so very alone…

I haven’t even looked at this blog in weeks. I kept meaning to write something, and then it became just one of those things. It reminds me of when my sister told me my Mom wanted me to call her in the hospital, and I was busy, and then when I thought about it again, it seemed too late to call even though she was still in the hospital. And then it seemed like if I called, I’d get lectured for not having called, so I didn’t want to call, even though I needed money.

I never called my mother, but at least I wrote this.

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I implied yesterday that if I made a few changes, my article would be accepted in one of my favorite magazines. I wasn’t exactly being truthful. What I should have said if that the editor mentioned that I “would improve my chances of publishing” if I did all the nonsense he was spouting off about.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Isolation score: 2

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I’ve been trying for years to publish a number of short stories in a wide variety of magazines. After years of rejection, I finally received notice that a certain science fiction magazine has tentatively agreed to publish one of my stories, providing that I make the required edits.

This thrilled me.

After peeling myself off the ceiling, I started going over the edits they wanted me to make. Now, I’m no longer certain I want to publish in that magazine.

In other words, within a matter of minutes, I pulled a 180. I went from my life would be complete if only I could publish a short story in that magazine to the feeling that these magazine editors are chuckleheads and I don’t care what they think.

The story has a good premise. It’s about a group of female scientists who invent a substance that kills anyone with a Y chromosome. The story begins soon after they unleash their biological weapons. All the males in the world die within minutes – except for one 16-year-old boy whose special genetic makeup allows him to survive. A faction of procreative females take this boy under their protection, battling the group of women who want the female race to continue only through selective in vitro reproduction. The good females (the “Veniles”) want to produce offspring with the boy, while the bad females (the “Nazhens”) want desperately to kill him. There is a stunning twist at the end that I won’t divulge.

The dim bulb of an editor pointed out a few grammar and usage issues, which were fine, but then he dropped this bombshell. He found “certain aspects of the piece to be awkwardly misogynistic,” and he wanted me to “clean up some of the more pejorative language.” Look, nearly all the men in the world have been killed off by an angry group of women, and the narrator isn’t allowed to express some anger? Give me a break.

He also wanted me to introduce “a more compelling female character.” That’s what confuses me. All the Veniles are compelling.

So now I have the choice of making these changes and compromising my artistic integrity, or showing courage by telling the editor to print it as is.

Isolation score: 7

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Jane and I aren’t speaking. I am longer invited to any of the family activities. Gerald and Jane both asked me on separate occasions to leave The Cottage, and I said I would as soon as I find an apartment.

They probably think their silence will make me look for an apartment faster. Wrong. It just makes me like the place better.

The reason I mention this is that I made certain promises to Jane about what I wouldn’t say on this blog, and I intend to honor those promises, even though I’m fairly certain she’ll never read this blog again. Still, it’ll be difficult to explain what happened while dodging the impact Jane had on my life.

I’ll try to keep this short. Again, I can’t give all the details, because my honor is at stake. Here’s what happened.

Yes, I Am Experienced

Last summer, I was having a difficult time with depression. I had always kept the world at a distance. Then I got sucked into the world, and it was just too much for me. I’m oversimplifying, of course, but it seems true.

My sister diagnosed me as manic/depressive. She was right about the depressive part, wrong about the manic part. I tried lots of different combinations of drugs, including Paxil, Prozac, Levitra, and LSD, and I guess you could say I lost my way.

Fiscally Liberal

I took a second job because I was having such an easy time with my first job. No one expected me to be at my desk. People who needed me just called my mobile phone, and the two office buildings were only ten minutes apart.

Working two jobs at the same time would have worked fine if (A) I hadn’t been so weirded out on drugs and (B) the economy hadn’t collapsed. Instead of doing both jobs adequately, I kind of abandoned both jobs. By the way, if I ever complain about not having anything to write again, remind me to tell the story about getting fired. It involves a plastic plant and a bloody nose.

I had two disastrous trips to casinos, one of which I only barely remember. (Tip: When the board shows four clubs, and you don’t have a club, three aces isn’t the kind of hand you want to bet your life’s savings on.)

Before I lost my jobs, I had already stopped paying my bills. In my addled state of mind, I somehow thought that because money was automatically withdrawn from my bank account, I was protected by some mysterious credit net.

Are you beginning to understand why I’m reluctant to write about this phase?

Misguided Advice

I was persuaded into the notion that in order to be happy, I needed to change my life radically.

No more stealing. No more gambling. No premarital sex. No masturbating. No blogging. No negative thoughts. That was the only way I could be happy. I was able to stop stealing and I made it a week or so without masturbating, but then I went on a crazy spending spree. I bought a Harley. I bought several leather outfits. I bought stuff on credit that I could have stolen easily.

It would be easy for me to make excuses. I blew it. I got the eviction notice on my condo. Instead of fighting it, I lost my temper and trashed the place. If I had had more control of myself, I could have sold the appliances and fixtures to get some spending money, but I was more interested in tweaking and busting everything up.

