Guilt for the Wicked

I hurt someone today. I broke his heart. He came over and told me he loved me, to give him another chance.

I said I hate him, that he had fucked up. That’s a lie. I said that so he could get over me quickly. So he wouldn’t miss me when I’m not there to wrap my arms around him while he sleeps or kiss his cheek to wake him up.

This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. His grandmother is dying. Considering he’s never met his father (let alone knows who he is) and his mother died when he was nine, his grandma is damned important to him. And you hurt him even more, Jess.

ARGH! Why do I feel this much guilt?! He really did fuck up. I don’t like him like that anymore… Shit, I’m getting soft. I used to hurt people for a living. I never lost any sleep over it. Now I tell a guy I don’t like him anymore and I feel like a hippo is wiping its ass on my chest. Time to move on, Fizz. You’ve felt sorry for yourself long enough. He should feel bad, not you.

Onward and downward, I guess.

This Goodbye is Forever

My first big love got married. I’m going through so many fucking emotions right now. I don’t know how to deal with them. I’m either drinking or sleeping. Drinking currently, obviously.

I’d be happy if he was with someone he loved, but a guy doesn’t fly to Baltimore to see his ex for shits and giggles. I think he wanted me to tell him to stay. 

I slept with him. Not fucked. Just slept next to him. Jet lag is a killer. I remembered his smell; it was the same. I held back the tears. I knew it would be the last time. I didn’t want to ruin it.

Do you love me?

Of course. Always.

Can you say it…?

I’ll love you for always.

I drove him back to the airport and then laid in my bed, holding the pillow his head had rested on and breathing in his scent. It was the only thing that really proved he had actually been there.

I slept on the sofa that night.

And then I washed my sheets in the morning.

I’m numb. Jameson’s, my sweet James… You won’t marry Jose Cuervo, will you? He probably will. That’s how my life has always played out. Even my booze can’t stay.

I need to drink more. I’m starting to think of the house, the children, the love, the life I could’ve had with him. All gone. Fortunately I took a minor to the liquor store, and, honestly, who shops better for cheap booze that’ll fuck me up? The owner, a Korean man I call Uncle, gave us a free bottle of Absolut. 

Thank god. 

It’s the little things…right?

Goodbye, Seamus.

The House by the Sea

I knew a man who lived by the sea.

His wife had died in childbirth many years ago, and he spread her ashes and his child’s in the ocean.

He built a house by the sea so he would never leave their side.

He didn’t swim in the ocean anymore after that. He didn’t do much of anything.

But his house was filled with shells and sea glass, sharks’ teeth and worn pieces of wood.

“Gifts from my wife and child brought to me by the current.

Each trinket filled with a tiny piece of their love. And my house is full of their love.”

I keep these shells on the windowsill next to my bed. They’re the first thing I see when I wake. I have to try hard not to knock them to the ground when I’m swatting the snooze button.

Some Korean Thoughts

사랑은 돌아오는거야.

안 돌아오도… 사랑할거야.

돌아오기전에 나 지옥에 빠져 있을 거다.

그 사랑만 기억하면… 살수있어.


I don’t recommend putting the ching chong stuff into Google translate… It really fucks up the meaning because Korean has different syntax structure from English and is an agglutinative language.

Just know they’re pretty words of affection.

Anyway… onward and downward to hell.

Fire Rock On

When Did It Happen?

Sam: Do you know the exact moment?

Me: I’m pretty sure it was when he came over when I was sick. He made me grilled cheese and tomato soup FROM SCRATCH!

Sam: You and your fucking grilled cheeses. You know you can’t have dairy on the paleo diet, right?

Me: Yeah, it blows.

Sam: Well you haven’t started yet… Want a grilled cheese? 

Me: I don’t fall in love with every person who makes me sammiches, Samuel! And it’d take a lot more outta your ass to make me fall hard for you!

Sam: You never know!

Me: Fuck you. I’m making chicken teriyaki and rice, and you’re gonna eat some with me.

I like having company when I can’t sleep. It has now been 24 hours since I’ve had a complete REM cycle.

I’m envious of Sam’s slumber… I’m gonna wake him up now.

This is what it felt like when the slaves were freed

I feel good.

Michael texted last night. We talked and it feels like things are finally over. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to talk, and I’m okay with that. 

I feel free. No chance of having him back has given me a way to move on. 

If the world were perfect, I would’ve liked to be able to chat with him on occasion. He feels I’m not over him. I think a good description of where I was… I was on the edge of a blade; I could go either way. His telling me to move on pushed me to one side. I’d been waiting for him to say something, and I got a something. 

