(First published at mikealvear.com)
I’ve heard that the city in which I live, Chicago, has the most gay people per capita than any other city in America. Then why, I often wonder, despite my living in this vast gay wonderland, do I seemingly run into the same douche bag ex-boyfriend everywhere that I go?
I have never experienced a “good” break up. I have friends who are on speaking terms with their ex’s, and I observe these situations with the same curiosity I’d exhibit were I to stumble upon two aliens having sex. What the hell is going on? How do you do that? Generally, a break up is caused by someone wanting to rid their everyday lives of someone else. Break ups are rarely mutual decisions. What I have never understood is the level of maturity required to forgive someone who has decided that they would rather risk dying alone than contend with you on a daily basis.
I hope for a world that when a person wrongs you, they cease to exist. I don’t want to see their names pop up in my phone. I don’t want to read their Facebook updates. I don’t want to see them walking down the street. I want them to vanish into thin air, destroying all evidence of their having ever existed. This clearly has not happened to my aforementioned ex. I ran into him the day after Valentine’s Day and, in an experience that I can only assume was as comfortable as water boarding, listened to him talk about him and his new boyfriend’s romantic evening together. What did I do for Valentine’s Day? I got blind drunk at a lesbian bar.
Chicago may be big, but it clearly isn’t big enough.
Scientists in Amsterdam have begun experimenting with a common blood pressure medication that has exhibited signs of helping individuals forget trauma and fear, similar to the storyline in the movie “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” Put me in a cage, feed me cheese, and call me a lab rat. I want in on this research.
Joy washes over me at the thought of living in a world where I have no recollections of this ex or how he ripped out my heart and self-esteem and fed them both to wild dogs. Gone would be the nights when, despite looking and feeling great, I suddenly find myself trying to escape through a bathroom window because he and his new boyfriend were spotted coming into the bar. I could face the world free from this constant fear of seeing him and going from confident and funny to beaten and broken in the blink of an eye.
“Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” I disagree with that. If I want to learn from my mistakes and grow as a person, I don’t need to be dumped. I can simply revisit some of my fashion choices from the mid 90s. When you’re able to look back on a relationship and realize that you didn’t do anything wrong except openly and honestly love someone, then there’s really not much else to be learned from the experience besides the fact that life is cruel, random, and out to destroy you. That’s not really the type of life lesson I care to learn.
So Chicago’s gay population either needs to get even bigger or I need to jet off to Amsterdam and get in on that study. I’m getting just about as sick of looking at this ex everywhere that I go as, well, he got sick of looking at me.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Why are you single?
(First published at mikealvear.com)
There are some questions that you just don’t ask people, questions beyond the obvious ones like “How old are you?” or “How much money do you make?” When asked, some questions trigger responses that can linger in the air like a bad fart. I once innocently asked a cute guy I’d been flirting with at a bar why he was drinking bottled water. Expecting to hear something generic - he was in training or had to get an early start in the morning - I was subjected to a twenty-minute diatribe describing not only his struggles with addiction, but also the origins of said addiction. And believe me, when you’re trying to pick someone up in a bar, nothing turns you off faster than the topic of childhood incest.
Dating makes you highly vulnerable to questions that you just can’t seem to answer, no matter how long you ramble. Like fumbling during a job interview, a simple question such as “Why did you move to Chicago?” can trigger an endless monologue on running away from a dysfunctional relationship revolving solely around alcohol, infidelity, and weed (trust me). Given that my lot in life seems to be eternal solitude, I, as the constant dater, have learned to dodge such open-ended questions. Question: Why did I move to Chicago? Answer: Work.
However, I was recently stumped by a rather crafty question while having drinks with someone I’d met online. Well trained in what is acceptable to say and what is completely off limits, I was stunned that I hadn’t considered this question in all of my preparation. In all my years of experience in dating, no one had ever asked me this: “Why are you single?”
I knew better than to take the easy route and blame my appearance. Even the most novice of daters know that a lack of self-esteem is not attractive. I also knew not to fault myself. Dating is all about the upsell, and nothing knocks down your sticker price like exposing your insanity and trust issues to a potential buyer. The question merited a response focused on blame. So not knowing who exactly to blame for my being single, I did what any over-educated American liberal would do. I blamed society:
• Every sane guy worth dating within my age bracket (25 – 35) is already in the throes of their first serious relationship.• When those guys hit the market again after that first serious relationship ends, they will need a few years to resow their wild oats, which would then leave them pushing 40.
