"I've got a secret, I cannot say…" Queens Of The Stone Age

MyWife calls me many things. Some of them are even good. She used to call me "Pookie, " but not anymore. Well, it's a name we both called each other, masculine and feminine, interchangeable.

We were big Seinfeld fans while dating. You remember that episode right? Where he and his girlfriend were so ewwy in love? They were in the "cutsie" phase, and kept going "No, you're the pookie. No you're…" Yeah, you get it. Sick. Disgusting.

Well we had our phase too. It wasn't that cutsie, but it did make others want to hurl, just a little. We both had just recovered from bad relationships. I'd like to point out the word "recovered." As in "done with the recovery process." We didn't base our marriage on a rebound thing, no matter where we are now. It still amused us that we were all the cute disgusting things that we abhorred in other people, that we were capable of that kind of public display of atrocity. Not only didn't we care, we gleefully participated.

"No! You're the pookie…" I think the whole phrase was the nickname. We shortened it to "pookie." It rolls off the tongue better. I tried calling her "hairy chest" once. That didn't work. It did wonders for my vow of celibacy. If only I had one...

I think all good relationships are based on nicknames. How else do you explain "Butch and Sundance," "Jake and the Fatman," "Sonny and Cher?" Oh, that was their names? Hmmm. Well see? No nickname, look what happened! My point exactly.

I had a friend in Jr. High. Well, actually back then, I lived out in the middle of nowhere. He was the only one who lived close enough to play. That made us friends. He was 2 years older than I was (still is. He's old-er, not old and dead, nor has he stopped aging. I 'm sure he wishes though) Back then, my voice changed early, and almost overnight. No Danny Partridge "Can't go on tour until this runs it's course" type thing. No, I went to bed Arnold Horshack and woke up Michael Knight. At least my voice did, I was still Cousin Oliver.

My friend, being older and cooler, had to explain the younger dork kid hanging around him. As kids, that involved a nickname. Mine? "frog," after the throaty kid from Little Rascals. Hey, and considering other people named because of their throat, frog is fine with me.

It didn't stop there though. We weren't normal kids. Or he wasn't normal, and I wasn't your average guinea frog. We were envelope pushers, rebels, weird. He told everybody that "Frog" was my middle name. Not only that, but it was spelled, "P-H-R-O-G-G-E" because my parents loved the French. I would nod in agreement. I wasn't sure I liked being called Phrogge, but to me it was better than being called "stupid and gullible."

"Phrogge?"

"French?"

I can change my name, but gullible fool is forever. Was this the gene pool I'd have to dip in when I wanted children? Maybe I should stay out of the water; I think it's polluted. I left town as soon as I graduated.

My friend? He stayed. He's been married twice, and divorced twice. I'm happy to say his kids turned out fine; the bad water didn't hurt them. He and I are still friends. Why? That's right, a good nickname. He's since left town, so I wish him luck on all future endeavors.

So with MyWife I was Pookie. Apparently pookie magic isn't as strong as phrogge magic. It was still better than the nicknames I shared with my first girlfriend. She was LOML (pronounced "lomal") and I was MOTL. The meaning? "Love Of My Life" and "My Only True Love." Yup, pretty easy to understand where that relationship went wrong. Bad nicknames and high expectations, they should have called us Titanic.

MyWife and I still tried to keep flavor in our relationship, we'd mix up the nicknames. OK, she did. I was boring. She called me several things, some of them Pookie variants. I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you. It's fine that she said them, but I ain't telling you, it's personal—even now.

I accidentally shared "Pookie" with my writers' group once. I'd given MyWife some poems I was considering submitting to a contest. I also took the stack to the group. In fact, one copy I took to the group had a secret toy surprise attached to it, that I didn't even know about.

Everybody in the group is quietly reading each others works. You hear the occasional paper rustle and pen etch, but nothing more. That is until a woman halfway down the table yells, "Pookie?"

It's my name, I look up and say "yes?" Two seconds later my brain catches up, but it's too late, everybody's staring at me. I try to cover "What about a Pookie?"

"You're the pookie?"

No, you're the pook—DON'T SAY IT! "I can be. Why?"

"Who wrote this note?" She pushes a Post-it down to me.

