Always A Sunrise

Taken from an MSN group message board...thanks Foxxi!

ALWAYS A SUNRISE

Look out, look in. Every day has a sunrise.
Wherever you are, like a magic circle, the world is all around you.
Everything has a purpose. Every action a reaction.
All around you there are happenings.

People, places and ideas, all offering you opportunities.
Some to be touched and changed by the very nature of your uniqueness.
Others to be left alone for they are not worthy of you.
Life is a love affair. Love the people around you, love what you do.

Every day dawns with a sunrise. Always, high days and low days.
Blue skies of pleasure, there to enjoy. Celebrate.
Dark clouds of storming hurt, however black, they always pass.
Today was yesterday’s tomorrow; yesterday is gone. History.
And the wonder of yesterday is whatever we didn’t like is behind us.
Make a change. Unlimited you. Greatness from within.

There is no such thing as failure, only learning experiences.
Some things are easy to learn, others hard.
What is easy for one may be hard for another.
Lessons to be learned, not burdens to be carried.
Everyone is different. Everyone is special.
We are all creative. We are all tool makers.

Greatness and humility. Both are you.
Leader and follower. Warrior and water carrier.
Teacher and student. Champion and cheerleader. Who is to say?
One day you are one, the next day you are the other.
Pace setters tread the untrodden path.
Never given away your sunrise day of action to an excuse.

'When the time is right.' 'When I feel like it.' 'When I've enough money.'
Sometimes it’s too easy to justify not taking action.
Sometimes you have to say 'no' to your inner voice ...
when it tries to keep you too comfortably where you're at.
Always a new light. Always a new day. Each day a gift of opportunity.
There is always a sunrise even when it is far from our view.

There is always a door. We simply have to seek.
There is always a key. We simply have to persist.
And, sometimes, we just have to wait a while. Patience does have virtue.
There is always a future. The future is hope and the magic is faith.

It begins with you today. Today a new day. Always.
Today our decision to be the person we really want to be.
Today our choice of courage to accept what we cannot change.
Today our choice to rise to the challenge of changing what we must.
These are the choices of happiness.

Always an answer. You simply have to believe.
The dawn. The magic of a new day given to us.
A love affair. A love affair with today.
Today, a gift of opportunity; to laugh; to learn; to achieve;
to make someone happy, to be happy.
Always a sunrise.


~ By Rex Barker

Inspirational Words To Live By

Taken from an MSN group message board...thanks to Trish.

And yes, I realize how ironic it is that I, the ultimate obsessive little boy that won't let past hurt go, am posting this. But something inside of me realizes that this is the way to do things in life, and maybe someday I'll shock myself and everyone else and actually get it right.

Inspirational Words To Live By

Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one so that when we finally meet the right person, we will know how to be grateful for that gift.

When the door of happiness closes, another opens, but often times we look so long at the closed door that we don't see the one which has been opened for us.

The best kind of friend is the kind you can sit on a porch and swing with, never say a word, and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.

It's true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it, but it's also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.

Giving someone all your love is never an assurance that they'll love you back! Don't expect love in return; just wait for it to grow in their heart but if it doesn't, be content it grew in yours. It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, and a day to love someone, but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.

Don't go for looks; they can deceive. Don't go for wealth; even that fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile because it takes only a smile to make a dark day seem bright. Find the one that makes your heart smile.

There are moments in life when you miss someone so much that you just want to pick them from your dreams and hug them for real!

Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go; be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do.

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human, enough hope to make you happy.

Always put yourself in others' shoes. If you feel that it hurts you, it probably hurts the other person, too.

The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way.

Happiness lies for those who cry, those who hurt, those who have searched, and those who have tried, for only they can appreciate the importance of people who have touched their lives. Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss and ends with a tear. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past, you can't go on well in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.

When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.

The Saga Continues

Yep, more "Karen" news...

Last week, the day after I wrote to her new fake Tawanda Yahoo account, which said she was single and going to Mexico in September and asked "Wanna come?" to anyone in general, she changed the profile to read that she was in a long-term relationship and removed all references to her new SUV, her new house, and her cruise to Mexico. If she really is in a long-term relationship, then she seduced her latest sucker even quicker than she seduced me, because she just put an ad up on April 23 under her real name on the singles site where I met her. Or, more than likely, she was frightened by the fact that I know her new alias and instead of closing the account like she did when I busted her last year, she decided to try to scare me off by indicating that there is a man with her now, so I better watch my step. Ooh, I'm really scared. Then Sunday night she updated the profile again to say that "we" are all moved into the new house and settling in. She also changed the name of the town she's living in. That's fine. She can create all the stories she wants under whatever profile she wants. It doesn't change anything.

Now for the most unbelievable twist, something I never would have imagined. A few months ago I joined a website called bbwhotornot.com (they recently changed their name to ratingbbw.com due to mean people apparently hacking the previous domain). I don't even remember how I came across the site, but it's just one of those hot-or-not sites where strangers put up their pictures and wait for other strangers to click on a number between 1 and 10 and rate them, except this site is specifically for fat men and women. I already know that I'm not hot, so you can guess why I joined: To see if Karen was on there, since it's a site right up her alley. She can show how big of a whore she is and attract a new clientele that she already knows is attracted to big girls. Well I never found a profile of her on there. But I put a picture up for the hell of it about a month ago, and last night, for the first time since the beginning of the month when my computer crashed, I was looking over the profiles of the women who rated me (you can choose to be put on the list of people who rate someone, whether you rate them good or bad, or you can choose to rate anonymously). Way back on June 7, someone who looked very familiar rated me "average." It wasn't Karen...it was "Rhonda," the ho-bag friend of Karen that went out with us on Valentine's Day last year with a date that wasn't her husband, because the husband kept calling her cell phone wondering where the fuck his wife was on Valentine's Day and she and Karen kept laughing at him. Rhonda is the "official" reason that Karen claims to be promoting lesbian bbw websites, because she's just helping her friend Rhonda after Rhonda helped her out of her "abusive marriage." Rhonda is the person that Karen is sitting next to half-naked on the front of the bisexual bbw website that sent me into the psych ward last March. So you see how big of a role Rhonda played in the history of me and Karen--a very big part. And to know that she already knew that I was on this site, and probably informed Karen, was another big shock in a long line of big shocks. All those anonymous jackasses that have talked shit to me in the comments section of this blog--they may very well be Rhonda and Karen and friends, because there's a link to my Yahoo profile on my ratingbbw.com profile, and in my Yahoo profile, there's a link to this blog. I never intended for Karen to see this blog. I never meant for her to know just how much she hurt me, and I never meant for her to have any kinds of heads-up for when I finally decide to go up there and make her pay for what she did to me. Every time I have ever wrote to Karen, it was using the e-mail address that I initially used when I met her, one that I never update. And it gets worse. The kicker: You can put three or four different pictures under your ratingbbw.com profile. Guess what the third picture under Rhonda's profile is? Yes, that very same picture of her and Karen half-naked and smiling that I saw that fateful Friday, March 19. I never fucking thought I'd see that picture ever again. And now that I have, I can't stop thinking about it.

My mind has been racing ever since last night. How much does Karen actually know and when did she know it? Why did fate make me see that Goddamn picture again after I thought I had purged it from my mind? Did Rhonda even bother to tell Karen about my ratingbbw.com profile? Is it just a private joke between me and Rhonda? Or are they now torturing me through these retarded "anonymous" comments? Why can't I just quit this life and go to another one? Why do I get the feeling that Karen and I will keep finding ways to be intertwined until the day I die? Or the day she dies, whichever comes first?

My History (5th In A Series)

These are the memories I have of my dear mother, Brenda (1954-1986). She died of complications from sickle cell anemia, a painful disease that she dealt with her entire life.

My memory is incredibly sharp, or at least other people tell me it has to be, because my mother is still very strong in my mind, even though she died when I was ten years old. Certainly a couple of pictures I've seen over the years keeps the memories of what she looked like sharp, but I've only seen a few pics, and I don't see any pics of her on a regular basis. I have a pic of her helping me open my Christmas presents when I was four, but I don't look at it much. It's safely in my folder next to a note she wrote to my father while she was pregnant with me; my dad sent me the pic and the note about five years ago. It showed how sensitive my mom was. It was actually scary how similar the note was to my own insecurities. I never knew my mom was insecure about herself before reading this note, and it made me wonder how much of my fear of not measuring up like everyone else is in a way hereditary.

"I had a new doctor who...said that my blood hemoglobin was so low that he can't see how I'm still living," she wrote. "He said that most people with blood as low as mine die by the age of 16. Well anyway this cuts the chances of survival for our child. But he said I'll have a better chance at normal delivery because I've (reached) the 4th month of my pregnancy...The reason I'm writing instead of telling you over the telephone or in person is because I can't stop the tears...I'm just drowning in self-pity...I feel that I'm only half a woman and you deserve better. So get yourself a woman you can love and be happy with. Don't think you owe me something just because I'm carrying your child...You know you are the first whole man I ever loved. Yes loved...Oh yes I know I've tried to play a hard person. But the day I found out I was pregnant I loved this child. I told you a number of times that I would like to get rid of him or her but it was a lie right from the beginning. I just didn't want to be hurt anymore."