• 40 year olds have too much baggage. Their baggage mixed with my baggage will be way too heavy for any two people to carry.
• Catching younger guys before they get into their first serious relationship with someone their own age is not an option for me. Younger guys who like older guys do so because they have issues with their fathers or they like to spend someone else’s money. I’m too young to be anyone’s father and I’m poor, deeming me useless with the younger guys.
The tirade ended, and shortly afterwards, so did the date. I’d taken the long way around one of those questions best left unanswered. Now, moving forward, I know exactly what to say:
“Why are you single?”
“My boyfriend died.”
There are some questions that you just don’t ask people, questions beyond the obvious ones like “How old are you?” or “How much money do you make?” When asked, some questions trigger responses that can linger in the air like a bad fart. I once innocently asked a cute guy I’d been flirting with at a bar why he was drinking bottled water. Expecting to hear something generic - he was in training or had to get an early start in the morning - I was subjected to a twenty-minute diatribe describing not only his struggles with addiction, but also the origins of said addiction. And believe me, when you’re trying to pick someone up in a bar, nothing turns you off faster than the topic of childhood incest.
Dating makes you highly vulnerable to questions that you just can’t seem to answer, no matter how long you ramble. Like fumbling during a job interview, a simple question such as “Why did you move to Chicago?” can trigger an endless monologue on running away from a dysfunctional relationship revolving solely around alcohol, infidelity, and weed (trust me). Given that my lot in life seems to be eternal solitude, I, as the constant dater, have learned to dodge such open-ended questions. Question: Why did I move to Chicago? Answer: Work.
However, I was recently stumped by a rather crafty question while having drinks with someone I’d met online. Well trained in what is acceptable to say and what is completely off limits, I was stunned that I hadn’t considered this question in all of my preparation. In all my years of experience in dating, no one had ever asked me this: “Why are you single?”
I knew better than to take the easy route and blame my appearance. Even the most novice of daters know that a lack of self-esteem is not attractive. I also knew not to fault myself. Dating is all about the upsell, and nothing knocks down your sticker price like exposing your insanity and trust issues to a potential buyer. The question merited a response focused on blame. So not knowing who exactly to blame for my being single, I did what any over-educated American liberal would do. I blamed society:
• Every sane guy worth dating within my age bracket (25 – 35) is already in the throes of their first serious relationship.• When those guys hit the market again after that first serious relationship ends, they will need a few years to resow their wild oats, which would then leave them pushing 40.
• 40 year olds have too much baggage. Their baggage mixed with my baggage will be way too heavy for any two people to carry.
• Catching younger guys before they get into their first serious relationship with someone their own age is not an option for me. Younger guys who like older guys do so because they have issues with their fathers or they like to spend someone else’s money. I’m too young to be anyone’s father and I’m poor, deeming me useless with the younger guys.
The tirade ended, and shortly afterwards, so did the date. I’d taken the long way around one of those questions best left unanswered. Now, moving forward, I know exactly what to say:
“Why are you single?”
“My boyfriend died.”
Age actually IS more than a number.
(First pulished on mikealvear.com)
There is no bigger cosmic joke on humanity than aging. It’s a universally non-biased experience laden with irony. One moment it’s congratulating you on your successes (a promotion at work), then the next moment it’s reminding you that you’ll die someday (you find your first gray pubic hair).
It’s proof not only that there is a God, but that he has a wicked sense of humor. For example, by the time you can actually afford to drink in martini bars, your body can no longer tolerate alcohol like it could when you were young and poor. Or by the time you actually start to see the world as a beautiful place full of grace and understanding, you’re old and no one cares how you see anything.
Gay men struggle more with age than any other pocket of the population. While most straight people resign themselves to physical collapse at age 30, gay men on this birthday MUST begin working out regularly, otherwise they are no longer allowed to attend Gay Pride parades or watch “Project Runway.” I was at a 30th birthday party once for someone whose friends purchased him a gym membership. How’s that for unconditional love?
Although we gays fight aging with more purpose and drive than the Allied had when defeating the Germans, we are all still fully aware that it’ll happen. We use three gauges to measure our marches from Twink to Sugar Daddy:
• By when different Madonna albums were released. I was enrolled in a school run by Southern Baptists during the Like a Prayer era. I was a junior in high school during the Erotica and Sex book era. I moved to Chicago during the American Life era. Every gay man, no matter how masculine they may appear to be, can tell you exactly where and how old he was the first time he heard “Ray of Light.”