Richard to the Rescue

After I was evicted from my condo, I tried to stay with my sister. I didn’t even last one night. This time, she didn’t say anything that made me leave. She just gave me one look at dinner time, and that was that. I bolted.

A few days later, I convinced Richard and his new partner to let me stay at their house. By the end of the four weeks there, I was able to get off all the drugs I was taking. In truth, I just didn’t have the money to buy them, and that was that. I did manage to drop acid a couple of times, one of which was memorable, because I hooked up with Henrietta.

It was between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and there was a big party. Richard was trying to make me feel at home, so he asked me to invite people. A whole bunch of people showed up, and I hated it. I hated everyone.

Henrietta was sorting the contents of a Hickory Farms basket by color. She was obvious a lesbian. If I had to guess what she did for a living, I’d have to say she either ran a jackhammer or drove a tank. (In reality, she runs a flower shop. Crazy world.) I started arguing with her that she had placed one of the cheese wheels in the wrong pile. As she explained calmly why the cheese wheel belonged where she had put it, I thought was was joking. She wasn’t.

I clued in that she wasn’t joking when she chucked the basket at me and stormed off.

Here’s something odd. When you’re tripping on acid, you can drink as much as you want, and it doesn’t make you drunk. I apologized to Henrietta, we talked, and I just started kissing her because I was in a weird mood and I wanted to be aggressive.

For some reason known only to her, she responded to me. That relationship didn’t last long because my power of imagination wasn’t strong enough for me to stay erect during intercourse with that grunting she-beast. Maybe if I had worn a pair of those sunglasses that plays videos, I could have extended the relationship by a few days. But we never liked each other, and were only drawn together I imagine by a mutual repulsion.

Living with Richard didn’t work out. He and his partner packed up my stuff for me and asked me to leave. I wasn’t able to talk them out of it.

I stayed in a run-down hotel through Christmas, and then Jane came to the rescue.

Sweet Jane

Jane was kind to me during this time, even though I kept hitting on her. When she rejected me, I made her feel guilty for rejecting me, and usually was able to get something out of it. (Jane, if you ever read this, I’m sorry for putting you through that.)

This is mostly a true account of what happened. I left out some details. I had actually written a few lies, but this time I edited them out before I posted. So now I’m going to finish off a bottle of wine and take a nice, long shower.

Isolation score: 3

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I don’t want to write about my laundry. I don’t want to write about my shower. I don’t want to write about listening to Ender’s Shadow on my Zune for the third time in the last month.

I really want something interesting to happen to me. But nothing is going on right now. Nothing. No job, no love interests (apart from the lunatic bull dykes), no friends, no money.

If I write about Battlestar Galactica, well, I’m not a TV critic. The last time I wrote about a movie — I think it was LOTR — you guys shit all over me in comments.

I could force myself to do something interesting again, like when I experimented with homelessness, but we all know how that turned out. You guys shit all over me in comments.

Should I describe my feelings of loneliness in painstaking detail, peeling away all the layers until I get to the onion’s empty middle?

So here’s my question — Should I keep writing about my boring life, stop writing, or just make something up?

Isolation score: 1

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I can’t remember whether or not I wrote about her, but I had a dalliance with a friend of Mary’s. I’ll just call her Henrietta. If I gave her a different name in a previous post or on my other blog, I apologize for the double fake name.

Anyway, Henrietta is a lesbian in a committed relationship. She and I hooked up a few times back in the days when sex was more work than pleasure. If anything, she seemed less interested in me than I was in her. It was all screwy, and I certainly never expected to hear from her again, especially with the way it ended.

To my surprise, Henrietta sent me an email message. Here’s what it said.

Hi [Harlan]-

[nancy] found out about our little fling and we had it out. we very nearly broke up. long story short she wasnt angry that that i was unfaithful but more that i wasnt open with her and that we didnt follow our plan of experiencing a man together.

weve been talking about it and we want to get together. let me know if your interested. and this time ANSWER ME!!!!

[-H]

I did what every red-blooded American male would do. I ignored her. There is no way I’m getting together with that nutcase and her lunatic partner. Still, you gotta admit — it’s cool that she asked.

Isolation score: 3

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I’ve been trying to avoid Jane’s family as much as possible. Her brother menaces me, her father lectures me at every opportunity, and Jane herself isn’t exactly an eternal ray of spotless sunshine. Still, I realize I need to be as polite as possible because I am, after all, relying on their charity to have a roof over my head.

Last night, Gerald called me into his office. His office is on the upstairs floor. It looks out over the backyard, which is where the garage and apartment are. His office has a lot a religious books, along with fancy bound editions of the classics.

"What are your plans, [Harlan]?"

"I’m close to finding a job," I said. I explained that I’m thinking of going back to my old data-processing job. I can type 118 words a minute. They’d love to have me back, but I’m not sure I want to work for $8 an hour.

