrow morning, that guy in the mirror will be able to look me in the eye again.


-Spat 4/11/97


If you have any questions, E-Mail me. Spat@spat-nospam-cave.com