I was stunned when my dad sent this to me. I knew how difficult it was for my mom to have a child because once I asked her why I didn't have any siblings, and she matter-of-factly said, "Because it would kill me." I was so young, I didn't know she wasn't kidding until much later. But I wasn't aware of all the feelings that surrounded her pregnancy. I didn't know exactly how much danger she and I were in just from her carrying me. I didn't know how close I was to not existing, either due to abortion or from pregnancy complications. And that's why I know today that whatever I am feeling and going through may be rough, and I may feel like doing things that would jeopardize my freedom and my life, but ultimately I can't do that because my mother went through too much to give me life for me to waste it. It's the big overriding motivation for me every day I go to school: I have to try to make something of myself, if not for me then for my mother.

My earliest memories of my mother include how much she cared about her public appearance. Despite being tall, in the neighborhood of six feet by my memory, slender, and beautiful, she would hold up our trips out of the house by twenty or thirty minutes applying makeup and lipstick and fixing her hair. Our trips weren't very frequent because of her health. We lived with her mother, her brother, and her sister in a three-bedroom place on the second floor of a duplex her mother's brother owned. My dad visited but not often. My mom didn't drive, so trips would basically occur when we tagged along when her brother or sister went shopping, and also just me and her shopping on Madison St. on the west side of Chicago, taking the bus on a given day and never staying out until dark. It was in this environment that I learned that drinking and drugs were not a part of our lives, and they have never been a part of mine. Her mother smoked three packs a day, but no one else in the house did. And if my mother did any of those things, I certainly would have wanted to. One thing she did that I wanted to imitate but never did was the practice of taking handfuls of powdered starch and eating them. I never understood why she did that, but I knew not to tell anyone when I saw her do it, because no one wanted her to do it. And she wouldn't let me try to do it; she hid the box high on a shelf in the pantry so that I couldn't imitate her.

My mother was a lot of fun. I recall her huge blowout afro as the first hairdo of hers I ever saw, but once she abandoned that in the '80s, she didn't change styles much. Straight and smooth, no hair coloring ever, plain but beautiful. But her personality wasn't plain. She was very colorful. She read to me. She encouraged any little crazy thing that I said or thought. She would wake me up if a game of Uno or gin rummy or keeno was breaking out because she knew how much I loved to play. She was a romantic; her love of Teddy Pendergrass songs was so strong that I remember not wanting to hear a Teddy song called "Joy" when it came out shortly after her death because it reminded me of her. She was a hell of a woman with many facets. To be honest, she's a hell of an act for anyone to live up to as far as whom I choose to date. Sensitive, tall, slim, naturally beautiful, whipsmart, sober, warm-hearted, with enough love to fill the planet Earth? And would literally die for her loved ones? As far as I'm concerned, no one can possibly measure up.

She and I tried to be a family with my dad for about a half-year while I was in pre-school. We lived on a street called Lakeside near the lake in Chicago. It wasn't a typical rich North Shore neighborhood though. We were in a tiny one-bedroom apartment that wasn't very comfortable, especially for me, since I had to sleep in the living room on a foldout couch. But she woke me up around 5:30A and took me on a nearly two-hour bus ride every morning to the pre-school that I was attending on the west side about a block from her mother's house. The program that I was in was a good program, and she liked the faculty, so nothing was going to stop her from continuing my education there, not even moving so far away. In fact, it was my mom that insisted on getting me into a top-notch classical primary school after a teacher at the pre-school told her that I was "gifted." My dad's temper may have been a big factor in us leaving. I saw him once put his hands around her neck; I had to climb the bed and beat him in the head with the back of a hairbrush in order to show my displeasure, although that happened when he was visiting her mother's house, not when we were living with him. Who knows what other methods of controlling her he tried. I know he beat me like a dog. It wasn't unusual for me to accidentally fall asleep watching The Three Stooges or Benny Hill and be awakened by hard belt lashes because I failed to get up and turn the TV off before I fell asleep, as if I knew exactly when I was going to fall asleep. (I now sleep with either the TV or radio on every night without fail no matter where I am, probably as a sign of rebellion against him after all these years.) I have absolutely no idea if my mother knew this, but once when she was out of the apartment (meaning she was either shopping, at her mother's house, or in the hospital), the bastard brought a blonde hooker there in cutoff blue jean shorts and swore me to secrecy by intimidating me. Then they went in the same bedroom that he and his wife--my mother, the woman he married in front of me and everyone else in 1980--shared, and they didn't come out for a long time. I'm sure whatever else he was fooling around with, she had an idea, and that may be the real reason we moved out and back to her mother's house.

My mom didn't have much of a social life. She had one close friend since childhood, a woman named Barbara who is so kind-hearted that to this day she still calls me on my birthday even though no one in my family does. Around 1985 my mom fell in love again. She met a new man, a guy we called Mac, and I think they were planning on getting married. In fact, my mom and dad were not legally divorced before she died, but I believe she was pushing the proceedings in order to marry Mac. Mac made her happy when he showed up. I'll give him that. He actually seemed to make my mom happy. And he was good to me, letting me hang out with him in his Maywood apartment some weekends and watch sports with him. It was Mac that gave me my first racetrack experience. I think I placed a $2 show bet with him and won back $3 and change, which thrilled me immensely. It was Mac that also gave me my first taste of beer. I was begging to have a sip of his beer, and he and my mom kept telling me that I wouldn't like it, but I insisted, so he let me have a sip, and oh my God was that the nastiest shit I ever tasted. It was out of a 24-oz. Schlitz can. I still have the can because Mac started a penny collection for me in that can. It's been full of pennies for years now. I may cash it in someday, but only if I have to.

My mother was in and out of the hospital all her life. It became routine for her to disappear for several weeks at a time. My grandmother would take care of me when this happened, as well as my uncle and aunt. Once, when I was about eight or nine, my mother tried to discipline me with a belt, but she extended so much energy that right in the middle she passed out. I thought I had killed her. My uncle told me as much when they were taking her to the hospital. He'd probably deny it today, but he did say, "You keep acting the way you act, you're going to kill your mother." She survived that, but she was getting weaker and weaker. She left the house less frequently, and she didn't seem to be as much fun to me. But she, Mac and I were going to spend a weekend as a "family" at a downstate resort, complete with swimming pool, which I had never been in before, so I was really looking forward to it. This was going to happen in late September 1986.

In late August 1986 my mother went into the hospital again. She assured me that we were still going to make our weekend trip, and because she went to the hospital so often, I didn't think anything of her going this time. She slowly descended the steps like she always did, and said goodbye to me after she made it downstairs. I yelled "Bye" and went back to playing pretend baseball in the living room. That was the last time I ever saw my mother. The events of her death are very rapid to me. She had been in the hospital several weeks, as usual, and I was starting to get a little antsy, probably because our trip was upcoming. Then all of a sudden my family, including my grandmother, who didn't speak much, and my play aunt who lived downstairs started gathering around me daily gently asking if I wanted to visit my mother in the hospital. I kept saying no, partly because I didn't like hospitals, and partly because I didn't see the need--after all, she'll he back home shortly like she usually is. This went on for close to a week. Then on September 4, they gathered in my bedroom. All except my uncle were crying. Through the tears, they tried their best to explain to me that my mom was being kept alive by machine, and that with my blessing, they were going to pull the plug. But I actually misunderstood them to mean that they had already pulled the plug and that my mom was already dead. But I was trying to be a big boy and not let anything affect me, so I agreed to whatever they were telling me, and then we all had a long group hug. It wasn't until they came back into my room the next day and told me that my mom was now dead that I realized that she was still alive the day before. They kept asking me if I wanted to come to the hospital to see her one last time, but I thought she was already gone, and I didn't want to see her dead, so I kept saying no. I think I would have gone to see her if I knew that she was still alive. So officially, September 5, 1986, the day before I was to start fifth grade, my mom died, 41 days before her 32nd birthday.

My "be a big boy and be strong" act started almost immediately. I didn't cry when they told me they were pulling the plug, nor when they told me she was finally at rest. I matter-of-factly told everyone when I went to school that my mom just died. These were kids that I had been classmates with since first grade at that same classical school that my mom enrolled me in, so they weren't cold, uncaring strangers. Just the opposite, they expressed remorse and sorrow, along with my teachers. One boy, Parrish, the tough, bully-like kid but someone I never had a beef with, said, "Boy, I don't know what I would do if my mother died." I didn't know how to react to that. I felt like maybe something was wrong because I wasn't feeling as sad as I should. I felt more stunned than anything. I really wasn't expecting her to die. I thought she would live forever. Another exchange that I will never forget highlighted how much I was blocking out anything that would make me feel sad. Timothy, one of my best friends, came to me and said, "I heard about your mother. I'm sorry." To which I responded: "Don't be sorry. You didn't kill her." The standard for nervous laughter was set by Timothy and everyone around us at that moment. But I was determined not to let anything penetrate me. My penchant for keeping my feelings bottled up started with my mother's death. For some reason I would not allow anything to show that I was sad in any way. Not even my mother's funeral. I may have shown sadness or maybe even cried at my mother's funeral, and I wasn't going to let that happen, so I simply didn't go. I would rather remember her the last time I saw her, in pain but upright and still fighting and still alive. No one was going to take that from me. I got the feeling that my family was very disappointed in my decision not to go to the funeral, but they would have had to pick me up and take me there if they wanted me to go. I was not acknowledging the greatest woman in my life in the state she was now in.

