Love: An Obituary

It started at a party.

At first, I didn't want to go and Mike did. Then he didn't and I did. After all, it had only been four days since September 11th. No one wanted to move, breathe, leave their beds; why on Earth would anyone want to dance, drink, and yell at each other over loud music when there was so much sorrow in the world? What would be the point?

But as we got to the 12th, and the 13th, and so on the world took on a different feel. People were emerging from their flannel-sheet cocoons with a new mantra, "live now". The world could end at any time, we could be bombed into oblivion, our loved ones might be asked to fight and die abroad. "Live now"...go on and meet people, love life, let go of old fears and old grudges.

And so we decided to go.

And that's when I met you.

Later, we'd omit the part about the "party" being one of the frat variety, and how I met you and two of your friends by being flashed for beads. We spent the night on the dance floor, kissing and talking. Later, we lay in bed and whispered to each other, basking in the glow of the moment.

Alas, our first go-around was destined to fail. You were at school two hours away and I had enough on my plate with work, school, and a semblance of a social life. I only saw you twice in three months, communicating mostly through AIM and the phone. I broke off our then-short dalliance with a phone call right before winter break.

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We started talking again in March. You'd had a failed fling with a friend and I'd missed you. We talked about making an effort to see each other because there was a palpable attraction. I could feel it through the phone. We got back together at the end of that month.

Things were great for a while. The summer was tough, with you living down the Cape with your Nana and me living in Wakefield and working two jobs, but we made it work. Once school started, we were seeing each other all the time until winter finals. After that, I was doing my show and you were living your life. We barely saw each other; add to that the fact that we were still young and I was still stupid, and it equaled a break in April of 2003.

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I was shocked when you decided to come to my college graduation party. We couldn't keep our eyes off each other all night. Once everyone left the party and you stayed behind, I knew that this might be my chance to make things right. We talked, we kissed, we made up and made love, and all was right with the world. We could make this work.

The next year was incredible. I was home, finally close enough to see you on a regular basis. You were finishing up your senior year. That time was bliss; I'm not sure I was ever happier for a longer continuous stretch of time than I was for that year. We laughed, and played, and loved, and dreamed about the future. We even moved in together once your original plan fell through, assured by each other that it was you and me for the rest of our lives.

That would turn out to be a colossal mistake due to the fact that we had no money and you had no friends left up here. Salem was a nightmare. We were broke and we had no social lives to speak of. We fought constantly. We patched up the relationship over and over again. I think we were more scared of leaving each other because of the lease than of the relationship itself. I moved back home but we were too damaged by then; we kept it together until that July and then called it quits. We fooled around for a few months more, unable to let go, and then stopped talking in October.

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I can remember calling you in February of 2007. I was distraught; I'd had a little bit of a medical scare and I needed someone to talk to. You were the most comfortable person I could think of. At the time, I thought that was a compliment.

We started with talking. We moved on to dating. And then we slipped back into love as we had so many times before. And it was wonderful. I was convinced that this was it; you were The One. We had jobs, our own friends, shared confidence; it seemed like everything was falling into place.

March 23rd, 2008 is still the happiest night of my life, even if there has been a little bitterness injected into my memories since then. I asked you to marry me, and you said yes. You looked so beautiful that night. The stars were aligned, the night went as smoothly as I could have ever hoped, and by the time we fell asleep that night the world was ours for the taking, together at last.

Life was great after that. We were ecstatic, telling people left and right that were were engaged. We began making plans for a wedding date, for our children's names, for invitees to the reception.

Finally, my dream of becoming a family man with you was being realized.

And then you began pulling away.

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It started with your workload and school load during the summer. You were taking three classes, working two jobs, and suddenly the time spent together began to dwindle. We went from seeing each other four nights a week to three, to the weekends, to one day a weekend. You were stressed out, but you chose to spend your time off with your new friends. I understood why you thought the way you did: I'd always been and would be around; you wanted to make your own friends and keep them.

So we spent less time with each other. That was frustrating, but I dealt with it. Then you started pulling away further, making plans with your friends and family on the few days we both had free to see each other. You became emotionally distant. Our phone conversations became shorter and less lively. It seemed that you had time to talk and text to everyone except me.

You were attached at the ear and fingers to that goddamn phone. No matter where we were, it was a guarantee that there'd be no meaningful conversation as long as one of your friends was texting you. My family and friends noticed, too; every time you were out with us or over at the house they'd make comments to you about your obsession with your phone. People began pulling me aside and asking me if we were having problems.

I brushed off the criticism, even when the truth was staring me in the face. You were detached, distracted, uninterested. What I took for your desire to be more independent blinded me to what was really happening: you were giving up on our relationship because you stopped feeling the same way about me that I felt about you.

I struggled to keep us together and to understand you. You told me I was suffocating you. You lied to me about why you were feeling the way you were. I believed it because I had no choice. If someone can just fall out of love with someone else without provocation, what does that say about the other person? Can love ever be "forever" if it can be so quickly tossed away?

I had the creeping suspicion that there was someone else. Eventually that was confirmed by an outside source, someone to whom I will be forever indebted. Confronting you about it, I couldn't help but notice the total lack of emotion when you admitted to the elephant in the room. I don't know why I expected more crying or begging or explanation; I hadn't gotten anything real out of you in months.

This time, it was easier. I'd been dealing with a shell of my fiancee for the past few months; the woman I was dealing with now, I didn't even know. Breaking up with someone you don't know is easier than the alternative.

I don't know if you ever would have told me about the other person, but I wasn't willing to wait for you to figure it out.

So here I am now, trying to live my life without your helping hand; unable to converse with your family, to share in the joy of your new cousin, to be included in the love that you so willingly give to others.