I’ll miss our conversations. I’ll miss him. I’ll miss you, Michael. I know you read this shitty blog, you fuck.

But that’s life, and my life is pretty spiffy. Smiles for miles and enough drink to baptize several children.

Kentucky Wisdom

I visited my folks out in Kentucky for my very short winter holiday. It wasn’t very eventful; it’s fucking Kentucky. I just remember there was a lot of horses and bourbon.

I spoke with my father a good amount. That man sits on a mountain of wisdom and he dropped a shit ton at my feet, but we’ll get to that bit in a moment.

Since we were out in bourbon country, my parents took me to the Jim Beam distillery for a tour. We bought our tickets and perused the gift shop before the tour began. They had a plate of bourbon chocolate balls out for sampling. I popped one in my mouth and the smell of American whiskey immediately assaulted my nostrils. It was like taking a shot of straight Jim Beam white label. I liked it… and was slightly buzzed when I went aboard the Jim Beam tour bus. My mom kept asking why I was radiating heat (I usually run cold). I guess I should mention I get Asian flush like no other.

While I was on the bus I took a particular notice to the tour guide, Pete. He looked like a slightly older version of Michael. Doe eyes, brown hair with a coppery beard, and a smile that I was very smitten with. He was also funny and walked with a very similar, if not identical, gait as Michael. No fucking way. The only differences I could point out were the extra wrinkles in the corner of those eyes… and a sick Kentucky accent.

Anyhow, I learned how the master distillers made bourbon, from the grain all the way to the packaging process. It was like watching an episode of “How It’s Made” only I was afforded the opportunity to taste EVERYTHING. Towards the end of the tour, in the packaging plant, Pete told us we could buy a bottle of what the distillery was bottling that day: Knob Creek 120 proof.

Over by the conveyor belts, you can put a sticker with your initials on the shoulder of the bottle, and once it gets to the waxing station you can either put your thumbprint into the wax or, for you couples, you can put your pinkyprints on there. Or if you want to do a pinkyprint with a handsome tour guide, you can do that too.

You bet your fucking ass I got a pinkyprint bottle of booze with Pete.

Mine is the bottom one.

Next was the tasting room. Everybody was given a snifter and an electronic card key that would make a machine dispense a shot. I bet that’s the happiest place in Clermont, Kentucky. Pete said it is.

Before everyone started to go hard on the booze, Pete gave a run down of the different kinds of bourbons available. I liked his description of Booker’s the most:

If you take a couple sips of this one, you’ll notice how funny and charming you think you are. Also, if you take a few sips of any of these, you may feel a warmth in your chest. This is what we call a “Kentucky hug.” If that hug tries to get to second or third base with you, take a sip of water. Don’t be a hero.

My folks and I went home for a late lunch. Pops and I had sammiches. While eating, I kept glancing at my pinkyprinted bottle of Knob Creek.

Me: I got wrecked today…

Pops: You didn’t even drink as much as you usually do.

Me: Emotionally. I got wrecked emotionally. Pete looked and acted so much like Micheal. It was hard.

Pops: …I guess I should be happy this happened at the age of 25 instead of 16 like most normal girls because that would be scarring…. But I suppose whatever can scar you at 16 can get you at 25. I’m surprised you’re just now talking about this with your old man; I thought it wasn’t a big deal. Guess I was wrong.

My father talked to me about Michael quite a bit after I bared a bit of my pain. He asked what his reasons for leaving were. He said he had to figure out what he wanted out of life. Pops said Michael was wise in that regard.

He asked if I knew Michael was dating someone now. I dunno. We don’t talk. He could be dead for all I know.

He asked me if I’d give it another shot with Michael back if he ever called and expressed an interest in a round two. …N-Ye-… absofuckinglutely, Pops.

And then he let me talk about the little things I missed about Michael. How well he cooks. All of his musical and cinematic references. His weird but cute pencil collection. I spared my father the details of my salacious activities with Michael. For instance, when I told Pops about the time Michael sang “A Whole New World,” I left out the detail of our being naked and massaging each other. My dad sure as shit doesn’t need to hear about that tomfoolery.

Jessica, you know as well as I do that when you have a relationship of some sort that included intimacy, it doesn’t really end. If you’re like your old man, which you are, you’ll carry that ache with you forever.

I’m not sure if I find his last statement more romantic or horrifying.

While I was packing for my return trip my father picked up the Knob Creek and looked at the fingerprints in the wax.

You know what, Jecca? You got a pinkyprint bottle with Pete. BECAUSE FUCK MICHAEL. *mumbles*…son of a bitch fucking around with my daughter.

I had wondered if my heartbreak bothered, Pops. I don’t have to be a soothsayer to know that answer.