All kinds of acting out and attention-grabbing antics by me followed. My grades dropped sharply. I wanted to use my mom's death as an excuse, but I couldn't come up with a good reason why her death would affect my grades. Everyone else knew that had something to do with it, but they didn't know how to deal with it, so eventually they just gave up and started calling me lazy and distracted by my other interests such as sports, music, and pro wrestling and took those things away. My dad threatened to take me away with him for the summer if my final grades for 5th grade contained any Fs, and knowing my history with his brand of discipline, of course that's the last thing I wanted. So why did I fail many subjects anyway? I don't know. My solution to the problem didn't help matters--I tried to white-out the bad grades before taking them home, but my folks found my 5th-grade teacher's grandfather's phone number in the phone book because her last name was rare, and she happened to be at her grandfather's house at that moment and confirmed that she had not whited out my grades. I felt ashamed, mad, afraid. But I wouldn't let go of that lie until it was proven wrong. At that moment I had my mom, my TV, my radio, my wrestling magazines, and now my summer taken away from me in the past year. That lie was all I had left.

But my grades never got better, and my actions continued to worsen, including molesting classmates, writing dirty stories (with my limited knowledge of sex not slowing me down a bit) and flipping off teachers...bascially anything that went against my image of a good guy nerd. Several counselors and psychiatrists came in and out, but when they asked how I felt about my mom, I indicated that I didn't have a problem with my mom, and that was that. It was kinda true though. I didn't think about her because I was so busy running around getting into all kinds of situations that I didn't have time, which I think was the point. When my dad made me stop before walking into the 1990 Chicagoland Spelling Bee and pray that my mom was there with us and would help me to win, it was the longest I had stopped to think about her in a long time. But I felt invincible from that point on, and I won. However, I was still more comfortable avoiding all thoughts about her until my first girlfriend "Giselle" came along and pointed out that maybe I didn't trust her because I was so afraid of her suddenly leaving me, just like my mother did. I told her she was crazy. But from that moment on, I've thought about my mother almost every day and how her loss has impacted me and my actions. And I think Giselle was exactly right.

I now live every day knowing that part of the reason my relationships with women are so dysfunctional is because I'm looking for someone to replace my mother. When I give my love to a woman that I'm with, which I do often even if I don't fully trust her, I do it looking to be loved back because I don't care who it is, I just want someone to love me unconditionally like my mother did. Yes, I date fat women mostly because they give up the pussy easily, but it's also because any thin, tall, attractive woman has to be at a certain level as far as her personality for me to even consider her. She has to be a saintly woman with a heart of gold, a total sweetheart, a smart cookie, confident in herself, really and truly believes in me, and I have to feel like someday she could love me with every fiber of her being, just like I would love her. But I project those expectations upon the fat women that I'm dating because I'm looking for that from whomever I'm with, and so far I haven't met one that measures up yet. The reason that I have such hatred for "Karen" is because I had such love for her because she exhibited those characteristics to me. When I gave her my love, she gave it back. When I invited her to meet my family Christmas Day 2003, she accepted and we welcomed her in and we all, not just me, gave her our love and she returned it, or so I thought. We stopped just short of giving her that group hug that they gave me when my mom died. I explained all of this to her, and she said that she understood. And when Karen refused to explain herself to me after I found out about her skanky side, it was like she spit in the face of me, my family, and my mother, and I can take being insulted--I'm insulted every fucking day by somebody--but I can't take insulting my family or especially my mother. It has created a very confusing next step for me as far as relationships go. I wanted to jump into something immediately after Karen so that I could be loved by someone, anyone, and "Sarah" was the next one. But at the same time, I felt like a part of me will never trust someone again the way I trusted Karen, and sure enough, I didn't trust Sarah. Sure, I told her about my mother, and she met my family, but there was a bit of a wedge between us, and I made sure of it. Then I thought that "Jane" was that woman with the ability to love me like that, then she canceled meeting me after I already booked the trip. That was like what Karen did to me--took my love, found out how deep it was, then abandoned me. Now I'm dealing with "Torrie," who plays that cool role of hearing about all I've been through and what I'm looking for and doesn't indicate where she stands as far as being the type of woman I want. She's fine just the way things are. And why not? I fly to Minnesota, fuck her, and leave. But now after I gave her my love the last time I saw her and got no response, I'm starting to get the wandering eye again because inside I feel that it's either find it somewhere else or settle for what I'm getting now, which is not what I'm looking for. But at least I've now put out the story of me and my mother, so that those still reading can get a better sense of why I am the way I am. On my left biceps is a rose and below it "R.I.P. BRENDA ROSS 1954-1986" in permanent ink. On my wall is a portrait of her in pencil that's very similar to how she really looked. Every woman in my life has to live up to her. I don't know if I ever will find the one that does, but if I do, I've been storing up love inside since September 5, 1986, and she will receive all of it. And if she really is deserving, then I have no doubt that she'll be able to handle it and give it back to me.

A (Long) Saturday Stroll

PREFACE: To those "anonymous" readers sick and tired of hearing about my obsession with "Karen," I will talk more about her later in this post. If you're not interested, don't read. There's millions more interesting blogs online. You don't have to trash mine if it's really that bad.

I participated in a walk-a-thon for sickle cell anemia on Saturday, June 11. Sickle cell anemia is what killed my mother, and I have sickle cell trait, meaning if I created a child with someone else with the trait, that child would be at risk for the disease. It's a very painful disease; my mother was in a tremendous amount of pain all her life. I wonder how she ever went through childbirth, especially my big ass. But anyhow, I never participated in the fundraiser because I didn't want to be so close to something associated with the death of my mom. But last year, when Karen did what she did to me, I decided to go just to hang out with my family, since it became obvious family was the only group of people I could trust, and also to introduce them to "Sarah," who was at the time my girlfriend. I didn't participate, but this year I signed up for the walk, and I can't see a good reason why I wouldn't do at least that much every year from this point on. (There are jog and bike portions as well, but I'm not in shape to jog, and I can't ride a bike.) Now, I didn't come close to walking to the end of the path--this thing started at 35th on the lake and extended down the lakeshore to 69th, and in the heat of the noon sun, I managed to get to 47th and back--but at least I did something. I've realized over the last few years, even before I met that whore Karen, that a lot of my fears about dating and marriage and relationships stem from the simple fact that I'm scared to death to give my love to a woman only to watch her abandon me, which is how I felt when my mom died in 1986, when I was ten years old. And now, walking in this fundraiser, in a way I acknowledged her death, which is something I've always been loathe to do, and I felt like maybe I was on my way to properly grieving her loss and moving on, which is something I feel like I've never done. I "talked" with my mom throughout the walk, and she encouraged me to keep going, even though on the walk back I had to stop several times just because the benches looked SO enticing. But I kept going, and despite how tired I felt throughout the walk, one of the first thoughts I had once I made it back was that I expect to go farther next year now that I've had a little taste of what I have to do. I'll discuss everything to do with my mother in my next post. Maybe it will help explain why mentally I am in the place that I am.

I think my uncle, my mom's brother, was extremely pleased to see me participate, since he organizes part of the fundraiser and never saw me be a part of it in the years past. On the drive back afterwards, he said something that almost made me choke up. He told me that I remind him of my mom in that we were both very sensitive to how others perceived us, me because of my weight and her because of her delicate condition. We both were self-conscious about relationships. I found that hard to believe because my mom was such a beautiful and intelligent woman. My uncle told me that she settled for my dad, an overweight, sloppy man by anyone's standards, because she was afraid that she would be alone, just as I have settled for evey woman I've ever dated because I am afraid of being alone. But, he said, he hoped I would be patient and do what my mom didn't have a chance to do--find a person with as big a heart as me, because, just like my mom, I have a very big heart and I deserve someone who matches it. I think that's one of the things that's keeping me from jumping off a bridge right now. Somewhere deep down in my heart, I still hold out hope that someone will come into my life that realizes that I am a good man, while being a good woman in her own right, a good woman that's not living an alternative life and not lying to me or herself. My mom went through hell to give me life. I'm hoping to do what she wanted, which is to be in a partnership with someone who values me and herself. It ain't looking good right now, but I guess I'm still holding out some hope.

My father and I, speaking of my sloppy dad, had banana splits on Father's Day this past Sunday. Because he beat me as a kid, and because he can be rather embarrassing sometimes, I've always hated every second I've spent with him. But we had a long chat about my situation with Karen, and he gave me some advice beyond the "Women are crazy" spiel he usually gives. I told him that I'm having a very hard time with the fact that I don't have the balls to go up to Wisconsin with a bottle of bleach and a funnel because it means that it's okay for Karen to do what she did to me because she got away with it without any retribution from me. I feel that it means that anyone can fuck me up the ass and it's all good because I'm going to let them. He pointed out that it doesn't mean anyone can do that to me, just one person, and no matter how unfair it is, it's better to let her get away with it because the alternative is showering with a bunch of horny men in the federal prison before they stick a needle in my vein. My dad has a way with words. I told him that I had already considered all the ramifications of going up there and killing Karen, and that I'm close to accepting them if it means that at least she didn't get away with screwing me. He said that I can't do that, because then she'd really be screwing me. I was trying to install my printer back on my computer all day Sunday, and because I had two papers due Monday morning, I had to get it done, but the installation disk simply wouldn't cooperate. Yet I stepped out of the apartment to spend a couple of hours with my dad, and if I hadn't, then he wouldn't have called his brother in Florida, his brother the computer whiz, and his brother the computer whiz wouldn't have told me, the computer boob, that I can go to the website of my printer's maker and download the drivers onto my computer, therefore installing the printer without having to beg and plead with the installation disk, and I wouldn't have done those two papers by pulling an all-nighter and finishing my work around 5:30A Monday. So, and I never thought I'd be saying this, thanks dad. My father, actually good for something. Go figure.

