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I always lied to myself, claiming that ive found love. I’ve confused the concept with painful moments of ego and lust. I compensate by lending advice to others. I’ve woken up from dreams with a different kind of happiness. Awoken with new memories perpetuating my obsession with this lie. I have allowed my imagination to imprint this cloud of fiction confusing what is real.
Love is a fantasy, a falsity, a fear.
All I have are those lips ill never kiss, that smile that wont be mine and those eyes that will never see me.

We’re broken up. 
It’s over. 
We both said things we can’t go back on, the damage is done. Wet tears turn to dry tears, wounds to scars. 
In the eternally wise words of Jerry Seinfeld, “breaking up is like knocking over a coke machine; you can’t do it in one push, you gotta rock it back and forth a few times, and then it goes over”. After arguably 4 years of break ups to make ups, we made the final push one week ago; metaphorical cola is staining the shag on my bedroom floor.

So it’s no mystery then, that I have this unshakable, bewildering feeling that i don’t know who the fuck i am anymore.
“But you’re single now” (apparantly that’s supposed to fill me with excitement). Custom dictates that i go out and hate-fuck a perfect stranger next to a dumpster behind a laundromat, but a calming voice whispers that this might not be the best long-term solution. 
And, honestly, i’d rather glue johnny vegas’ crusty ball hair on my face and pretend to be an orangutan then try my hand at dinners and movies.
Is running out and falling in love all over again with the next fem-bot that shares any fraction of similarity with the girl that “never wants to speak to [me] again” the answer to my sorrow? 
Fuck. 
No.
So what is? Me time? 
If my healthy morning self-loathing routine* is any indication, ‘me time’ is certainly not the answer either.
(*sighing with discomfort as i reload the harsh truths of my own inadequacy and self sabotage =5mins. Masturbation =1-2mins. Quite sobbing=8-9mins. Staring blankly in the mirror hoping to telepathically send myself to another time or place =20mins. Then a long, hot shower followed by self empowerment YouTube videos, stalking high school crushes on Facebook, and more masturbation. The whole routine usually runs about an hour in total, beats the hell out of Bircher muesli and a kale shake, that’s for sure.)
Friends told me I need to go and dip my wick, so that’s what I did. 
Why, then, was I too distracted to enjoy myself? Could it be that no amount of dick whipping or wick dipping could fill the void left behind by a real connection..? Was it the tequila and ketamine? Or was it the thought of my ex getting savagely boned by some faggot jock with dirty fingernails and a bigger cock than mine…? My guess is a little from column A, little from column B. 
Point is, humans are fragile. And complex. We created art, and mathematics, and iPhones and space crafts. So then, to think that my wistful yearnings and longings, regret and resentment, pain, fear, doubts and hopes, memories, fantasies, confusion, anger and relief can be solved by aimlessly stuffing my junk into a strangers warm hole is completely fucking absurd (when you’re not in the mood for it, sex itself starts to look pretty fucking absurd). 
Truth is, time doesn’t really heal shit.. Neither does wine, neither does weed, neither does pussy. 
They say there are plenty of fish in the sea, no wonder the ocean scares the living shit out of me.

Cars are not my thing.. i feel their thrusting pistons and rotating combustion turbines and tuned port fuel injections and such undermine my masculinity.. similar thing with sports..
But that’s possibly because i’ve never heard them spoken about so eloquently and sensitively, and paralleled to a topic i understand, as to the post I’ve attached.
Only such a great writer (and close personal friend) could put something like this together..

Enjoy

I see now, so many of the things i understand about love and sex is the residual knowledge from experiences since forgotten.
Realization gives birth to reflection which leads to understanding and resolution, even if the catalyst of the realization buries itself in the indecipherable density of my lost memories, leaving me uncertain and emotionally instinctual.

