Avast, awkwardness

She's telling me that she found the man that she will marry. The man that makes her feel full, complete. From across the crackling line, my terse reply: "that's great." I'm not smiling, but I mean what I say.

It is great. It means the quasi-vigil I've been maintaining, the watch I've been keeping over her... it can be ended. See, I wronged her in so many ways. She forgave me, and in my agonizing remorse, I told myself that I'd continue to be her friend. Instinct and convictions be damned. Why? Because she deserved it, that's why. She deserved someone to look after her, to lend a welcoming ear. She had other friends; maybe all of this wasn't necessary. But I was there, just in case.

I can only hope it works out for her, because I'm ready to let her go. Am I selfish? Have you forgetten that I've always wanted her to be happy? It goes without saying that I have. So I write instead about the things that need to be said.

She was good to me. I never made her feel special, the way that this new guy does. Frankly, I don't feel too guilty about that anymore. But I am glad -- relieved, mostly -- to see her happy. True, hearing about it does remind me of what's missing in my life...

Every time I've heard Death Cab For Cutie's You Will Be Loved, I've thought immediately of her.

She knows none of this, of course. Nor will she know how I intend to slowly, calmly, inexorably slip from her life. The prisoner stealthily escaping his self-imposed confinement. A dark cloud dissipating into hot sky. The memories? A dream vanishing into waking day.

As I swill vodka

Right. If nothing else, I believe this: since the earliest glittering sparks of sentient thought, man has harbored a desire to register his opinions of his circumstances, whether they be satisfactory, uninspiring, drastic or shameful. Hence, this god-cursed blogger culture, a great expanding reservoir of piss and bile to which I now contribute.

The first of many complaints: my life seems more grossly mundane than ever. I feel that I am simply passing the time between major purchases. I am struggling with the sheer blandness of modern adulthood, which is this:

- I wake up. SomaFM's BeatBlender is playing thinly from the laptop on my nightstand.
- I sit up and open the laptop. I close Winamp. I reivew the New York Times headlines and read Doonesbury.
- I have my breakfast: either a Cliff bar (peanut butter crunch) or plain yogurt and granola. And a glass of Odwalla substance.
- I walk eight blocks to work. Since the scenery seems more peaceful on Lawrence, I choose that street to walk south. Also, I'm spared Arapahoe's morning menudo stench.
- I walk up the stairs to the office and boot up. If the project manager is singing showtunes, I curse her openly for it.
- I spend the next nine hours drinking coffee and cursing many other things openly -- flash, photoshop and illustrator; the network, the coffee and the temperature; the creative director, the clients, my agent and all stupid people.
- I open the time tracking program and shamelessly fabricate billable hours so I can get paid. I am faster than our estimates, but I'll be damned if I let that affect my earnings.
- I power down and walk home. I visit the gym. I make some phone calls to friends and family. I stream some music on the Roku, my latest novelty. I check the scores on ESPN.

Mundanity upon mundanity! But most people would say I have it good. This makes me feel like an unworthy, whiny little bitch. Because they are right. Truly. I do have it good. At least by measures visible to the naked eye.

I live in a nice loft in a fine city. I have an easy commute. I am paid handsomely to do very little. And what do I do with these blessings? I petulantly brush them aside and instead focus on nitpicky little quarrels. Pretty arrogant, eh?

What more could I ask for in life? Well, being the precocious brat that I am, I will say this: many, many things.

I would trade all of this for a reasonable chance at a meaningful, mature, long-lasting relationship with a woman. I would trade all of it for a sense of purpose -- to have an undoubtable reason to rise up and attack each new day. For true blandishment between my parents. For forgiveness from those against whom I've sinned.

For those things I would trade this life. And so would anyone else with half a heart. Anyone who wouldn't is a threat to civilized society -- an unfortunate defect, a malformed person who ought to be eradicated.

For a new mind, one that banishes malcontent thoughts. For a new heart, a wellspring of courage and compassion. For those I would give anything.