Missive From The Jersey Shore

Atlantic City, N.J. May 23, 2005

I’m sitting at the bar at the Tropicana Hotel in Atlantic City. I’ve lost over 500 dollars. Needless to say, I’ve stopped gambling. To me, it hardly seems like gambling if you continuously lose. You need to call it what it is: Pissing your money away. And while I have no objection to doing it in this fashion, it needs to be more of an adventure. You need high drama. You need your pulse to quicken as you place a bet or spin the reels. It seems, in this town, at least, on this particular visit, the odds are stacked against me. I need to be provided at least the illusion that I could possibly emerge richer for the chance I’m taking. Otherwise, what’s the point?

The point, and my search for it, seems to be a running theme in my life lately. I’m finding most of the basics associated with my life to be severely lacking in meaning. At least to me. My job, my living situation, my personal life. All without merit to me and my view of how I want to experience my world. And I obviously allowed this to happen. I allow it to continue. The question then becomes why? If you asked me if I thought it was what I deserved or earned I would say emphatically no. I want more than this. But why have I created this life prison? And who do I appeal to if I’m my own warden? What do I have to do to extricate myself from it? Can I re-invent myself yet again? Even Madonna will run out of tricks at some point.

Curiously, the one emotion I’m not experiencing is fear. I guess when your world becomes so intolerable on every level, any unknown becomes preferable to the known. I definitely prefer to dance with the devil I don’t know. I’m open to change. I’d beg for it, if I didn’t know that any change without will have to grow from within. No, if I’m going to rescue anyone this time it needs to be me.

On a related tip, The Ex has asked if we could get together for dinner as soon as I’m free. I intentionally albeit drunkenly informed The Hellcat of my intent to move out. Knowing full well it would trickle back to The Ex eventually. It has, and now he wants to talk. How do you tell your ex-lover from 20 years ago, who’s been your roommate for the last five, that you no longer want him in your everyday life? How do you explain that you no longer feel like he’s someone you can count on? How do you express that you simply don’t have the time or the energy or even the inclination to take care of other people when they seem utterly incapable of returning the effort? I don’t want to fall ill, even temporarily, and find that the man whose severely injured back I helped nurse back to working order, nor the one who’s biopsy wounds I helped dress, are going to be there for me. If I’m going to be on my own when I need help in the future I’d rather be on my own now. The very real possibility makes me sad. The reality would be too painful.