Life in it’s entirety until this point has been too relentlessly intricate for me to recall all the events that made me who i am.
My knowledge and perception of women comes from the accumulated conclusions picked from a constant, chaotic hum of sweet lullaby and harsh contradiction.
I’m reminded of this from time to time, when one of these pivotal scenes scales the surface of my endless ocean of forgotten moments..

Two hoary old homeless men sit alone at the end of a long pier, their legs hanging over the edge. The night is sultry and the men are quite drunk.
One, a scrawny man wears a tattered button up shirt with an off-centered tie so old, one can only assume it belonged to him in his early school years.. He speaks in a Victorian accent and seems oddly distracted and mournful. His boots are in very good condition and he’s wearing a pleated knee length skirt that strangely suits him. The other, a man of generous proportions wears dirty white hot pants and an old blue singlet revealing far too much of the melted swiss cheese that is his flesh. His face is weathered yet kind, indicating pleasant contemplation..

Bum No. 1: (Agitated, stands up to loudly proclaim) Had I an Arabian jeanie or a wretched monkey’s paw with but one boney finger outstretched I would surely trade any wish of the mind’s vast imaginings for but one moment, a mere grain of sand in the endless desert of time shared in love. For you see, my miasmal crony, the heart is impotent and peripheral when not accompanied by it’s counterpart.

Bum No.2: (unimpressed)You talk about love like you know it. Everyday, I sit here as you detail your longing, as though all those precious drops, all the exquisite beauties of life were in vain. Sometimes i listen, sometimes I don’t; but I ask you, what does a bum know about love, anyway?

Bum No.1: Your epithet is all wrong, I am a forgotten child of the harrowing streets, a transient vagabond, ’tis you rather, who is the lowly posterior.

Lowly Posterior: So what kind of woman shares her love with a transient vagabond?

Transient Vagabond: (Appearing angered by the implications of the query) The kind of woman whose intrinsic elegance and endless grace makes waves crash against each other in desperate urgency, winds blow furiously for no other reason than the inadequacy of their natural beauty when placed in the same earthly space as her..
A beauty of Helenic measures and a character of irresistible eccentricities.

Lowly Posterior: So what happened?

Transient Vagabond: So glad you asked.. Our time together was divine, and for a few fleeting moments, it seemed to have every promise of sweet forever, but, it’s climax passed before our future did, and different paths were chosen. She saw in me a nomadic inebriant before destiny selected me to be as such..

That, my friend, was a lifetime ago, in a world much unlike this one, when I was the man I was, before the man I became.

Long pause. both men are in profound thought.

Lowly Posterior: I just remembered i have half a flask in my coat.

Summer’s over, and to us that means only one thing.. no more beautiful women in floral dresses bicycling through leafy, sun kissed Toronto.
Requiring no particular sartorial prowess, supportive of myriad body types and shapes, and utterly enthralling to any man with a functional dick and a heartbeat, it’s a look, alright.
But it’s just a look, not a touch.. Due to the enhanced mobility of the bicycle, flirtations are reduced to momentary glances of mutual appreciation.

I must have a million hearts, as for every prepossessing woman in a flower sprinkled, billowy frock on a bike, one of them plummets to my gut.

i hate her.
i hate her for her beauty, and her awareness of it.
i hate her for how disaffected she is.
i hate that merely her physical appearance can make me question an otherwise respectable lifetime of sexual accomplishment.

We walked passed each other in the street, both cleverly detached in our respective force fields of isolation. .
Contrary to beauty’s usual context, hers is disharmonious with it’s surroundings, a beauty that makes everything in it’s environment miserable.
I find morbid amusement in the fact that to her i was an anonymous passerby, one not overwhelmed by a clusterfuck of emotions at the sight of her. Unbeknownst to her, and despite my futile efforts for distraction, this innocuous encounter has awoken in me a lust of curious insatiability…

it started at 13.. Palms sweaty, butterflies fluttering about in that spot between my chest and my dick, dizzy with nerves.
“Will you go out with me?” i somehow managed to mumble. Those six words in that order were the only ones ever used to successfully get a girlfriend at that age, though not quite successful enough for me.. not this time.
That was the first day i ever punched a brick wall with my bare fist.