And now for the latest Karen news: I e-mailed her new phony Tawanda account Monday morning "congratulating" her on the good news about her new house and car that she wrote on that account. She replied to me that evening. She continued to insist that I misunderstand everything, that her appearing on a bisexual BBW website half-naked next to her best friend wasn't what it looked like, she was just helping her friend promote the website, but she's not into that at all. Oh, okay. She told me that she still thinks about me, but that we were "doomed from the beginning," whatever the fuck that means, and that my angry letter to her the morning after I found out about her destroyed any future between us, but that "I wish you well." I know exactly what she's doing. She's trying to make me pause and think that she really is a misunderstood woman who just wants to help promote her friend's wild lifestyle but isn't really involved with it. Every second that I pause and wonder if she's really not the bitch that deceived me and ruined my life is another second that she has bought herself to keep deceiving and living the life she wants to live, breaking hearts and destroying anyone stupid enough to love her along the way. That's why I feel like a decision has to come from me very soon, a decision on which direction I am going to choose--to let her go and let her get away with what she did, attempting to move past her and ignoring the fact that she's going to keep on truckin' as if what I felt and what my family felt when we found out about her doesn't mean shit, or to go up there and defend myself and my family against this human waste and let her and every other woman know that you can go around fucking with other guys and getting off scott-free, but I cannot allow you to do that to me and get away with it. I have to choose which way to go now. I can't keep going the way I'm going, saying I'm going to get past her but knowing that all I think about when I am awake is wondering what guys or girls she's persuading to think that she's a sweet, innocent girl and if she feels any remorse for crushing another person's heart, and all I think about when I'm trying to sleep is how good it would feel to hear her last breath before I break her neck or choke her out. It's time for me to decide, for good, for once and for all, finally, will I be a man or a mouse?

The Return Of Tawanda

My computer is fixed, apparently virus-free and complete with an upgrade to Windows XP, thanks to my buddy "Drew." I'm afraid to reinstall my printer because it took forever to install it right the first time, but everything else seems to be working properly. So what was the first thing I did once I got back online? I noticed that I still had that site saved under my old profile where I first met "Karen," and remembering that the last time I went to that site she had posted a new personal ad, I gave in to my curiosity and went to see if she had posted anything else since. She certainly has. She did the exact same thing she did when we were dating--she created a new profile under the name Tawanda and posted a different ad under the alternative section advertising a Wisconsin bisexual BBW Yahoo group. The bitch just won't quit, and of course she shouldn't quit since it's her life and she can do what she wants with it. That don't mean I have to be happy with it. Under her new Tawanda Yahoo profile, she says she just bought a new house and SUV (she told me her next car would be an SUV when we were dating) and that she's headed on a cruise to Mexico in September, and she asks, "Wanna go?" as if anyone out there can join her if they accept her and her dirty, slutty ways. I think I'm gonna be sick. I've got schoolwork to do, so I'll come back some other time and talk about my attempt to participate in a walk-a-thon, and I'll try to talk about stuff other than what my cumsponge of an ex-girlfriend is doing. But right now, my hands are shaking and I want to cry, if you'll excuse me.

Puter Problems

My 5-year-old Dell finally went kaplowie. I was getting tired of pop-ups coming even when I wasn't online, so I tried to remove some programs that I didn't recognize thinking they were spyware. But once I rebooted, my computer went all the way back to its infancy, asking me to reinstall Windows and whatnot. I don't have that software, so right now "Drew" is looking at it and trying to figure out if it's something he can fix or do I need to rush it to the hospital. So I'm on a public computer right now, meaning this won't be a long post. My trip to Minneapolis went fine, with one exception. I really do feel love towards "Torrie" and I didn't think anything bad would come to me by telling her this, so I did as we were getting ready to check out of the hotel. Her response: "I suck at goodbyes, so let's just get going." Thanks honey. I thought we had progressed to this natural point where I could tell her that I loved her as I explained that if there was anything she needed I would be there for her. You know, kinda wrap it in friendship so that it's not so hard to accept and give back. Wrong again, Dre. Oh well. At least that helped me realize that I need to keep my ass in Chicago for the time being no matter how much I hate this city. Going to Minnesota, even if Torrie and I don't live together initially, is not something I should be doing until I get a clearer picture of exactly where I stand in Torrie's mind. Am I a genuine boyfriend and someone she really cares for and values? Or am I a fuckbuddy that's starting to get too creepy with this love and caring shit? If only I were a mindreader. Well, enough blabbering from me, as "Karen" used to tell me at the end of her e-mails. Time to get some all you can eat crab legs with "Ronnie" and another friend. When people fail me, as they always do, food is always there for me. Sad but true.

Update via Google

I just Googled "Karen's" real name and found out that in September of last year, someone with her name and birthdate (11/10/72) reported a rock busting the windshield on her '03 Ford to the cops in Wisconsin. Yep, she drove a black Ford when I dated her. Don't know how to feel about this one. Sure, it's some bad luck for her, so I should be thrilled, but I can't help but wonder, was this a purposeful rock through her windshield? Did she not learn anything from screwing me up the ass and wound up doing it to someone who reacted worse than I did? Will the rock stop her? If not, will my next Google produce her death certificate? More questions than answers I guess, which is why I shouldn't be Googling her in the first place.

And yes, I know of all the things she's doing at midnight on a Saturday night, Googling me ain't one of them. Yes, I know I'm pathetic. I have no reasons for my actions, just a very unhealthy obsession with that woman. It is what it is.

Totally Honest Personal Ads

Someone in an internet group posted what her personal ad would look like if she was raw and totally honest. I wish everyone's personal ad would be raw and totally honest. Then I could seek out the really desperate women, the ones I actually would have a shot at. Here's my Totally Honest Personal Ad:


SEEKING SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS ME

Hi. SBM, 29, 6'1", obese, have no life, sometimes have no clue. My hobbies include fantasizing, video games, televised sports and fantasy leagues. I'm very lonely and have very low self-esteem, so I've settled for fat, ugly lovers who didn't respect themselves or else they never would have slept with me. ISO a woman that normal people would describe as not hideous. Must be smart, hygienic, and not frigid. Must be able to know within a half-hour of meeting me that I'm desperate and lonely and I will treat her like a queen for the rest of her natural life just out of thanks for being with me. Independence not necessary; if she lets me take care of her, I might trust her not to dump me for a better catch ten seconds after I bring her home. I don't demand much else, just that I'm a good man, looking for a good woman, so we can create some good children.

Grade A Product

Much to my surprise, it appears that I am going to swing an A out of each of the four classes I took this semester, which just ended this past Thursday. The general math was a breeze, and the social science was no problem once I made up the data for my research paper and wound up getting a perfect score for that. I still needed to get 22 questions right out of 50 on my final to get an A based on raw percentage, but since I showed up every class and participated, I'm sure the teacher would have given it to me even if I had fallen short on the final. But I got a 44 on the final, so I didn't have to beg. But the English grade and the humanities grade were up for grabs. I was averaging a B+ in humanities before the final, which was all about architecture. We were shown twelve slides and we had to identify the landmark, where it was, and the creator and style. But the teacher was nice enough to make the test where the creator and style were extra credit points instead of mandatory, and as a result, my score on the final pushed my final grade just barely into the A range. The English 102 was the most nail-biting. The teacher was a French-Haitian man who was the epitome of arrogance the whole semester. Our first paper was back in February, and he actually told the class that out of the close to 30 papers, only five were passing quality, meaning D or better. My B was the best, according to him, but I refuse to believe that only four other people in that room could write a passing paper. Needless to say, there were less than half of the original students left by the time this final paper was due Thursday. I was averaging an A- on the three papers we were assigned before this final, so I needed to get a great score to secure the A. It was an eight- to ten-page research/argument paper, and mine was nine pages and tight enough to get an A, in my opinion. But this teacher couldn't bear to give me an A on this final paper because he thought it would be such a bear that it would break even the best writers in the class. It didn't break me. I even turned it in Tuesday so that he could grade it by Thursday so that I could pick it up and walk out of his office and never see him again. 90-100 is an A. My paper's grade? 89. He just couldn't stand to give me an A on the final paper. But it's okay, because that 89 wasn't low enough to drag my overall average under 90, so he's going to have to give me an A for the course whether he wants to or not. The rat bastard.

I'm celebrating by flying back to Minneapolis next Thursday and spending two days and nights with "Torrie." I'm still giving serious consideration to moving up there this summer, despite the loud protests of my aunt, and the rest of my family and friends when/if I ever tell them. I may just run up there and not tell anybody just to avoid the yelling and drama. It would not be a situation of moving in with Torrie and trying to get married to her anytime soon, like I intended to do with "Karen" in Wisconsin. I would not accept moving in with anyone unless something happened where I wound up unemployed. There's not exactly a job waiting for me there, but Torrie's job is taking calls at a call center for a company that's expanding, so they have been hiring at a good clip, and it's over $12/hr. to start. Not Sunshyn money, but not bad. ;) So I'd go up there for that job, I'd go to school next fall during the hours that I wouldn't be working, day or night, and if things go great between me and Torrie, fine, but if they didn't work out, if these different internet groups are any indication, there are many more women in Minnesota wanting a big black man in their lives. And I'm willing to gamble that they aren't nearly as stuck-up and arrogant as the Chicago women, so I might actually have a chance with them. BTW, I'm even less optimistic about me and Torrie having a future because she just informed me yesterday that she's pulling a "Sarah" on me and making out with girls, but it's not a cheating situation because "playing with girls" has nothing to do with me. She didn't volunteer this information. She asked me if I had fucked anyone since I last saw her because she wanted to protect herself from my potential promiscuity, but when I told her I had not done anything and asked her if she had, this woman that's so concerned about protecting herself and being responsible told me that she sucked face with a total stranger at a gay bar, but it was okay since no bodily fluids were swapped besides saliva. Yep, I sure can pick em.

