F*ck Analog

My thoughts on Friday’s blog, which seemed to alarm a lot of people:

Look in my eyes/ Tell me what you see/ Do you see perfection in me?/ To you, do I look complete?/ Now take one more look pass my celebrity/ That's where you'll find the real me/ To you, do I still look complete?

I got every material thing I could ever need/ I got the love from my fans that adore me/And I'm grateful/ And I thank you so very much/ But my love for myself is lacking a little bit/ I can admit that I'm working on me/Staying faithful/ And what I’m trying to say is

Just like you sometimes I get down/Sometimes I just wanna cry/Sometimes I get depressed/ And just like me, tryna be complete/ Just understand we're all just a work in progress

-MJB “Work in Progress” Growing Pains

After Thursday’s emotional breakdown, I got to thinking that maybe it was time I stopped thinking for awhile. I figured I‘d get through Friday at work, hit up Cat On A Hot Tin Roof (great, but really really long) on Broadway after, then spend the weekend using no more than 10% of my brain power. Mother Nature seemed to be on my side as it rained most of the day Saturday so I didn’t feel like I was missing anything by staying in the house all day. I moved my laptop into my bedroom, got under the covers, and read gossip about my favorite celebs. I spent hours mindlessly googling pictures of Rhianna, Kelly Osburne, and Kelis, my three most-adored fashionistas, then debating for another hour who had the best style. At first it seemed like a three-way tie, but I picked a winner by wondering whose wardrobe I want to steal most. Kelly wins. Hands down.

Things were going well. Then the last bulb in the light fixture in my room blew, leaving me in darkness except for the glow of the computer and TV screens. But all was still good. Brain power was operating at 7% tops. The phone rings. I have a 15 minute conversation that leaves me feeling pretty much like Nina in the first five minutes of love jones and I decide that this falling in like shit really is played out like an eight track (hence the blog title.)

Liking someone should be the easiest shit in the world, shouldn’t it? But somehow it always ends up complex. I end up staring at the ceiling wondering “what the fuck just happened?” People can’t say what they mean, or we say it, then realize the other person doesn’t feel the same way. So then we feel stupid and wonder why in the hell we ever listened to any of the 10 people who told us to be more vulnerable anyway. Or sometimes we just have nothing to say and then it’s all “what’s the problem? Something must be wrong. You’re not saying anything.” There are all these weird expectations to live up to (I called. You didn’t. Why not?) and subtle games people play (I’d rather hear “I don’t want to tell you” than “I don’t know.” You fucking know!). Hints thrown, careful suggestions about what you might possibly want to change about me to get along better with you, schedules to match up. Today it takes you 5 minutes of winding sentences I don’t understand for you to finally say, “I think you’re great.” Three days from now, I’ll remind you of a Sade song. A night later, maybe you’re a square and I’m a circle. Get it, D?

What changed? Did I miss something? Misread the signs? Huh? I thought I was great? I’m getting off the phone. Fuck, my brain is in overdrive. Where’s my Mary? No, no, no, I will not listen to My Life.

So I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, or actually the covers because the comforter is over my head, and I think, “is it me?” Because it’s got to be me. At the very least, I chose the wrong people to get into. Then I think of the date. March 9. Hmm. Two months. Right on target. It’s never been the intent to be a serial dater, but I guess that’s exactly what I am. And I’d cry, but I decided two years ago that I wouldn’t shed another tear over any dude. What does it solve? It just makes my face puffy and I’d be unpretty in the morning for church. If I shed real tears, it’ll be for a real reason.

What I left out of the final version of Friday’s blog was something about how I came home Thursday night and thought: maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I get in life. Maybe I get the great apartment, and the great job, and the great friends, and live in a great city. I get a great talent that I actually get to use, and people actually tune in and pay attention to what I write. I get some great vacations and some great parties and some great hair and great clothes along the way. Maybe I’ll get the great book deal (as a testament to how great the job and my boss are, I wouldn’t even quit, not even if I got a rare six-figure deal) and maybe I’ll get the great car someday (although I don’t actually need it). And maybe I just don’t get the great guy. No one gets it all—at least not at the same time. And I don’t think I would trade in anything that I have to get that one more thing. I don’t want it all. I am happy with what I have. Why do I keep thinking I need more?

When I wrote that paragraph the first time, I wasn’t okay with that. Twelve hours later, I am. Maybe I give up to easy. That could be true. I know I‘m tired of meeting someone, easing my way into allowing myself to actually like him, (one at a time. I’ve tried to juggle and date like a guy. I can’t do it), then watching it all crash and burn. Again. Again. Again. I mean how many times am I supposed to try over and over at something before it kicks in that this is just not for me or I’m just not good at it? Isn’t that the definition of insanity? And don’t I have other sh*t to do with my in stereo, digital life than watch the same piece of it go to shit once again? Shouldn’t I just focus on further cultivating the things I know I’m good at it? Won’t I get a better ROI doing that?

I’m curtsie-ing center stage after a mediocre performance. I don't expect an ovation. Please save any applause.