Angie was her name, and for three young years i thought she’d be the only girl I’d ever love.

As it goes, she said no because a close friend of hers didn’t like me, or didn’t trust me, or had her own little crush. (I wound up dating this girl for a meaningless week a few months later, so it was most likely all of the above).

A year later at a party, intoxication found it’s way to her, and she found her way to me. Unfortunately for me, i was in a miserable yet public relationship with someone she knew. On top of that, a close friend of mine (and the cousin of my girlfriend at the time) was crazy in love with her.
On top of that which is on top of that, i was high, not drunk. Had it been booze rather than ganj, who knows; they attack your decision making abilities in different ways. Since then, I’ve shared the self blame with Mary J.
For the remainder of the evening, I had temptation’s convincing arms wrapped around my shoulders, kissing the corners of my lips, trying to drag me upstairs to “talk”. Had it not been for my 14 year old vehement moralism in regards to fidelity, and more accurately the full visibility of this flirtation, my accumulated year of lust would never have had the chance to unfold as unabated longing, which would in turn haunt me for the next waytoofuckinlong.

Every time we would pass each other in the halls of that shithole school, i would feel that now all too familiar, then burgeoning sting of regret and cowardice.
Little did I know that year 10 would mean class with her. Everyday. All year. Sound perfect? Wrong. Hell.
The palatable awkwardness had passed by this time, which also meant the boat i was supposed to board had sailed.
I yearned for her, yet nothing could happen. We were two different people, and she felt nothing more towards me then a quirky distraction, at the best of times.
At the worst of times i was her friend.

My desire cloaked her, making her glow.
We would kiss and dance and love and touch in my impossible fantasies. I was a different person, yet she remained the same in my wild dreams.
My wildest dreams i can’t publish in a public forum.
Alas, they stayed as dreams in my wandering head, and we stayed acquaintances.
To this day, I don’t know what it was about her, but it was real, I know that much.
Angie… . .
They call it a crush for a reason.

We’re not prepared for this shit.
Remember the golden days of getting dumped, way back when, pre my/face, when a break up meant nothing more than a few late night notsosober phone calls? Or a little harsh rumour starting? Or throwing all the game you’ve got at her best friend, or better yet, polite disinterest?
Those days are now a memory, forever predicated to past tense, thanks entirely to the space/book phenomenon.
Obsession is inherent in the heartbroken, we think it helps; sometimes does, usually doesn’t.
Facebook has changed the game in almost every way, but for me, the most significant was how we deal with grief in love. How are we expected to move on when we have their entire photo album, every meaningless thought that pops into their head, and any bullshit link they feel expresses who they are at but a click away. A profile is a perpetually updated description of their life, attitude, look and mood, so when you’re no longer influencing those things, you’ll see it in full view.

Everyone moves on, nothing lasts, we all know that. The pain comes from seeing their smile grow bigger with their new toy, or seeing them fall into the arms of the exact type the two of you once made fun of together. It comes from seeing them get that tattoo you helped her pick out. It comes from her advertising ‘in a relationship’ when she always told you she thought that was lame. Or seeing her status change to “C… is so in love it’s gross!!!” (true story, that one fuckin hurt). The pain comes from seeing with your own eyes, that on camera (and most likely in reality) they make a much cuter couple than the two of you ever did. It comes from having who they’ve become without you at the click of a button.
Gumption and character in the face of heartbreak once meant confrontation, reconciliation and for the sensually adroit, maybe even seduction. Now it means deleting them as a contact, sending their friend a transparently motivated message or a fake lovely wall post, and browsing through the photos of the two of you together you still don’t have the cahones to get rid of.

We are so not ready for this shit.