I'll spend some time with my family this holiday weekend before I spend time with Torrie next week. I'll be able to determine which scenario is more desirable for me: Living with my family, living near Torrie, or continuing to live alone, hiding from the world. Or, since my decision making has sucked dick the last few years, maybe I'll draw an option out of a hat.

Why Are Men Happier?

Stolen from an MSN group--thanx Peter!

Why Are Men Happier?

Your last name stays put.
The garage is all yours.
Wedding plans take care of themselves.
You can be president.
You can never be pregnant.
You never have to worry if your white T-shirt gets wet.
Car machanics tell you the truth.
The world is one big urinal place for you.
You never have to stop and think of which way to turn a bolt or nut.
Same work,more pay.
Wedding dress-$4000.Tux rental-$100.
People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them.
New shoes don't cut ,blister or mangle your feet.
One mood all day long.
Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.
A weeks vacation only requires 1 suitcase.
You can open all your own jars.
If some one forgets to invite you,he or she will still be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack.
Three pairs of shoes is more than enough.
You are unable to see wrinkels in your cloths.
Every thing on your face stays its original color.
Your hairstyle last for years.
You dont have to shave lower than your neck.
You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look like.
You can do your nails with a pocket knife.
You have the freedom of choise concerning to grow a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relations on December the 24th in 25 minutes.
The line up fot the gents toilets are 80% shorter.
We can apply of a job and no one will look at our butts.
All our orgasms are real.
We can go to the toilet on our own.
If they criticize our work we dont panic cause "every one hates me"
We can get showered and dressed in 10 minutes.
None of our co-workers can make us cry.
We dont have to crawl up against a hairy ass at night.
If you still single at 31,no one will fuss about it.
Where ever you are you can always eat a banana.
Fore play is only an option.
It doesnt matter if you had a hair cut,no one will notice it any way.
You can wear a T-shirt and still jump up and down.
We never have a problem at a self service gas station.
We know 20 differant ways how to open a beer bottle.
What ever we wear,we can sit down with our legs open.
Grey hair and wrinkels just gives us more character.
If we wanna scrath our "nuts"we dont have to leave the room.
With 4,000,000,000 sperm cells at a time,in theory we can multipley the world population in 15 orgasms.
The remote contole is yours and yours alone.
You can find all the sport channels on the tv.
If some one wears the same cloths as you,he's your friend for life.
If you go and visit some one,no one expects you to bring any thing.
If you buy condoms no one behind the counter will give you that look.
And we dont even have to like some one to have sex with them.

Interesting Week

I actually got out of the house again last weekend. I went to a Ring of Honor wrestling event in Chicago Ridge last Saturday. The night before, I met my friend "Drew" and his girlfriend downtown and took the Metra to his house in Park Forest, IL. Usually we stay up all night and play poker with Drew's mother and brother, and "Ronnie" if he decides to come there. We did play poker Sunday, but not Friday or Saturday because Drew's mother was comped a room at Trump Casino and she, his brother, and his brother's family were spending Friday night there. So Drew, his girlfriend, and I had dinner Friday night at Buffalo Wild Wings, then I won $100 playing online poker at Drew's house. Saturday Drew and I got Burger King, and let me tell you, I never appreciated BK more because there were two of them near my old job and I could go to either of them right now since my school is near my old job, but they both closed. And I can't eat McDonald's because that shit is just toxic. If my stomach can handle White Castle and Taco Bell and all the other junk food I eat, it should tell you something that it can't handle Mickey D's.

Then Saturday evening, Ronnie continued to try to impress his current girlfriend by telling the guys going to the wrestling match (me, Drew, and his brother) to wait until he got to Drew's house so that he could drive us the 40 minutes to the match even though he wasn't going, then he and his girlfriend would perhaps go to Navy Pier and wait the three hours for the event to end, then pick us up and go somewhere for dinner. There was no reason for him to do that other than he was trying to show his girl what a magnanimous guy he is. If the pussy wasn't there I guarantee he never would have made that offer because there was nothing in it for him. As it turned out, Drew called him to come pick us up when the steel cage was being constructed for the main event because we figured it should be about 15 minutes for the cage plus about 20 minutes for the match. But Ronnie arrived fairly quickly, and there were problems with the cage, so when he got there, the main event had not even started yet. Ronnie made the mature decision to not wait for us and took off for Mokena, which is near Park Forest. I can say he wouldn't have been that much of an asshole if he didn't already know that Drew's brother had driven to the wrestling match by himself and therefore could drive us back to Park Forest, but I'm not 100% certain. We met Ronnie and his girl coincidentally at the same Buffalo Wild Wings, had a late dinner, and made plans to get together the next day.

Ronnie and I used to be in a bowling league together, and we're very competitive when we bowl against each other, not yelling at each other competitive, but silently concentrating on the game like it was a PBA Tour event. Since he will never admit that I am a better bowler, he never asks me to go bowling with him unless he's feeling like he has to build his self-esteem, and having this new girlfriend certainly qualifies, so at his suggestion, Sunday evening he, his girlfriend, Drew, Drew's girlfriend, and I all went bowling. The last time we went bowling was before I met "Karen" or "Sarah," so almost two years ago. And Ronnie had another advantage: He knows that I generally don't do as well bowling with a house ball and shoes as opposed to my own bowling ball and shoes, which were back at home on the North Side of Chicago, a good hour plus away not counting traffic. He was going to leave it up to me to bitch about not having my gear and look like I was a wuss. But I went anyway. I had not bowled myself since late last year, so I started very rusty, and as a result, Ronnie actually beat me the first two games. I even offered to bet him the second game, since I finished the first game pretty well, but he declined. But after the second game, feeling full of himself, he waited until I had pried off the rental shoes before announcing, "Okay Dre, it's time for you and me, one on one, the main event, what everyone came to see." He then bet some money on himself, but he bet with Drew, not with me. I wasn't about to put money against him after losing the first two games. But I should have, because I forgot how tight his asshole gets when there's money involved and the score is close late in the game. I beat him 150-99.

The night wasn't over, of course, because Ronnie would not let me win a contest against him in front of his girlfriend. That was the point of going bowling, not to have fun, but to show his white girl that he was the bigger nigger. So despite everyone being tired, we went to Drew's house to play an '80s trivia game, which he won by one question over me after I had a big lead. And I guarantee you, if I would have won that game, a long night of poker would have followed, anything to prove that he was better than me. But finally, after the game was over around 3A, everyone left. I got about 4 and a half seconds of sleep before Drew's crazy-sounding alarm went off, and we hopped on the Metra, he to go to work and me to go home. And boy, was I sore. Just imagine two 340-lb. black guys heaving bowling balls as hard as you can, competing in a silly tug-of-war, the latest in a ten-year rivalry. I would've soaked in my tub when I got home, but I was too tired to run the damn water.

I was on track for a regular week of night school when I was met by the head of the English department Thursday on my way to math class. Just like last year when he surprised me by telling me that I had won a scholarship for an essay I wrote, he surprised me again by telling me that the teachers union banquet where I would have received my award last year was canceled at that time because the union was on strike and had more important things to worry about, but now the banquet was the next day, Friday, and would I like to come and stand up and be announced? I said sure. So I made a trip to Greektown yesterday, at a restaurant called the Parthenon. I had a great meal, several courses of authentic Greek cuisine, gyros, rack of lamb, Greek salad...I was stuffed. And when the announcement was made for my award after several other students had received theirs, I guess the people involved with the scholarship did not want me to come to the stage and receive nothing, since they already awarded me the $500 prize last year, so they had another envelope ready for me this time, with a check for an extra $100. Fucking awesome! As with the first check, I was honored and stunned, and I couldn't thank them enough.

That doesn't solve my problem of what I'm going to do with myself this summer though. I'm still wrestling with my sensible option of moving back with my uncle and not having to pay so much in rent, but sacrificing my independence, my less-than-sensible option of staying here in Chicago and continuing to look for work, and my "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH?!?" option of packing up and moving to another part of the country that I've never even visited just as a change of scenery, since I can't get a job or get laid in Chicago. I have to make a decision soon, as my unemployment runs out in July. But no matter what, receiving this award from school and receiving the compliments I've received about my blog (hey Keish!) means that I will continue to write and continue to go to school and work towards a degree some day. I may have low self-esteem, but apparently I can write my ass off.

My History (4th In A Series)

This is the story of my first love, how we got together, and how poorly I reacted to everything that happened between us. I'll call her "Giselle."

This is a perfect day for me to talk about Giselle, because today, May 14, is her 27th birthday. So I get to talk about the epitome of a stubborn Taurus, for no matter how many times I insulted her and called her a whore or a slut for no reason, she stayed by my side for three years. Why would I continue to berate someone that was obviously down for me all that time or else she would have left? Because that's how low my self-esteem was back then. I thought, if she spends this much time with me, what happens when she meets real men? She must really get busy with them. Of course, I didn't take into account her many physical maladies that made her arguably the least attractive girl in high school and made almost every other guy except me shrink away in horror. But I did worry because her self-esteem was very low as well, and if she had a chance to upgrade to a better boyfriend, I couldn't see a reason why she wouldn't. And as we all know, guys fuck anything.