I'm doing alright; I have the best family, friends, and co-workers a guy could ask for. I'm going to get back on my feet and try to remember how to start living as a single man again. My stomachaches have disappeared for the most part. I'm probably drinking a little more than I have in recent times, but that's because my amazing support system has sounded the alarm and tried their hardest to help me move on, and that means taking me out. Things will settle soon, and I'll be a better person for it.

And so we've come full circle - from a national tragedy to an emotional one; a story about a man and a woman who were so deeply in love that they couldn't see inevitability when it was staring them in the face.

I don't bear ill will towards you. I'm sad about what has happened but I know you had your reasons. I'm sure that someday you'll figure yourself out, meet someone, and be happy. Maybe you're already on your way there.

Maybe you'll realize in six months that you've made a huge mistake. I won't be there for you if that happens. I can't afford to be.

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So now I lay this story to rest. A story that spanned seven years of our lives, full of passion, tears, laughter, family, broken promises, and love. A story whose time has come and gone.

We'll learn from this experience and become stronger people. We just have to make sure we don't gloss over the time we spent together. Thank you for the wildest, most passionate, most emotionally-immersing seven years I've ever lived. Here's hoping the next seven have a better ending...for you and for me.

Cheers.

License and registration, Chickenfucker!

I'm not sure I have anything interesting to write, but sometimes the best stuff comes from pure crap. Like Good Will Hunting. Or Back That Azz Up.

My birthday came and went. I'm now 27 years old which feels, not surprisingly, just like 26. Only I've lost a little more hair, a little more weight, and I'm engaged. And speaking of engaged, am I supposed to feel different now that I've popped the question? Because I don't; I feel the exact same way as I did before I asked her. Maybe I feel a little more relieved that I don't have to listen to any more "ring talk", but that's about it.

Maybe that's a good thing, the fact that I don't feel differently. If I did, would it mean the way I felt before wasn't as strong, or maybe even phony? Why should I feel different? I don't love her more or less than I did pre-ring. Isn't that a good thing? Doesn't it validate the fact that I didn't need to do it to feel "more in love", but that I did it because I actually wanted to? It's not like she said anything to the contrary, but I tend to make up conversations in my head and for some reason I think she might have a problem with me telling her that I don't feel different. Oh well.

Today was my first day back at work since last Thursday. I didn't have a good reason to take the week off; I just felt like it. Well, that's not entirely true. I took last Friday off for Opening Day/my birthday, and Tuesday I had to fight a speeding ticket, which I won.

And that reminds me of something I was thinking about Tuesday: what percentage of police officers are complete douchenozzles? 85%? 90% What is it about the profession that attracts such dickweeds? I know the power over other people and the ability to make someone's life miserable is enticing to say the least, but why does this power have to attract the biggest dillholes among us in society?

I used to work with cops back when I was a Head Supervisor of Security at UMass, so I know not all cops suck fat ones. However, it seems like a vast majority are either hung like fruit flies (men), are bitter because they're not hung at all (women), or just give off that vibe because they were beat up a lot growing up. Officer Retardo, I get that playing D&D growing up didn't make you any friends or get you laid in high school. I know that getting cut from varsity football didn't exactly boost your self-esteem or make you a better person. But really, I'm just trying to get home from work and I wasn't even speeding; could you pull the plunger handle out of your ass for five seconds and listen to reason?

In my case, I was pulled over for speeding in Waltham. The cop had no way to "catch me" going 50+ when he was parked on a side street and I was taking a left less than 500 feet down the road. i didn't skid, smoke my tires, or swerve. He later tells the magistrate at my first appeal that he'd been following me for a quarter-mile before he pulled me over. BIG FAT LIE. So I appealed the appeal and won my second time around, thankfully; he told the second judge that he HADN'T been following me. Yeah, thanks for telling the truth the second time around, guy.

Maybe the cop really did think I was doing 50+, even if I don't see how. He didn't seem to want to listen to reason at the time he pulled me over. Maybe as he walked into his house later (presumably to heat up a Hungry Man dinner, pop in a schoolgirl/alien anime porn DVD, and beat it until he fell asleep in his La-Z-Boy) he figured out that I was right. He couldn't have estimated me at 50+ MPH. There goes his ticket. But wait! He could lie! He'll be under oath in the courtroom too, but he has a badge! Of course the judge will believe him! Cops never lie! I'm using too many exclamation points!!!

Anywho, I won, he lost, and then he stormed out of the courtroom and slammed the door. Oh, and as an interesting tidbit, out of the seven different cases on second appeal to be heard that day, he's the only cop who showed up. The other six couldn't be bothered to waste another minute on an appeal for a lousy ticket. I guess this particular officer had solved all the crimes in Waltham and therefore decided to come to court to pat himself on the back.

Hey, maybe he's not a bad guy. Maybe he was doing his job and became confused. All I know is that if I'd lied in court and had been caught, I'd have been found in contempt and would be seen in court for perjury. But he's got a badge, so all it took was a "my bad!" and he gets to pull over some other poor bastard who won't know what the hell is happening.

Alright, I've been halfway paying attention to the Sox game so I'm going to get back to it. Just me, some music on shuffle from my new iPod Classic (black of course...a gift from the future Mrs. Boncoddo to replace my beat-to-shit blue Mini), and a bottle of Wachusett Blueberry. It a phenomenal beer and I highly recommend it if you like beer and you're one of the five people in Massachusetts who have never tasted it. I was going to get the Sam Adams Cherry Wheat (always a good decision) but with the bottle recall in effect I'm going to hold off on Sam bottles for a while (ok, maybe not always).

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, Sam Adams had to recall a bunch of bottles because tiny pieces of glass were breaking off and floating around in the beer. It's probably not enough to hurt you; then again, I've never shit out a chandelier before and I don't plan on finding out how that feels.

Good night, everybody.