I can also tell you that last night, for the first time in a really, REALLY long time, I thought about kissing Dean. I can honestly tell you that I tried doing that on other occasions but could never bring myself to do it. I fast forwarded past some sort of sitcom worthy scenario that would bring us together and I kissed him. And then we fucked. I imagined him trying to hold onto me when I tried to leave, he wanted me to stay. I imagined that I just broke down crying uncontrollably and sobbing through the tears, “You have no idea exactly how much I love you! You don’t get it! You don’t believe me! After all this time! You have no idea exactly how much I care for you!” In my mind he said something to the effect of, “What do you want me to do Breeze?” and I started saying in singsong, “Love me back” over and over and over again until I woke up, still mouthing those words.
I can also tell you that I’m not holding out for that… a least not consciously. Obviously something is going on down in the depths of the cinnabar juice of my id but up here on sober dry land…yeah… fuck Dean. I can admit a slight curiosity to his whereabouts and if he’s doing okay. But the idea of a conversation in reality makes me ill.
I can also tell you that the most delicious aspect of that whole scenario is the idea of being love. I can’t remember what sparked the train of thought a couple of days ago but I remember getting out of the shower and putting baby oil on my skin and the thought just occurred to me that I haven’t been in love is such a long fucking time. I haven’t had a nose flaring crush or tear inducing shared orgasm in so long. I actually really do miss that. I miss that preoccupation… that obsession… that craziness. I miss making mix tapes for some dude, saving those “Love Is” cartoons from the paper and keeping them in my wallet, that simple, sweet and quick kiss you give when you greet each other from work, calling them in the middle of the day to see how they are doing… I miss that. Now that… I do miss with Dean. That’s the romantic part for me. We were immensely romantic; I don’t think anybody could ever deny that. We had some good times. But those bad times… my God… those reality laden bad times where he insulted me to the very core of my existence, demeaned my humanity, diametrically opposed my existence, put forth immense efforts to emasculate me... consistently… no one could deny that shit either. So… yeah, I dreamt about the good times.
I want to say that I’m just not strong enough to put up with the bad times… that a stronger person would be there no matter what, but I’m not going to claim that, I’m not going to claim “defeat”. I think it’s one of those situations of “working smart not hard”… it feels like the same scenario. When it comes to love, I want to work smart not hard. I want to love smart not hard. Like… there has got to be a better way to get to the sweet than eating the pound of shit that’s around it… there’s got to be some other sweet out there without so much shit on it… I’m a firm believer that there is. So I honor that sweet that Dean and I had… but my God… no more shit. No more shit.