Here is her list of physical problems, just to get it out of the way and paint the picture of her: First, she was very fat, something I really couldn't focus on since I was also very fat, but still...she was about 5'9", 220 lbs. when I first met her in late 1992. She had gained about 50 lbs. by the time we broke up three years later. And it wasn't the sexy, juicy kind of fat that a lot of women have. She did not carry it well at all. It was mostly in the belly and ass, not a round Bonita Applebum ass either, but a large, wide rump that beeped when she backed up like a garbage truck. Sometimes during sex she would try to ride the top, and my chest would literally start hurting like I was having a heart attack trying to support all that weight on me. One minor thing about her that other people could notice: These hideous brown spots on her front teeth that looked like she had been eating shit or something chocolate. They didn't go away ever, and she did brush, but these stains just stayed there at all times. Her explanation: Something about a botched dental exam that she didn't have the money to fix. Something more major that other people could notice: Her feet stuck out in opposite directions when she walked, and combined with her weight, she couldn't avoid looking like a waddling duck every time she went anywhere. Her explanation: Her ankles had been broken so many times over the years from general clumsiness that they just healed that way. The most major thing that other people could notice: Her one eye. Yes, she had a glass eye, her left one, and it was obvious because she couldn't keep it straight, so it was always looking at something else when she was trying to look at you. It even rolled back in her head once during sex, so that when she smiled and told me she loved me afterwards, all I saw in the left eye socket was white. I'm shocked that I didn't throw up. Her explanation: Something about her father fighting in Vietnam and catching Agent Orange and passing it on to her once he came back and conceived her, and she had to have her eye removed when she was two years old or risk losing both eyes by letting it progress. Other things that others didn't notice: A huge scar underneath her belly button (knifed in a gang fight, which totally went against her personality, although she did live in the Rockwell Gardens projects); one breast being slightly smaller than the other; a very sick habit of picking her nose and then putting the results in her mouth; and a story about having been raped a year before she met me that I didn't quite believe because she still lived in the same place that it happened, the aforementioned Rockwell Gardens, even though she had family that she could have gone to live with. Then again, being raped would explain why she came after me...she wanted to get a dick of her own choosing inside of her as soon as possible to get over that experience, and I was the ugliest dick in the school, so there was less chance of me turning her down.

So here's how our initial meeting came about: I was a junior in October 1992, never had sex, never had a date, thinking I would be a virgin forever. Giselle was a sophomore. We had a mutual friend, "Sherry," a cute Asian chick that I had the hots for. During the tryouts for the theater department's attempt at a production of Les Miserables, I was sitting near Sherry because I didn't know anyone else in the room since I didn't hang with the theater crowd. It was there that Sherry introduced me to Giselle, but it wasn't a fireworks, love-at-first-sight situation. My initial thoughts were, "She's ugly...big ass though." And that was it. I totally forgot about her and went back to flirting with Sherry and some white girl that had an early case of jungle fever. Apparently Giselle really liked what she saw of me for some reason, because a few days later a common male friend of ours gave me a piece of notebook paper with her name at the top, and the entire body of the letter consisted of the lyrics to the song "If Only You Knew" by Patti LaBelle. Naturally, I thought someone was playing a joke on me, since I had never had a girl express any interest in me. That first time I met Giselle was so underwhelming to me that I didn't recognize at all the name on the letter. I had no clue who gave me the note. And while I kept the letter and kinda floated for the next few days at the thought of having a secret admirer, I still thought it might be a joke since whoever this person was had not approached me to claim ownership of the letter.

Giselle sent another note a week later saying how much she liked me, but because again she was not stepping to me to claim responsibility, I shook it off as a prank. I didn't even suspect Giselle; after all, we were going to the same rehearsals for Les Miserables every day, and she never said a word to me. But one day after winning a small amount of money from a classmate in a sports bet, I invited Sherry out to lunch, totally intending to make a move on her. And during a lunch where I was going to tell Sherry how much I liked her, she put a stop to all that by telling me who my "secret admirer" was, and when she described her as the girl she introduced me to at Les Miserables tryouts, I was shocked. Like I said, we had plenty of opportunities to talk in the weeks since the tryouts, but she didn't approach me, and I honestly wasn't interested, so I didn't approach her. Turns out she was very, very shy, maybe even more than I always have been.

The next move was now on me, since I knew who she was and she was basically waiting for me to respond to her notes. I arranged to meet her in the lunchroom, and I arrived confident since I knew who I was looking for and I knew she had the hots for me. I no longer thought it was a prank, because it had gone too far for anyone to keep a prank like that going and because there were too many people that were friends of hers coming up to me and confirming her attraction to me. She wasn't as confident, however. I found her literally curled up under a lunch table, nervous and shaking but smiling as she always did. I helped her up off the floor, we made some small talk, and we agreed to go to a movie a week later after school on a half-day. We hung out and talked between classes for the next week, and those times along with rehearsals were the only times we could talk because she said that her family didn't have a phone. So we really didn't have a conversation longer than ten minutes until our first date. That's when she told me about the rape and the gang fight and the ankles and all that.

That first date was actually very cute, because I had no experience with women, so I didn't really know how to treat her. On the bus to the theater at Ford City Mall (which was a good hour plus away from our school on the bus, but we chose there just because the movie Malcolm X was playing there at 3:00P as a matinee and it would only cost us $3.50 each), I didn't sit next to her because, well, she wasn't my girlfriend so I didn't know if she wanted me to sit next to her. She sat next to me once she saw that I was as nervous as she was. Once we got to the theater, I loosened up a little because it was dark, and I put my arm around her. During a slow part where Malcolm visited Mecca, she curled into my arm to the point where her face was right there if I turned to her side. It would be an obvious invitation for intimacy to a normal guy, so of course I turned the other way. She then said the fateful words, "I get the feeling you want to kiss me." I smiled at her and turned the other way again. About thirty seconds later, something flashed through my mind along the lines of, "If I try to kiss her, I don't think she'll refuse me. She just might actually want me to kiss her." So I said out loud, "What the hell," and turned and kissed her. The funny part is that since I had never kissed anyone before, I expected to peck her on the lips and go back to the movie. Instead, she met me with nothing but tongue, and instinctively I responded. We later watched the movie again on tape and timed how long our kiss was with a stopwatch. It was about six minutes, nonstop.

Now, at this point we were a cute little story, two shy people finding each other and growing as a couple, and I wanted to keep it going at a slower pace, really getting to know each other. But Giselle did not want to go slow. She had an agenda to be lovers quickly, and as a result I never learned to trust her because I didn't have time to get to know her or figure out what she was about. This first date was on December 10, and we talked on the phone once a week after the date because she said she was at a laundromat pay phone. I remember this conversation because she asked about the way I was introducing her to my friends. I was referring to her as my "friend," and she was not happy. She wanted to be known as my girlfriend, and since we were swapping spit every day after school, that wasn't an unreasonable request, but I simply didn't know her well enough to grant that title naturally. She was almost still like a stranger to me. She also told me during this talk that she wanted me to tell her that I loved her, and that was not going to happen. But that showed where her mindset was. She was looking to find love, and I was her choice to give it to her.

My birthday is December 22, but Giselle couldn't see me because she was working, but the next day she came to my house for the first time. It was Christmas break, so there was no school. She was only supposed to drop by, then we would go to a movie. We never did go to the movie. Once we got into my bedroom and figured out that my elderly grandmother wasn't concerned about me and my first girlfriend being alone in my bedroom, all hell broke loose. Of course, it took some coaxing on her part. I kissed down to her cleavage several times before going back to her neck, and finally she got frustrated and said, "I'm not stopping you." That was my first taste of a woman's breast. She waited until her hose was around her knees before telling me that she was on the rag, but I was so horny by that point that I didn't care. So my first taste of poon was also my earning of the old Red Wings. And because I wanted to do a good job, I was down there for a good half-hour before Giselle grabbed my head, looked me in the eyes and said, "Make love to me." And make love I did, for about two minutes before it started feeling too good, then it was over.

Giselle proclaimed that she loved me basically every day after that, but I didn't start returning the expression until about three weeks later, and that wasn't because of love, it was because I was sick of seeing the hurt look on her face when she would tell me that she loved me and I would not respond in kind. So in a way she brought on my distrust of her, because if we would have grown into our relationship like I wanted to, I could have learned to love her eventually. I mean, I did like her personality, always sunny and happy and a little quirky. And I did admire her, because she was a great student, ambitious and intelligent and not at all a product of her environment, which is why I couldn't believe that she was ever involved in gangs. I just had my own issues with trust. Since I had never been with a girl, no dates, no nothing, and now all of a sudden here's someone claiming that she loves me and thinks the world of me and she kinda came out of nowhere...I just had a very hard time dealing with that. Combine that with her spending every Saturday at my house fucking me and blowing me, then spending all day Sunday at home doing homework and leaving me all alone, and I started to create reasons in my mind why Giselle was with me. She would have time to be with other guys on Sundays if she was with me on Saturdays, I figured. Never mind why she would be with me in the first place if she could find other guys. This mistrust built with the hurried way she was going about things, and after about a three-month honeymoon period, I couldn't hold in my feelings anymore. It basically became a contest to see how much I could hurt her before she had enough and went away, and then I could say to myself, "See? She wasn't true to me after all, she's not with me anymore." But she wouldn't go away. No matter what hurtful things I dreamed up about her, she simply wouldn't abandon me.

