Love is the Most Important Thing

I don't love you.

Sitting here on the cold tile floor in front of the heat vent; the only saving grace in this old house that leaks like a sieve through the winter, I'm thinking about what that means. The drapes around the window rustle slightly as the icy whisper of mother nature finds its way into the conversation I am having with myself. I'm just pretending the windows are there for a reason, like you are pretending I am.

The space heater is in the bedroom, still blowing at the bed from its usual spot on the wooden floor, in front of the oversize red shag rug that the bed is parked on. I never bothered to pick my clothes up after you left. I just went for my robe; a gift from someone else, and the coffeepot. I still stay up at night wondering how these things happen. Who would want to do this in a freezing hundred some year old house within the confinement of a three foot range of heated air? Apparently we would. The only question surrounding this desperation is who I hate more, you or myself?

Its not a mystery anymore. This is not a 'let the chips fall where they may' scenario. There's no way to look at you ever again without fully acknowledging that I am using you for sex. I'm not even that attracted to you, its the thrill of it that does it for me. I'm not going to ever call you just to talk. You haven't met my friends and I don't plan on introducing you. I cross my fingers in my pocket whenever we're out hoping that we won't run into anyone I know.

One time when we were at the movie theatre I saw one of my work buddies buying popcorn and strolled right past him without saying anything. Maybe you saw him too, but seeing as how the two of you were perfect strangers you could have given him your driver's license and he would have never figured out who you were. Maybe you could have even exchanged numbers and started dating, it wouldn't have even bothered me. He already knows everything about you sexually.

In the beginning I met your parents, In the beginning it was for real. Give it a try. Why not. A little companionship will do you good. Then I told you that it wasn't working for me, the way that I had planned to in case what I anticipated would happen happened. But somewhere the line blurred. You called me a few months later and somehow my need for something real overlooked the fact that this was not real and then it became real in a very unreal way. Whats a proper ending to something that never properly began. I still remember sitting around this same kitchen in my boxers that night, a few summers ago wondering that exact question.

The sound of my cellphone vibrating against the floor hurls me back into the reality of the present as I realize my best friend is calling from California. I don't pick up. We haven't talked in forever and there is too much to catch up on to attempt now. The half pot of coffee in the coffee maker beckons dangerously; I'll probably just wind up telling him about you anyway. The confusion is beginning to get to me. And, seeing as how he knows me better than myself sometimes he will probably tell me something that will play on my mind for hours afterward. He has a very cunning and skilled way of doing this without pissing people off.

It doesn't matter. I have to work and you're not worth losing sleep over. Thats kind of what this is all about anyway. Who has time for relationships? You're a big girl. You know the rules. You should be ok. I've admitted the truth to myself and you should be able to do the same. Even if you call again. Even if we do this again, for another couple years. Even if I continue to feel all of these other feelings that I cannot figure out, at least I've figured out that I don't love you.

And love is the most important thing.

Burn in Hell, Lumbhergs of the World.

I caught Office Space on TV this weekend....

TNT or some shit. I don't know.

One of those networks that turns a 90 minute movie into a three hour event, injecting an extra 90 minutes of commercials while editing all the swear words out. You know, not like, a beep, or just an erasing of sound altogether but the way they do it is actually an art-form of lameass politically correct compliance that destroys all of the trademark lines in the movie.

For example, picture Peter dreaming about the trial he will have when he is found out about the Superman 2 virus; the judge is towering over him, ready to stab the air with the gavel and threatening in his menacing judge-voice. I expected to hear, "Peter Gibbons, you will be sentenced to a Federal Pound-Me-In-The-Ass Prison," but this classic line somehow morphed into, "Federal Pound-Me-Into-Ash Prison."

LAME. But I'm not even mad about it, I get it. Kids watch this shit. Good. Let them learn about the evils of corporate dictatorships while they are young so they will be prepared. Show these children the way - Show them that you need not have dreadlocks and hoes to be a gangsta, that even if you're white and you work for a software programming company in Dallas that may as well be fictional, you can still roll like you from Compton or Tha D.... Its the situation, not the scenery.

I so identified with that character growing up. I knew I would wind up where he was, I knew I would have some kind of douche, know-it-all gradiose unholy joke of a boss and I knew I would find a way out of the situation, just like he did. I even got the sexy girlfriend. But it was tough. I worked for a few cows. I had bizarre coworkers. There were days when I was in my internship where it felt just like that scene where the 3 guys go over to Chotchkie's (sp?) to have coffee and sit there in front of that red-checkered tablecloth, in those tiny seats looking miserable and ask the age-old question to eachother, "what if we're still doing this when we're 50." Chris and Justin and I used to do that.....

Glad that shit is over.