• By how many Republican presidents have screwed us. Maybe you remember Richard Nixon ignoring the Stonewall Riots. Or you might recall Gerald Ford not acknowledging gay Americans despite having been saved from assassination by one, Oliver Sipple, in 1975. Maybe you remember Ronald Reagan’s Communications Director calling AIDS “nature’s revenge on gay men.” Or maybe you’re only young enough to recall George W. Bush’s attempts to write social discrimination into the pages of the Constitution with his proposed marriage amendment. The GOP! Progress defined!
• By which bars and social scenes you tend to gravitate towards. Since most cities only have a handful of gay bars, there is little wiggle room surrounding the types of clientele they tend to attract. The dance bars tend to attract younger people. The quieter, more civil bars tend to attract an older crowd. Recently, along with two other thirty-something friends of mine, we went to a bar that would more likely have a place for us to sit down and hear each other talk, bypassing the late night disco packed with half naked drunk boys. “Did that just happen?” my friend Matt asked worriedly. “Did we really pick this place over the dance bar? Wow. We just got old.”
And it does happen that fast. One second you’re jumping up and down shirtless to Madonna’s “Music.” Then, in the blink of an eye, you’re asking the DJ if he can turn down his extended mix of “4 Minutes” because you can‘t hear yourself think. Gay men have a very dysfunctional relationship with aging. We hate it, but without it, we wouldn’t be alive. Much like the relationship most of us have with our parents.
There is no bigger cosmic joke on humanity than aging. It’s a universally non-biased experience laden with irony. One moment it’s congratulating you on your successes (a promotion at work), then the next moment it’s reminding you that you’ll die someday (you find your first gray pubic hair).
It’s proof not only that there is a God, but that he has a wicked sense of humor. For example, by the time you can actually afford to drink in martini bars, your body can no longer tolerate alcohol like it could when you were young and poor. Or by the time you actually start to see the world as a beautiful place full of grace and understanding, you’re old and no one cares how you see anything.
Gay men struggle more with age than any other pocket of the population. While most straight people resign themselves to physical collapse at age 30, gay men on this birthday MUST begin working out regularly, otherwise they are no longer allowed to attend Gay Pride parades or watch “Project Runway.” I was at a 30th birthday party once for someone whose friends purchased him a gym membership. How’s that for unconditional love?
Although we gays fight aging with more purpose and drive than the Allied had when defeating the Germans, we are all still fully aware that it’ll happen. We use three gauges to measure our marches from Twink to Sugar Daddy:
• By when different Madonna albums were released. I was enrolled in a school run by Southern Baptists during the Like a Prayer era. I was a junior in high school during the Erotica and Sex book era. I moved to Chicago during the American Life era. Every gay man, no matter how masculine they may appear to be, can tell you exactly where and how old he was the first time he heard “Ray of Light.”
• By how many Republican presidents have screwed us. Maybe you remember Richard Nixon ignoring the Stonewall Riots. Or you might recall Gerald Ford not acknowledging gay Americans despite having been saved from assassination by one, Oliver Sipple, in 1975. Maybe you remember Ronald Reagan’s Communications Director calling AIDS “nature’s revenge on gay men.” Or maybe you’re only young enough to recall George W. Bush’s attempts to write social discrimination into the pages of the Constitution with his proposed marriage amendment. The GOP! Progress defined!
• By which bars and social scenes you tend to gravitate towards. Since most cities only have a handful of gay bars, there is little wiggle room surrounding the types of clientele they tend to attract. The dance bars tend to attract younger people. The quieter, more civil bars tend to attract an older crowd. Recently, along with two other thirty-something friends of mine, we went to a bar that would more likely have a place for us to sit down and hear each other talk, bypassing the late night disco packed with half naked drunk boys. “Did that just happen?” my friend Matt asked worriedly. “Did we really pick this place over the dance bar? Wow. We just got old.”
And it does happen that fast. One second you’re jumping up and down shirtless to Madonna’s “Music.” Then, in the blink of an eye, you’re asking the DJ if he can turn down his extended mix of “4 Minutes” because you can‘t hear yourself think. Gay men have a very dysfunctional relationship with aging. We hate it, but without it, we wouldn’t be alive. Much like the relationship most of us have with our parents.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Might as well face it, you're addicted to love.