And being abandoned was what my fears were really all about. Giselle made the comment one day, and I dismissed it at the time, but of course now I realize that she was right on the money. She said that I was so afraid of her leaving because my mother died suddenly when I was ten years old, and I was scared that she would suddenly leave as well. It was so true. I was simply trying to drive Giselle away before I really did fall in love with her, because I was afraid of losing her once I did fall in love with her. And as much pain as I put Giselle through trying to insult her by calling her a slut and a whore, it was very painful for me too. Every night when I tried to go to sleep, I couldn't. I had images of Giselle sucking some thug's cock in those projects she lived in. I had thoughts of her being forced into turning tricks, stemming from her claims of being raped, but then I saw how much she loved sex when she was with me, and I didn't know what I was doing, so I figured she would really love it with guys who knew how to fuck. I was basically torturing myself coming up with situations where Giselle was spending time with men much better at sex than me. No matter how much she told me she was true to me, I refused to believe it, because to believe it would mean to believe in her, which exposed me to the possibility of being abandoned by someone I love again, and it would mean to believe in myself, to believe that I was good enough to make the woman I was with happy, which just seemed impossible to me.

There's not a whole lot much more to the story. We kept going around in that circle for three years, where we'd be happy for a few days or a week, then she would do something minor like say she would find a pay phone and call but she didn't, or tell me she would be at my house at noon but not come until 1P or 2P, and I would blow it way out of proportion and accuse her of being a slut, and we'd argue, and she'd cry, and I'd apologize, and we'd have makeup sex, and she'd leave and I'd stay up for hours wondering if she was going home like she said she was or if she was going to have sex with a real man, and I'd be so worked up by the time I saw her again that another session of me calling her a whore would take place, and we'd go around in that circle again. There were two pregnancies within that three years, and both resulted in abortions at my insistence. Not only did I not believe they were mine (of course they were mine) but I had never held a job before, and I didn't think there was any way we could support a child, plus I really cared what my family thought of me and I had never been in any real trouble, so I simply didn't want them to know that I was stupid enough to have knocked Giselle up with all the birth control methods we could have used. My grandmother died in 1994, so this second pregnancy occurred when I was living with my uncle and his family in February 1995 when I was 19. He found out about that pregnancy because Giselle and I were so mad at each other that we weren't actually speaking to each other, we were writing notes back and forth while we sat in my bedroom. When we left the room, my uncle found one of the notes on my floor, and it referenced Giselle's pregnancy. He was very disappointed, but he loaned me the money to cover the abortion, and we haven't spoken about it ever since. But no one in my family knows about the first pregnancy and abortion, in the summer of 1993 when we were still in high school, and they never will know.

The end came after we got back together after the second abortion and dated the rest of the year 1995. I had a job, so she would borrow money from me often, and in pretty big sums, but even that couldn't stop her from getting tired of me not supporting her and not trusting her, and after an argument over something so minor that I forget what, we separated for a week in December. We'd done that before, but when she called after a week, I didn't agree to get back together this time. Why? Because I was tired. I was tired of staying up at night worrying about where she was and who she was doing. I was tired of being in a relationship period, I wasn't mature enough to just enjoy Giselle's company and not stress about whether she was true to me. And, truth be told, I saw some women at my new job at CBOE, like "Yasmine" and a few others, who seemed to be into me, and I wanted a full shot at them without feeling like I was cheating on Giselle. But how could I trust them if I couldn't trust Giselle after three years? It wasn't about trust, it was about finding new lovers and getting into as many women as I could in order to boost my self-esteem. So that was it. Giselle called a couple of times after we broke up just to see how I was doing, but once I made it clear that I wasn't worrying about her and that I was dating others, she moved on.

We didn't speak or see each other again for six years. We would have never seen each other again had I not been a member of Classmates.com and she had not joined in December 2001. I e-mailed her just wondering how she was doing. She wrote back excited about hearing from me. We e-mailed back and forth for a month, during which time I learned that she graduated from college, had a son, and was engaged to some guy that wasn't the father of her child. I knew exactly what his name was because when she called me from "her cell phone," his name came up in my caller ID. Despite that, and despite their wedding day being set for Friday, February 15, 2002, she claimed one night while talking to me that she still loved me, and we set up a meeting in my apartment just to catch up and see each other again. She looked the same, except much bigger and without those brown spots on her teeth. She now weighed in at about 340 lbs. But one thing had not changed: She still couldn't keep her hands off me. We kissed that day, then she came back the next week and we made love. She told me that she was breaking her engagement and that we would find a place together and raise her son and everything would work out fine. I took Valentine's Day, Thursday, February 14, off work to spend with her. The Monday before, she called to say that she had something important to talk about, but she didn't want to tell me over the phone. She wanted to come by that night to tell me, but at that time it was past 11P and she decided it was too late so she'd see me the next day. That was the last time I heard from her. She stopped answering "her cell phone," she didn't show up on Valentine's Day, and I haven't seen her since. I was crushed that whole weekend. I couldn't believe that, knowing my fear of abandonment and knowing our history, Giselle would do that to me. She called a month and a half later and left a message asking me to read an e-mail she left, but all the e-mail said was that she'd be calling later and would it be okay to talk. I wrote back to never call me again after pulling the shit that she pulled unless she was going to explain herself. She wrote back saying that she would do just that in her next e-mail, but her next e-mail wasn't until another two months later, and it didn't explain anything. All that e-mail said was that she had just gone through a bad situation and could I lend her an ear? I was still so steaming mad that I totally ignored her request, and that's the last I heard from her at all.

I suppose one could say that I got what I deserved after treating her the way I did. While I don't feel bad brushing her off after she totally abandoned me, I can understand why she still had animosity towards me. I don't completely understand why she took the angle of reuniting with me, knocking boots with me again, and then leaving me instead of just telling me how much I hurt her in the past. Maybe she wanted me one last time before she went and married this other guy. Maybe she really was going to dump this guy for me, but he physically intimidated her into staying with him. Maybe at the last minute she finally realized what I'd been telling her all those years, which is she can do much better than me. Whatever the case may be, at least I did let her know how sorry I was for treating her like shit. At least I was able to see my first love again. Long before our little reuniting I had a very strong feeling that I would see Giselle again in my lifetime, and I actually have a very strong feeling that I'll see her yet again. And at least I was able to see and hear her passion for me again, because none of my other lovers have been as crazy about me in or out of bed as Giselle was. When I'm feeling really down, I still think about the way she made me feel any time I was with her. She was down for me. She loved me more than anyone else I've ever been with. I still don't know why, but I don't question it anymore.

50-1?!?

No, I did not pick the horse that went off at 50-1 odds and won the 131st running of the Kentucky Derby. I didn't even come close to picking him. Usually I take a handful of horses, since there are twenty of them running in the Derby, and put a little money on each of them, reserving the most money of course for my official pick. But this year the line to make a bet was so long--about a 45-minute wait, and this was several hours before the Derby was to be run--that I decided to make whatever bets I was going to make and not get back in line again. And since I didn't already figure what horses I wanted to make bets on besides my pick, Afleet Alex, I just put down $20 to win, place, and show on my pick, and said fuck all the other horses. One thing I knew I wasn't going to do was put any money on the favorite, Bellamy Road. I just felt that Bellamy was a fluke horse, and sure enough, he finished seventh.

But the horse that won, Giacomo, was a total shock. When I look at the program right now, sitting here at home four days after the race, the only thing I see about Giacomo that would have led me to think that he had any kind of chance is that he was a good closer in his previous races. Not to say that he was winning those races--he only won once in seven lifetime races--but he did show a knack for making up ground late in those races. These were races where other Derby horses were winning, so of course one would overlook Giacomo because he wasn't winning, but make no mistake, Giacomo made up ground late in those races to take second place a couple of times and third place a couple of times. And boy did he make up ground in the Derby. For those that didn't see the race or highlights, Giacomo was in 11th place at the top of the stretch, which is about a quarter mile from the finish line. He just picked off horses one by one and finally stuck his neck in front at the end, beating a 72-1 shot, Closing Argument, and my pick Afleet Alex. Afleet Alex, by the way, led with about 1/8th of a mile left, but he just didn't have enough left to hold on. Killed me too, cause I thought I was going to pick the Derby winner for the second year in a row. But I still had fun. Got to see some boobies from the drunk coeds that start flashing in the infield about midday at every Derby, and even got a couple of pics. I don't think I'm going back without some beads, though. Most of the women flashing want beads in return, like they're at Mardi Gras, and when you have nothing to offer like me, you just feel pathetic. There was one girl flashing everyone who gave her beads and she just didn't care, and she looked right at me with my camera in hand and waited for me to give her some beads. All I could do is look at her and lie and say, "I'm all out baby, but if I had some I'd give them all to you!" She just giggled and went on to the next guy. I won't let that happen next year.