It says Pookie, could you look over these and let me know which ones you like? Love, Unintelligible Scribble.

I gave up the wrong Pookie. Now there was more explaining. That's why I'm not a spy.

"Oh that's cute." she says. No it's not, but it's too late. The damage is done. Maybe that was the turning point. Maybe the divorce is my fault: I'd contaminated the pookie.

Neither of us has used the term Pook, or Pookie since January. I know you find that surprising. What's more we probably never will again—ever. That’s the funny thing about nicknames, people don't tend to recycle them. It's like giving your engagement ring to your next wife. Even if you can get it back, it's not done. It belongs to one person. And when they go, so does the ring.

When I pack away all the trinkets and memories into a box in the garage, the "pookie" will lay there across the top. I may pull it out and smile, but I'll never use it again—no matter what you call me.

"Teach me where to go...will love be there…"-Collective Soul

I was left at the alter.

Kneeling, I prayed it couldn't be; prayed nobody noticed. How could they not? They saw me there, and knew what had happened, they'd watched the whole thing.

No, it wasn't a would-be bride that abandoned me, although the ring reminder on my left hand should have been a neon sign advocating "Flee!" That's still not what happened.

I wrote a story—or at least a chapter—about signs a little over a year ago. The ones God gives us and we fail to see. The people, the events, those things that direct our lives to the least plausible outcome. Yet, when we look back at the signs, we see it was the only plausible conclusion.

I'm not here to argue free choice vs. destiny. Me? I'm a firm believer in free choice. Why else would God beat us into submission with warning signs? That's what the story was about, but not why I was stranded at the altar. At least I don't think so, yet.

No, this was communion Sunday, and our lead pastor was on vacation. This left our backup pastor, a deacon and a passel of elders to deliver the sacrament. Now, although I am a fairly devout Christian, sometimes they lose me amidst all the religiosity. Like the Deacon. I have no clue where deacon falls in the church hierarchy. Is he like a master sergeant or a ensign? I don't know. All I know is he was the guy passing out the wine. That was his job When he's done with that, he's supposed to bless us and send us on our way.

I received my wine, but didn't get my blessing. Is that a sign?

When MyWife and I got married we opted for a unity candle. During the ceremony, we couldn't light it; either her candle or mine would blow out. It took the pastor and his butane hand of God to bring us together.

Now that's a sign.

So the deacon goes back to cover the morning's leftovers, and organize the alter. The choir is done singing, and I'm sitting there. Ok, I wasn't alone, there were about ten of us, but they don't write this blog, it's mine. It's about me, and I'm still kneeling. I still haven't been blessed. One the elders notices, and tries to get the deacon's attention.

No good, he's lost in his own world. I'd like to think he was saying a prayer for the forgotten.

The second pastor sees us sill on the lurch, and grabs a plate from the altar. He thinks we haven't even gone this far yet. The good news, is that his motion gains the deacon's attention. Now the deacon's coming to save us too. He shakes his head at the other pastor, "That's not what they need."

Well it's what I came for. At least the first round. The way things are going, I don't see where a second round can hurt. I really would like the blessing though. I hope he doesn't hear my thoughts. He'll take back the sacrament.

Can he do that? I should have called no take backs. That's the second time I've screwed that up at the alter. If I ever get married again, just before I say "I do," I'm slapping her in the arm and calling "No take backs!" That'll endear me to the in-laws. At least they'll know I'm serious. Well, they'll know I'm something….

So the deacon came over, blessed us and sent us on our way. I normally like to go back to my seat and pray right after communion. Thank God, lay my problems at Christ's feet, you know. This divorce is leaving me with quite the load too. I keep expecting God to say, "Ya know, I was talking metaphorically don't you? You should probably keep some of this." He'll start poking through my sins and regret like it's a stack of dirty underwear, lifting some of it with a prod, and putting back in my sack. He never does though. It always comes back clean and crisp. All of it. That's why I like to pray after communion.

Today I didn't have the time. The choir leapt into the closing hymn just as I reached my seat. I still took a moment after service though. I'd had communion, I needed to commune. Life has been so frantic lately, even the signs blur past before I can see them. But maybe that's what this was. A moment to breath and reflect before the next leg begins. I was held at the altar to wait, to yield. I've never been good at yielding, but signs say I should learn.