"That’s not what I mean," said Gerald. He looked at me as if he were really digging his position of authority. It was as if he were saying, I’m living life properly, and you’re not. Neener neener neener.

"I want to do something spectacular," I said. "I want to do something so great that everyone will know my name."

I surprised myself at being so nakedly truthful.

Isolation score: 5

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While I was in the middle of writing a very angry post in which I blasted away at several commenters, I decided to back off. It’s not that I didn’t like what I was writing. In fact, I assure you it was well on the mark.

I just felt good inside. Warm and good.

That doesn’t happen to me often. In fact, it’s such a rare feeling that I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I thought about taking a shower or maybe calling that lesbian with whom I was having a weird affair a couple months ago, but I decided to go jogging instead.

So I was jogging slowly through the park trails, feeling good and smiling, even though I was sweating and breathing like a jack rabbit. When I nearly finished with my run, an attractive middle-aged woman walked up to me in the parking lot entrance and smiled a big, open smile.

It’s amazing how many thoughts can flash through your mind in a couple of seconds. The only one I acted on was the ferocious desire to say something clever.

"Hi," I said in my cleverest high-pitched voice.

"Good morning," she said, pulling out a pamphlet. "Do you know Jesus?"

I can think now of a dozen things I should have said. I could have said, Yes, he’s been climbing up my ass. Or, No, because he’s been dead for two thousand years. Instead, here’s what I said:

"I don’t think so."

Now I have a pamphlet that gives me all the steps I need to win my soul back. And here’s the funny thing. When I showed it to Jane’s father, he absolutely hated that pamphlet. I’ve only seen Gerald look that disgusted once. He acted like I’d just given him a severed hand.

Believe it or not, I’m still in a good mood.

Isolation score: 2

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I’ve been meaning to write a whole bunch of entries that describe what happened to me on a month-by-month basis. I’m 99% sure it’s safe now. It’s just that after my adventures in homelessness, I caught some strange sickness that’s caused me to gain fifteen pounds in a week.

The odd thing is that I haven’t been eating very much, but I’m still getting fatter. It’s not water weight either. It’s genuine fat that you can clutch with your hands. When I close my eyes, I can picture Turd Man breathing on my face.

I’m particularly sad because not only am I not going to win another Bloggie this year, but I wasn’t even nominated. I feel this rejection more keenly than a punch to the stomach.

I suppose I should be grateful for winning last year. I don’t. I’m angry. Hurt and angry. It’s like the world is telling me that I’m a fluke for winning blogger of the year in 2008, that it never should have happened.

Fine, I get the point. Just know this. I’m going to be writing angry for the next while. When I find the energy to get out of bed, that’s it! No more pulling punches.

Isolation score: 8

Anger score: 9.5

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I was feeling pretty confident about my little experiment. If I could survive for a week — that’s what I originally had in mind — without a place to live, a job, or any money, and live on the streets in the middle of January, I felt like I didn’t have to be so nervous about my precarious living situation.

Things were going well. I had scored a big lunch, and I hung out in the library, where I skimmed some books and magazines and goofed around on the public computer. Then it started going downhill.

I planned on sleeping in the library that night, so I hid in the bathroom. No go.

That was the first of several places I was asked politely but firmly to leave. I ended up spending most of my time that night on a heated bus that criss-crossed the city, just me and a few other social misfits who’d seen better days.

By the way, if I could have one super power, I wouldn’t choose strength or speed or x-ray vision. I would choose, without hesitating for a second, the ability to make myself invisible. When Jane’s parents talk about heaven, that’s what I imagine. Being invisible.

In the morning, I was starving. I’d only eaten a bag of chips and a couple of cookies for dinner. Nothing was happening that early at the conference center. I had a bagel and donut in a grocery store, and then I remembered — I still had a few bucks in my wallet from pizza night!

I spent the $8 and change at Denny’s. Although things were looking up in terms of survival, I felt melancholy. I hadn’t shaved or brushed my teeth. More than that, I felt like an outsider even more than usual.

I also started worrying about what to tell Jane when I got back. Sorry I was gone for a week, but, um, I had something to do. I had to do better. Sorry I was gone for a week, but my sister-in-law needed some help with her new baby. Nope, she doesn’t have a new baby. Sorry I was gone for a week, but shut up and leave me alone. No way.

The rest of the day and night was cold and miserable. And here’s something odd. Homeless people love to give advice. This guy must have known he smelled like a mix of cigarette smoke, beer, and shit, so why would he think I want to hear from him that I need to be true to myself? When he tells me I need to worry less about what other people think, does he expect a flash bulb to go off in my mind? That I was lost until Turd Man straightened me out?

As soon as the sun rose, I made my way bad to The Cottage. Even though I didn’t make it a week, I still felt strangely proud. I cleaned myself up and slept like a baby for a couple of hours.

I expected Jane to ask me where I’d been, but she hasn’t said anything.

Isolation score: 6

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