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Sunday, Oct. 31, 2004 / 12:23 a.m. ~"Game Over", Indeed!~ The end of a romance in the 21st Century, so far. One day it may include more, but in aught four it includes: blocking her from your MSN Instant Messenger list, so she can't tell you're online, nor can she ever send you a message. Deleting her from your LiveJournal 'friends list'. That'll show 'er! And on her part? When she sees this, and deems it childish, takes him off her list of Friendsters. There, take that! Tit. For tat. Then leave him on your LiveJournal friends list, so it's all there, all he has to do is read it. It's not 21st Century, is it? It's as old as the hills, and yet it's unique to online journaling, or blogging. We meet this way, we end this way. We tear each other apart, and I let him see, he hides. Aries/Cancer? Man/Woman? Mature/Immature? 43/38? All of the above? I'll bet he threw the pirate bandages in the garbage. Took the little monkey off the end of his pencil. And if I'd given him anything else it would be shredded, ripped to pieces with scissors, most likely, amidst much primal screaming. I'd even go so far as to wager he's sexing the first betty he sees, and probably pulling her hair and hurting her, shredding her inside and out. I want no part of any of it. I'm beyond sad, I'm beyond angry, I'm bitter and regretful now. I'm in that stage that never goes out of style, that doesn't need to be qualified by any particular century or other. The 'why in hell did I get mixed up in that fiasco?' stage. It's joyous indeed. I didn't want to eat, but I had food to cook, a casserole I'd even described to him, hoping he'd partake, imagining cooking for him again, imagining inviting him here to get away from the party in his building, away from the rabble rousers he never even wanted to see. Offering him up food and refuge. I cared, I did, and I wanted to be in love. What a huge mistake. Now it's petty online bullshit, avoidance, refusals, declarations of endings, "Game Over" via email, and no responses to my responses. Typical. I think he's not really 38, perhaps 15 inside. A boy, not a man. And I wanted a man this time. I thought dating a grownup would automatically entail dating a man. I'm sick of men, I'm sick of trying, I'm sick of the games we all play, men and women, and I'm sick of power plays, dominance and control issues. And no one, no one, will ever persuade me to submit, nor subvert me, nor dictate to me rules per my own behavior. My own criteria shall be met, for I am too old to play around anymore, or I shall remain alone and happy. No one can match my own company, my own eclectic tastes and knowledge. If there is no male version of me out there, then this is the future, this now. Me, myself, I. And two cats not long for this earth. As soon as they go, some travel, and we all know the rest. I'm not giving up on my own life, just on the lives of the fuckheads who enter it. Next person who comes on to me and tries to fuck me before fucking me over, will not manage to succeed, on either level. The fucking with me is over. Over. As he says, indeed, "Game Over". Cost of the War in Iraq
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