I consider myself to be an expert on a wide variety of subjects. None of the topics on which I claim to hold a credible opinion were taught to me by traditional means. For example, I consider myself to be an expert on folk music, not because I have read anything about (or even own any albums by) Bob Dylan or Nancy Griffin, but because I know all of the words to every song off of the Indigo Girls' "Rites of Passage" album. I am your go-to guy regarding the great city of New Orleans, not because I am from there or have even studied there, but because I've gotten very drunk there many, many times. I consider myself to be an expert on how Western civilization has corrupted and oppressed the nations of Africa over the past four hundred years, not because I know anyone from Africa (nor do I have even the slightest desire to ever go to Africa), but because I have read Barbara Kingsolver's African-staged epic "The Poisonwood Bible" more than once.
Most of my self-proclaimed knowledge comes from television though, but not sophisticated television like PBS of CSPAN. I know the effects that electro-magnetic energy can have on air travel thanks to "Lost." I know what it's like to run a late night comedy sketch show because of "30 Rock." And I also feel that I'm quite the historian when it comes to Hip Hop because I watched all three seasons of "Flavor of Love." And now, thanks to A&E's brilliant show "Intervention," I am now an expert on the subject of addiction.
"Intervention" is an hour-long documentary that each week follows around an addict who will soon be confronted by their friends and family about undergoing treatment. The show highlights every type of addiction, from gambling to drugs to booze. It sucks the viewer in by showing how the person got from Point A to Point B, how they went from studying medicine to huffing glue or from being a world champion cyclist to panhandling for crack money. It's a very heartwarming show. You find yourself rooting for the addict, wanting them to get better and to turn their lives around. And, if you have a sick sense of humor like I do, the show is often hilarious. Watching someone on crystal meth attempt to do algebra is always good for a chuckle. Or seeing the mother of the bride get so drunk that she starts making threats during the wedding toast is pure comedy gold.
We all have addictions, and sometimes the worst addictions are ones that move under the radar. Those are the things that we can't stop doing, things that might be damaging to us but are highly unlikely to completely destroy our lives. Chocolate, for example, might expand your wasteline and rot your teeth, but it's doubtful that you'll ever have to steal from your friends and family or prostitute yourself to pay for it. Outside of nicotine and the binge drinking (which I blame entirely on the influence of others), I only have one real addiction. And this only occurred to me recently when I was challenged by a friend of mine to stop doing it. It turns out that I couldn't stop. My name is Tony, and I'm addicted to dating.
"Intervention" has taught me many things about addiction, primarily about how it sneaks up on people and without them even realizing that it's happened, their lives have started to revolve around it. The guy who used to only do cocaine on the weekends doesn't know at exactly what moment he began needing it first thing in the morning, but he does. The girl hooked on heroine can't remember how smoking weed occasionally with her friends led to her living underneath an interstate overpass, but it has. The path to addiction is complicated and consists of many variables. It's not all about the physical need you develop for it. Your past plays a huge part, as do your fears. Addiction is like a cute baby tiger. Overnight, it can go from being something small and fun and controllable to something big and powerful and capable of killing you.
Simply put, when an addict gets their fix, they feel good. These feelings of bliss eventually pass, leading them desperate to return to that level of comfort. My history with dating addiction is the classic story of the small town boy gone wild in the big city. I grew up in the suburbs and went to college in the sticks. I lived in the very conservative mid-sized city of Memphis throughout most of my twenties, and dating for gay men was about as frequent as live vocals at a Britney Spears concert. Fast forward to my moving to the big gay city of Chicago (into the gayest neighborhood to boot!), and needless to say I lost control. I became obsessed with it. It was easy and accessible and an amazing deterrence from reality. I was hooked!
There were a few periods where I was able to stop dating, to stop scouring dating sites or hitting on strangers in bars, because I was in what I considered to be at the time a "relationship." But addiction latches on to people's insecurities, and you begin to tie that need into other shortcomings in your life. There was a string of disappoints in my dating life from the Fall of 2006 until the Summer of 2008 (six to be exact), and very soon into that cycle I began working from the angle that in order to stay ahead of the game (translated: in order to keep from feeling hurt again), I had to always have one or two guys "on deck." This way, when things inevitably failed with whomever I was officially seeing, I had someone available immediately to distract me from the most recent disaster. And just like with every type of addiction, this behavior was fun at first. I was young and wild. I could quit anytime I wanted to.