I have to thank my friend Cassandra for going with me, even though she doesn't read my blog. She knew I had an empty hotel room and I would be miserable if I had to make this trip all by myself, so she went with me, and I enjoyed her company. We ran into the usual glitches here and there involved in travel, stupid drivers, crazy people at the car rental place trying to sell us everything under the sun while neglecting what we actually paid for, a crappy hotel room (Howard Johnson Express/Airport...extremely NOT recommended), and we even almost got into a fistfight. What happened was we saw a flyer in the hotel lobby advertising a family team of three that would shuttle anyone to the Derby or anywhere else in the area for an optional donation, and going to the Derby using that service was fine, because we left a little later than most other people. The races for the day at Churchill Downs started about 11A Eastern, so a lot of people went then, but we didn't go until close to 1P. But going back after the Derby, we called the lady who drove us that morning, and she said that one of the other two cars driven by her family would get us at the same corner that she dropped us at. The traffic was of course unreal, and as a result it was a half-hour before that same lady finally showed up. Since she was actually talking to Cassandra on her cell phone when she pulled up, we assumed that she was there for us, but others were also waiting for her at the same corner, including some drunk white guys in their 30s, and when we got to the door of the van first, one of the guys grabbed Cassandra and said "Oh no you don't! We've been waiting forever!" Cassandra snatched her arm away and correctly explained that we called for this van, but apparently so did this group, and several others as well. The same guy then opened the passenger door as if he were about to climb in anyway, but made the smart decision to back away when he saw me approaching. That was actually very funny, how belligerent and mad he was at first but then how calm he was when he saw a huge black man walking towards him, and I'm sure I didn't look very jolly, because I had just been standing for a half-hour after walking around the Derby for several hours. Cassandra and I agreed to let a few others in the van with us, and we would all eventually be dropped at our destinations. Drunk Guy was not among those we let into the van. The poor girl driving was so shaken, she called one of the other drivers and said that she wasn't answering the phone anymore the rest of the night. So next year it's either drive to the Derby and pay for parking, or find a different shuttle service, a plain old taxi perhaps.

I learned something about myself as well. I knew that I had the self-control to be in a room with a woman and not try to get busy with her, because I had to go through that with a woman I dated years ago who slept with me several times but never had sex with me. But at that time I had only been with one woman in my whole life, my high school girlfriend, so patience was something I had a lot of back then. I didn't know how much patience I would have now that I was used to knocking boots in hotels. But everything worked out okay. We even slept in the same bed, but because it was a king, we never touched each other the whole weekend. I didn't make any moves because if I was rejected the whole trip would have been ruined. Cassandra needed a little break, and we've always gotten along great, and I asked her, so she decided to go. And that was that. Sex was not part of the equation, and that was not only fine with me, but a little bit of a relief that our friendship was not going to be tested by introducing intimacy into it. Hell, maybe I won't try to have sex with anyone anytime soon. Maybe I'll throw myself into my schoolwork this summer, get a job, and figure out the next direction I want to go in my life before I worry about pussy again. At least that would be the mature thing to do.

It was just me and Cassandra all weekend, because "Ronnie" decided once I got a roommate and wouldn't be having him and his girlfriend in my room that he didn't have the money to make the trip. He actually uttered the statement that he needed to save money to get ready to go to school, and I almost laughed in his face because he hasn't ever in my presence mentioned going to school to get an actual degree. He has this certificate from a broadcasting school, and he thought that would be good enough to get him a sports broadcasting job even though his voice is so high he sounds like a girl. Needless to say he hasn't had much luck. So now that I'm in a real school he all of a sudden has to save money to go. Pathetic. He won't admit it, but hell, he got the idea of broadcasting from me. I used to play him my demo tapes from a radio class that I was in during a summer project at Columbia College, and he never once mentioned anything about being interested in broadcasting. Then we stopped talking for about a year and a half between the spring of 2001 and the winter of 2002, and all of a sudden, he had a certificate from the Illinois School of Broadcasting in Lombard, IL. And yes, I have heard him tell people that he has a broadcasting "degree," although he wouldn't admit to that either. I stopped talking to him just because of this childish rivalry that we have, and honestly I don't know why I talk to him to this day. We're so competitive that the reason we got back together in 2002 after so long was to go bowling, and trust me, he and I don't go bowling to have fun, we go to beat each other. But he can't beat me. He doesn't have the skill, and if he did, we'd bowl together a lot because then he could show off, but we haven't bowled in over a year. So if you ever thought men couldn't be as catty and vindictive as women, ask Cassandra. She saw me and Ronnie go back and forth on the phone all day Friday while we were on our way to Louisville. He chided me about leaving town so late, although we tried to leave earlier but circumstances wouldn't let us, he chided me about making a Derby pick before I looked at a program, he called once just to ask if it was raining on us yet because there were some sprinkles in the air, and he kept calling me to laugh at how far away we were from Louisville as it got darker. If my phone battery had not run out of juice Saturday, I would've had to hear him tell me how he knew that 50-1 shot had a good chance to win. How do I know he would have said that? Because he did say that Monday when he finally got a hold of me. What a guy, huh?

So anyway, at least the long-awaited Derby trip is done and now I can calm down, finish off the last few weeks of this school semester, get the 13 credits I will earn once the grades are final, and move on from there. I still don't know what I'm going to do this summer, as far as will I stay in this apartment or move with my family or strike out on my own in a new area, but I'm going to stay calm and make all my decisions with a new peace of mind. There was something very peaceful about spending a weekend with a woman that I wasn't trying to impress or get into her pants. I even managed to forget about hearing the very sad news before I left that "Sarah" apparently tried to commit suicide and was given shock treatment as a result, leaving her with a very foggy memory. "She probably wouldn't even remember you at all," Ronnie told me. He'd like that, since I was with Sarah last year and he was with her daughter. It would be just another way for him to say, "I made the right pick, and you didn't. You lost." But I don't care. I still had a great time with Sarah and I'd still make the same choice. We can't always do everything perfectly. We just have to do what feels right to us at the time.

R.I.P. Part 2

"Torrie" will not be going to the Kentucky Derby with me. The half-sister that died earlier this year had two sons with heart conditions, and one of them went into cardiac arrest and died. I am speechless at the streak of bad luck that Torrie and her family have endured this year, and my condolences go out to them.

I was about to give in and go to the Derby with my friend "Ronnie" and his girlfriend and share my hotel room with them, but apparently my good friend Cassandra is going to go with me. She's had a lot of drama lately, a breakup with a long-time boyfriend, a situation in Florida that she had to personally attend to this past weekend, but she still insists that we will rent a car and go together. I think she needs the break from her current surroundings, and I also think that she got sick of hearing me complain about having no one to go with me and is taking pity on me. I don' t think it's a hook-up situation. She has told me how "attractive" I am and how she loves my intelligence, but she had a boyfriend the entire time I knew her, two years now, so she could tell me those things without worrying about me taking her seriously and making a move. And since we have gone out together before and I haven't done anything inappropriate, I think she trusts me enough to know that I'm not going to force myself on her and she can enjoy the trip and relax. I expected her to reconsider when I told her that the time spent between races at Churchill Downs during the Derby is used by drunk coeds to show their tits for beads like it's Mardi Gras, but she says she will enjoy herself regardless. It's ironic that Cassandra is one of the few women I know that is not bisexual and would not enjoy that aspect of the Derby, but she will be going anyway. "Sarah" is very bi, and she couldn't get enough of the topless women last year. Hell, she got more pics of them than I did. And I would love to be going with Sarah again, because we had an absolute blast last year, but alas, Sarah and I haven't spoken to each other since New Year's, and I have a feeling that we may never see each other again.

I was part of the group of Chicago bloggers invited by Sunshyn to attend a get-together at Dave and Buster's last Friday, but I backed out at the last minute because I thought that Sunshyn would be the only person I knew, and I don't deal with meeting new people very well, which is why I will never have another date outside of the internet again. But it turns out that I would have recognized someone else that was there: Keisha, who I went to high school with. I was pleasantly surprised to see her pic when I looked at Sunshyn's album of the event. I distinctly remember Keisha. There were a lot of bitches in high school that thought they were better than everyone else, especially me, being fat and unattractive. But Keisha was very very cool with me and everyone else. What a small world, now she's writing a blog, just like me, and we are connected through Sunshyn, who did not go to school with either of us. Go figure. But now I can make the next bloggers meeting and actually know a couple of people there instead of standing in a group of strangers and shining my social ineptitude on the masses.

Thinking about high school reminds me of my very first girlfriend, the first and last black woman I had sex with, "Giselle," and how many high school classmates probably only remember me because of the large, homely girl with one eye that I was walking around school holding hands with my entire senior year. Now that sounds like a story for the "My History" file. I'll tell you about that when I come back from the Derby.

Speaking of the Derby, I haven't looked at the official program yet, but my unofficial pick before I look at all the data is Afleet Alex. Just wanted to post that so if he wins and I claim it when I come back, there won't be calls of "BULLSHIT!" Afleet Alex won a top Derby prep race, the Arkansas Derby, by eight lengths, and he was a highly regarded horse before some recent bad races, so I'm hoping to get a good price by picking him. I'm not the best person to go to concerning horse racing, but I know a little about it. And I picked Smarty Jones last year. I was very proud of that. In fact, Sarah bought a plush toy horse at a Wal-Mart the day before the Derby last year in Edinburgh, IN (where we were staying because as I have mentioned before it is absolutely impossible to get a room for Derby weekend in Louisville unless you have an extra grand or two lying around or you reserve the room a year in advance like I did this year), and after Smarty Jones won and we got back to the hotel she named the toy horse Smarty Ed, after Edinburgh. *sigh* Sometimes I miss that crazy old woman so much. The Derby is for the best 3-year-old horses overall. The Friday before the Derby at Churchill Downs is the Kentucky Oaks, which is for the best 3-year-old girl horses. I wanted to get to Louisville early this year and go to the Oaks, because I've never been, and bet a horse named Summerly. But she didn't do so well in her last prep race before the Oaks, and on top of that, it looks like Cassandra will not be able to get Friday off work, so I wouldn't be able to attend unless I pulled a "Runaway Bride" (can you believe that shit?? I'm not for beating women, but sometimes...) and abandoned Cass and went on my own. And I'm not doing that, not after all the bitching and moaning I've been doing about not having anyone to go with.

Unless there's other last-minute news, this will be it for me until after the Derby. Wish me luck!