"Dance a little closer to me…"-Nanci Griffith

2, that's right, 2 entries on a Saturday! What's the world coming to? I dunno. I wrote most of this up this morning, and was going to save it until Monday. You know, perfect it make it cool, fill in some of the allusions... but I'm having a rough day today. I'm not sure what it is. I have my suspicions, but I'm trying to block them out. So, I decided to post. It's like rolling a note into a bottle and hurling it into the ocean knowing only one person in the world understands your language, and can reply with a flare, but they don't want the gun. I'm gonna be on this island a long time.

I had trouble picking a video too, I couldn't get the one I wanted embeded, and my second choice didn't work either. So Firefox users, use your tabs and listen while you read

Nanci Griffith

Raconteurs

Watch them both and let me know: Raconteurs, or Nanci Griffith? I'd set up an official poll, but by the time I figured that out, I'd have to stop to put up Christmas lights. So, here's the post. Happy Weekend!

I was feeling low this weekend. Yeah, I admit it, sometimes it's just tough. I want to say it's because I love WyWife and I'm looking for any reason to make her stay. I swear, it's what I want to say, and I would if I were less honest.

That's not it. So why am I low? Well, I'm honest, but according to reader Natalie, I still have a shell. I think I'm gonna curl inside it now. Let this be one of the few times I don't over-explain something into chaotic complexity. We'll just say I'm lonely and leave it at that.

So what does an attention whore do when he's feeling lonely? He looks for the one person who's always there for him.

I tried, but MyWife was in the bathroom; I didn't have access to the mirror.

How could she be so selfish?

That's alright, no need to panic. I just need to try something new. Something that doesn't involve stirrups and a ball gag. Ok, I swear that's a joke. Really, IF I tried that, it would still be something new.

A few months ago I emailed a friend about my blog.

"Just Google my usual screen name. I'm sure it's there. " You can't Google my real name, it's too common. I am anything but too common, thank you very much. After I sent the email, I decided I should try it.

Just call me Narcissus, but not in public.

You know what? Google search has dedicated 3 pages to me! WOO freakin' HOO! (Grphter, not Narcissus, there were too many pages there, I looked. Actually I got thwarted at the nude dude at the bottom of page 1. That kinda stopped my search. Yeah, go ahead. I know my demographic. I'll be here when you get back.)

So in my latest moment, I thought, Maybe I'm lonely because nobody knows I exist. So, I Googled me again. This time there was more of me. Stuff, old and new. If anybody knew my screen name, or randomly thought of it, they could find me. That was hopeful.

But what if they didn't know my screen name? Could they find me? My only current work seems to be this blog, but then again that's why I started it. I got tired of staring at a blank Microsoft Word page and a smiling paperclip who had more ideas to put down than I did.

"The bitch must die." was a great intro, but kind of alienating. And when I followed that up with "When Karl stabbed her three times in the chest, he found that she had no heart." I thought it was probably better to concentrate my efforts somewhere else.

So, I've spent 3 months writing this blog, am I out there? Can people find me? I typed in the title of my blog.

Enter

Bam! First entry. I perked up a bit. I tried something tougher:

"Friendly divorce"

Enter.

Bam! "Divorce source: Friendly Divorce."

What? I should be the primary resource! What the hell is this. Franticly I clicked the numbers at the bottom of the page. It appears, I'm not as high on the broad source divorce help list as I'd hoped. I knew I shouldn't have posted all those pictures!

I did find me somewhere around page 8. So at least I was listed. It kinda hurt so I thought I'd try different things.

I tried one of my titles. The "Dead disco, dead funk, dead rock and roll." (which by the way, is a really cool song.)

Enter.

Nothing. Well there was something, it was the Metric site. Figures, the band would get precedence over my divorce blog here. Whores! I gave up looking for me around page 10. Unthwarted, I tried something else. I added my screen name to the end of the search.

Enter

Bam! I am the only thing on the list. Thank you very much.

I explored Google for about an hour, learning which touches brought which responses. What was good touch, what was bad touch. It was an afternoon of discovery.