One key aspect of addiction is that at some point every addict realizes that what they crave is doing them more harm than good. But due to the mappings of basic human behavior, they don't know how to quit. At the encouragement of my friend Hector, I first tried to stop a few months ago when I began spending quite a bit of time with someone. Hector suggested that perhaps all of my relationships were doomed to fail because there was no way I could focus on developing any sort of intimacy with someone when I had too many burners going on the stove. So I quit, putting all my money into one pot. That particular pot ended up making an *ss out of me on the dance floor of a gay disco and for the first time in a long time I didn't have anyone else in queue to help with the damage. And I remembered that without that extra netting getting screwed over by someone you're dating really sucks.
This past weekend, I spent a lot of time with another friend of mine going through his first break-up. Despite his being my age, he is a relatively new gay, meaning that he has not been out all that long. Considering that I've got fifteen years of gay dating stacked up against his four, he's pretty much a baby. He laid out all the gory details to myself and another friend of ours over a bottle of wine. I felt so bad for him, then I felt guilty, for the only solid advice I had for him was to hurry up and start dating someone else. I was laying out a mound of cocaine on the coffee table, handing him a rolled up dollar bill. I was trying to push my addiction onto someone else.
I often consider what it would be like to be the target of an intervention. Would I be leaving a coffee house after a first date with someone, heading to a bar for a drink with another date, texting the guy I had plans with the night before, when my family and friends suddenly spring on me and plead that I get help? Would months of therapy and twelve-step programs teach me patience and faith and how to use the internet for purposes other than updating my various online profiles? What would I do with all the time and energy that I typically waste on dating? What would I do when the next relationship comes to a close and I have no one else to immediately turn to? And is it even possible for me, a dating addict, to ever be "normal?"
I'm enough of an expert on addiction now thanks to A&E to know exactly what circumstances led me here. I'm insecure. I have trust issues. I have absolutely no faith in my own gut instincts. I have fears of abandonment. These shortcomings certainly aren't unique to me, but the way they cultivate themselves into my daily life seem to be. I seem to have completely lost the ability to spend a few weeks buried under the covers feeling sorry for myself when a relationship ends. But there's still a large part of me that thinks if or when I meet the right guy, that I'll be able to quit dating cold turkey. And I guess I won't actually know if I indeed have that strength until that moment comes, if it ever does.
I wonder if there is a rehabilitation clinic somewhere where I could spend ninety days detoxing from dating. If so, I wonder if I could meet someone there...
Most of my self-proclaimed knowledge comes from television though, but not sophisticated television like PBS of CSPAN. I know the effects that electro-magnetic energy can have on air travel thanks to "Lost." I know what it's like to run a late night comedy sketch show because of "30 Rock." And I also feel that I'm quite the historian when it comes to Hip Hop because I watched all three seasons of "Flavor of Love." And now, thanks to A&E's brilliant show "Intervention," I am now an expert on the subject of addiction.
"Intervention" is an hour-long documentary that each week follows around an addict who will soon be confronted by their friends and family about undergoing treatment. The show highlights every type of addiction, from gambling to drugs to booze. It sucks the viewer in by showing how the person got from Point A to Point B, how they went from studying medicine to huffing glue or from being a world champion cyclist to panhandling for crack money. It's a very heartwarming show. You find yourself rooting for the addict, wanting them to get better and to turn their lives around. And, if you have a sick sense of humor like I do, the show is often hilarious. Watching someone on crystal meth attempt to do algebra is always good for a chuckle. Or seeing the mother of the bride get so drunk that she starts making threats during the wedding toast is pure comedy gold.
We all have addictions, and sometimes the worst addictions are ones that move under the radar. Those are the things that we can't stop doing, things that might be damaging to us but are highly unlikely to completely destroy our lives. Chocolate, for example, might expand your wasteline and rot your teeth, but it's doubtful that you'll ever have to steal from your friends and family or prostitute yourself to pay for it. Outside of nicotine and the binge drinking (which I blame entirely on the influence of others), I only have one real addiction. And this only occurred to me recently when I was challenged by a friend of mine to stop doing it. It turns out that I couldn't stop. My name is Tony, and I'm addicted to dating.
