Sex, Feelings, and Other Things That Nauseate Me

So, now that I’m pretty. Now that I’m beautiful. Now that I’m Thin Anthony, as I’ve made very clear to those who are within earshot. Those last few sentences had no predicate or complete thought. Frick, I forgot how to use the Queen’s English. But where, oh where, do I stand regarding recent events.

The same place I’ve always stood: confused, with a slight smirk. Left of center, of course. I can’t really stand center if someone’s aiming to shoot me, can I? Yes, there’s the possibility that I could probably get shot standing off-center, but I like my odds.

Using my newfound smashing good looks, my success with the fairer sex has been…successful. Not even a tweak to my personality. Next thing you know, BAM. Total Nonstop Anthony. Then, something amazing happened. The sex-crazed (not my words, mind you) prick…stopped caring about sex. The last time I felt this way was undergrad. Elaboration: I received my degree, and could not have been less celebratory. I believe my answer was “meh” when asked how I felt about graduating. YAY! MEH! So, there is precedent for me succeeding, then being completely apathetic. That does make me question what my end goal is. I previously stated I wasn’t interested in a relationship, but I’m no longer interested in the other option, either. How do I know this? Ran into a girl some time ago that I barely knew, we clicked, and voila. Then voila turned into “it’s not you, it’s me.” I really have a knack for finding the crazies. Or people who want something else after meeting me. I kid you not, if I had a dime for every time I succeeded with a girl…then I’d have no dimes. Shit, that joke was not supposed to backfire on me. But yeah, interesting girl, we clicked, and then she told me that her ex is moving out here in August and that means she’s saving herself for him. Huh? Yep, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Which is a shame, of course, seeing as I loved how we interacted. It’s rare that I meet a girl (or guy) for that matter that doesn’t annoy me within the first five minutes.

Mental efforts notwithstanding, I’ve been unable to navigate these cerebral gymnastics. Sex. Commitment. Commitment. Sex. Puppies? NO. I guess that happens when you sell your soul at cost. You never get over certain people, even when they’ve wronged you. Unless you’ve hated them from day one, which is the case with most, if not all of my enemies. Hell, they almost cause you to hate the people that you really don’t mind, such as a friend I thought I may need to fire. But that hate isn’t really hate, but hate inspired due to love and there go those damn cerebral gymnastics. I would seriously hate to be my therapist. Too many stories about crazy blondes. Correction: too many stories about ONE crazy blonde. Who I still love. Though I shouldn’t. Because Rellik is KILLER spelled backwards.

But when I assume my new identity, Moxley Ambrose, in a little over a month, for five days, there will be no cerebral gymnastics. Yet, there will be tumbling, floor exercise, and perhaps a pummel horse. Why? Because Moxley Ambrose came to Miami for one purpose, and it’s not WrestleMania. Actually…two reasons. I’d be lying if I said wrestling didn’t excite me, because I’m getting my first Hell in a Cell. Let’s see, I’ve seen a ladder match, two TLCs, Guerrilla Warfare, Money in the Bank, Money in the Bank cash in, cage match, nightstick on a pole…but this will be my first HIAC. Damn, I’ve seen a lot of wrestling in my years. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Flo Rida feat. Sia “Wild Ones”

Advertisements

Excess Baggage

Ha. Ha. Ha. So, more remarkable change. This is the first semester in years that I’m not actively enrolled in school. That will change shortly, but physically and educationally, I’m a free agent. I’ve learned over the last couple of years that sometimes, it is best to let go than to continue fighting a battle where the outcome doesn’t merit the exertion. Still, six units short of an MA…I won’t have to try too hard to find somewhere else that would let me finish the job. I knew I overstayed my welcome at CSULB by a good two years. But alas, I can’t cry over spilled milk because my heart wasn’t in it. I had become personally guilty of the worst cardinal sin: not stretching my talents to full potential. For that, I should burn in hell. And I did, for two years.

Ironically enough, I’m living the lifestyle I pretty much envisioned while I was in undergrad. No responsibilities, no appointments, just time on the absent watch on my wrist. I guess being in the here and now has put my mind at ease. Even paying bills is more of a leisurely activity since I define who I am by how I look in the mirror: absolutely gorgeous. Of course, there have been a few weird side effects from my vanity, and not quite what I had intended.

I’ve made no secret of my interest in the opposite sex. Yet, that hasn’t become as big of a priority as I thought it would be. Sure, I’m more physically appealing, and sure, my self-confidence is now at a ridiculous level where I can say I previously had low self-esteem. That’s a tough one for others to swallow, since I always held myself in the highest regard. Now, I can accurately say I hold myself in the only regard. I look at those around me much differently before. An insult flung my direction gets a shrug. Friendly banter gets a nod. My once legendary patience is now legendary for being transparent. Not transparent because I formerly lied; transparent because I openly don’t care. Letting go and devolving into simplicity is my proudest feat. Complexity got me nowhere. Outthinking people is more trouble than it’s worth.

Which brings me to letting go, since that’s been the theme lately. My latest adherent is following the gospel very strictly, even befriending people I’ve formerly dated. I’ve been supportive in his endeavor, perhaps more than I very well should. I’m not the only person in on this joke, which presents a weird situation. She hates me, yet is talking to someone that she has noticed is a dead ringer for me, if you substitute race. Social dance, check. Knowledge of esoteric holds and locks, check. Sarcasm, check. Now, he knows what I went through, so he’s picked my brain for insight. I don’t mind educating, but these days, I’d rather not talk about it because the thought of her leaves me feeling hollow. I’d be lying if I didn’t think about talking to her next year, but the fact that she practically found a surrogate…it stings. And they’re going dancing, something I taught her, but hates because of what I did. Except she likes it enough to try it again and stick to one partner when that person is my charge. Makes me wonder if I should cut him off so I don’t have to hear about her. Yes, I like one, and love the other, but I could live without the cognitive dissonance.

On a brighter note…Wrestlemania in t-minus two months. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Switchfoot “Dark Horses”