In the end, I felt a little better. It's not the same. It's not what I'm missing, but it drove me through another day, and left me wondering what I'd find in the next.

One thing I did find though. If you go to Google and type "accidental rubbing during haircut," I'm not the only site listed, but I am the first on the hearts and minds of our internet community.

You care. You really do care! Now if only it weren't so anonymous.

"While searching for something more beyond this lonely hill…"-samiam

Footsteps outside a Wamu.

We looked just like Reservoir Dogs

That's right, we made one more journey to finalize that which was already over. It's more ceremonial really—no pomp, all circumstance. None the less, it's something we do when trust escapes town in silent stealth leaving disdain discourse and disharmony. We closed 2 savings accounts.

No more rainy days, we've had them all. It's time to take pail in hand and bail Robby, bail.

These were the remaining joint accounts. I closed them; MyWife stayed for half the transaction, then left to smoke outside. She wanted nothing to do with money that didn't transfer to her account. She was there for pictures and absolution though; sort of a smile and wave, clearing her of any evidence we ever belonged together. Outside of court documentation, and her stuff piled into a guestroom of my house, it's over and nobody can prove otherwise.

We're loners now. Wolves

Rowr.

Except wolves mate for life. You might want to scratch that. We're street curs? Sure why not. Street curs, I still get a furry coat, and trash scraps every now and then. I can live with that. Now If I can just find a rich widow to take me in. Naw, I'm kidding. I don't need that, just a warm place to sleep with love and pets. It's something I did learn through all of this: what's important, what I want.

So what was so important about taking all the savings money? This was water heater money, and spite and malice aside, Amex wanted a payment.

I took the money.

The cashier tried to be perky. Our bank now has this new floor plan, conducive to perkiness, alienating to order. Everything is open. No more line of tellers positioned behind bullet proof glass, it's just dots of stations situated like ladybug spots. It's like commune hippies got together and founded a bank. Once they got past the irony, they arranged everything in an organic refuge for greed. It's weird; it's confusing; it's where I go. They have my money. I am a lemming, hear me—what sound do lemmings make? Ok, pretend I just made that noise. I hope it's not too offensive...

Anyway, the girl tangential to us at the service dot asked how we were. She asked how our day was. She asked all the friendly questions, to show that the bank harbored no hard feelings. They would survive our withdrawal just fine.

I wasn't worried.

She asked for my ID; I handed her my drivers license. She asked for my account information; I gave her my debit card. She asked why we were closing the account; I gave her silence.

After running responses through my head, I went with, "We're, uhm, ah, we're uh, separating."

Separating? I couldn't even say "divorcing." The word tasted like bile. "Separating" was all I could cough up.

"Oh I see."

She saw? What does that mean? Was she judging me or did she really see? If she saw, why'd she ask? What else did Zoltara the mystical teller see? Did she see what's out there for me? Could she see past the platitudes of "You'll be just fine?" What exactly could she see? Nothing.

Thanks.

I could see I still needed the money, so I took it.

After we returned home, I checked my email. I don't get any, I just like to check. I'm like the old lady down the block peeping out for the Publishers' Clearinghouse van. It's never there, but she's sure it's on the way. She just needs to keep her eyes peeled.

I had mail.

It was a note from a friend of mine in Phoenix. He was supposed to meet me in Laughlin during the move out. He'd emailed to say he couldn't make it. Seems his parents were having an anniversary at Disneyland, so he couldn't attend my divorce.

Wuss.

So I'm spending next Friday and Saturday At Harrah's, alone. It's no big deal, I was going to be there anyway, it just would have been good to see a friendly face. I'm not worried though, I'll find some trouble; it usually finds me. So if you want to drop in, just look me up.

I'll be the fuzzy cur paddling in the pool.

Rowr!

"Are you gonna waste your time thinkin' how you've grown up or how you missed out…"-Jimmy Eat World

"Rob, It's Ken, he's freaking out on the phone."

That's MyWife. She hands me an oblong object with numbers. I put it to my ear: nothing. I look up, 'UH?" I don't wake well. Coherency is a train Leaving Chicago at 100 MPH. I don't live in Chicago.

"Voicemail."