"Intervention" has taught me many things about addiction, primarily about how it sneaks up on people and without them even realizing that it's happened, their lives have started to revolve around it. The guy who used to only do cocaine on the weekends doesn't know at exactly what moment he began needing it first thing in the morning, but he does. The girl hooked on heroine can't remember how smoking weed occasionally with her friends led to her living underneath an interstate overpass, but it has. The path to addiction is complicated and consists of many variables. It's not all about the physical need you develop for it. Your past plays a huge part, as do your fears. Addiction is like a cute baby tiger. Overnight, it can go from being something small and fun and controllable to something big and powerful and capable of killing you.
Simply put, when an addict gets their fix, they feel good. These feelings of bliss eventually pass, leading them desperate to return to that level of comfort. My history with dating addiction is the classic story of the small town boy gone wild in the big city. I grew up in the suburbs and went to college in the sticks. I lived in the very conservative mid-sized city of Memphis throughout most of my twenties, and dating for gay men was about as frequent as live vocals at a Britney Spears concert. Fast forward to my moving to the big gay city of Chicago (into the gayest neighborhood to boot!), and needless to say I lost control. I became obsessed with it. It was easy and accessible and an amazing deterrence from reality. I was hooked!
There were a few periods where I was able to stop dating, to stop scouring dating sites or hitting on strangers in bars, because I was in what I considered to be at the time a "relationship." But addiction latches on to people's insecurities, and you begin to tie that need into other shortcomings in your life. There was a string of disappoints in my dating life from the Fall of 2006 until the Summer of 2008 (six to be exact), and very soon into that cycle I began working from the angle that in order to stay ahead of the game (translated: in order to keep from feeling hurt again), I had to always have one or two guys "on deck." This way, when things inevitably failed with whomever I was officially seeing, I had someone available immediately to distract me from the most recent disaster. And just like with every type of addiction, this behavior was fun at first. I was young and wild. I could quit anytime I wanted to.
One key aspect of addiction is that at some point every addict realizes that what they crave is doing them more harm than good. But due to the mappings of basic human behavior, they don't know how to quit. At the encouragement of my friend Hector, I first tried to stop a few months ago when I began spending quite a bit of time with someone. Hector suggested that perhaps all of my relationships were doomed to fail because there was no way I could focus on developing any sort of intimacy with someone when I had too many burners going on the stove. So I quit, putting all my money into one pot. That particular pot ended up making an *ss out of me on the dance floor of a gay disco and for the first time in a long time I didn't have anyone else in queue to help with the damage. And I remembered that without that extra netting getting screwed over by someone you're dating really sucks.
This past weekend, I spent a lot of time with another friend of mine going through his first break-up. Despite his being my age, he is a relatively new gay, meaning that he has not been out all that long. Considering that I've got fifteen years of gay dating stacked up against his four, he's pretty much a baby. He laid out all the gory details to myself and another friend of ours over a bottle of wine. I felt so bad for him, then I felt guilty, for the only solid advice I had for him was to hurry up and start dating someone else. I was laying out a mound of cocaine on the coffee table, handing him a rolled up dollar bill. I was trying to push my addiction onto someone else.
I often consider what it would be like to be the target of an intervention. Would I be leaving a coffee house after a first date with someone, heading to a bar for a drink with another date, texting the guy I had plans with the night before, when my family and friends suddenly spring on me and plead that I get help? Would months of therapy and twelve-step programs teach me patience and faith and how to use the internet for purposes other than updating my various online profiles? What would I do with all the time and energy that I typically waste on dating? What would I do when the next relationship comes to a close and I have no one else to immediately turn to? And is it even possible for me, a dating addict, to ever be "normal?"
I'm enough of an expert on addiction now thanks to A&E to know exactly what circumstances led me here. I'm insecure. I have trust issues. I have absolutely no faith in my own gut instincts. I have fears of abandonment. These shortcomings certainly aren't unique to me, but the way they cultivate themselves into my daily life seem to be. I seem to have completely lost the ability to spend a few weeks buried under the covers feeling sorry for myself when a relationship ends. But there's still a large part of me that thinks if or when I meet the right guy, that I'll be able to quit dating cold turkey. And I guess I won't actually know if I indeed have that strength until that moment comes, if it ever does.
I wonder if there is a rehabilitation clinic somewhere where I could spend ninety days detoxing from dating. If so, I wonder if I could meet someone there...
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