It's her again, but she seems to think I'm ok now. She turns and leaves.

I fumble with the oblong communication device. It seems familiar. After 15 minutes, I work out it's usage, and master the secret codes. There's still hope for my day.

"If you're not going to do your work, you need to call someone!"

That's my boss. He's panicked, like one chicken, no head. Although if you're like me, that analogy doesn't work. The only headless chicken I know, comes wrapped in plastic at the grocery store: no panic there.

…?

That's me. "Need to call someone" rings in my head. Is it a clue? Maybe I should call this Ken guy. He sounds mad; maybe not. No, call him.

"Ken, I did my work. It should be there…" Ok now things are rolling, He's panicking over nothing. That's Ken, that's his job. I didn't know they hired people for that. I still must not know my job, thank God I have him to tell me. Or maybe my job is to bring him back down when his panic balloon starts to float off. I can do that.

That's just what I do. I deal with Ken maybe once a month. In 8 years I think I've met him twice. The big boss, that's Nancy, she's funny. Not like comical, but she's real sharp when It comes to business (woe to ye who cross her bow…), but in other areas, well, not so much.. But you didn't hear that from me.

One day she called me. Now I work in active rock, (Think Alternative meets old school metal), but I also handle Christian AC. Yeah, it's the devil and angel on each shoulder. It's Christian Rob that interests Nancy now.

"Rob, what's that song with the girl singing about her hands tied behind her back?"

No really, it is the Christian music. If it were Rock, Ken would be calling me. It's Nancy, and she's right there is a song.

"Becca Jackson, 'Hands Tied.'"

"Thanks! I tried Googling the lyrics last night, and all I got was porn sites."

"You don't say." Rule #1 at my work: Don't laugh at your boss. Nancy is making my job difficult. "Huh, you never know what will bring up porn sites these days." See? Playing stupid again. Sometimes it's my only salvation. That, and she can't see my smile over the phone. I hold the laughter until she hangs up.

That's Nancy, I see her once a year at the Christmas Party.

It's a big event. Radio personalities are there, and they usually give away cool prizes. The downside? It's in LA.

I don't know If I'm going this year. No, I don't think I'll be too busy to schmooze, I always find time for that. I just don't know if I want to go alone. I don't really care if they know I'm divorced, I just don't want to be part of the office scuttlebutt. Especially when I'm not there to hear what's being said.

"I hear he bored her to death."

"I hear she left him for another woman."

"Really? I heard it was a cub scout with jelly beans…"

"Magic beans?"

"No, just some stale Brach's beans from last Easter…"

Yeah, I don't really need that.

So I work alone. It's kind of tough, but it does allow for things like my monthly walk.

And just what did that little picture taking venture have to do with your divorce?

That's you thinking. Go ahead, ask, it's okay, it's a valid question.

I could tell you it had nothing to do with anything, but that's wrong. It had everything to do with everything, and yes, that includes my divorce. One of the things I've been talking about is moving on, getting past this. One of the ways to do that is to shake things up. I've spent 7 years building routines with MyWife. Now I need to build routines without her. When that's done, I'll be past this, or at least this aspect. Divorce is a diamond, bigger than the one she won't wear anymore, with many facets. I'm working on this facet first.

We all have a facet glaring into our eyes, be it money, kids, whatever, there's something that will make it more difficult to look into, and get over our divorce. Mine? Social network. I have none. So I either have to build one real quick, or learn to live without for a while. I've never been good at building them fast, I'm a slow-cook roast. I don't microwave contacts well. That leaves option B. That also means I should eat something. Too many food metaphors.

Yesterday's walk? That was an attempt at shaking things up. The pictures? They were just my way of trying something different. Stepping away from the routine.

It worked.

I've been doing that walk since February 06, and there's always been something wearing me down. A walk like that gives you time to think, or in my case dwell. Ever since the beginning, I've had something to dwell about. In 06, I had other problems, and this year it seems that my divorce has been taking up most of my attention.

Yesterday, I was free. I was consumed with taking pictures every mile. I even had some shots I thought would be cool to shoot, but they didn't fall out side a mile from previous pictures. Rules are rules. It was cool, it was fun, it was releasing. Yesterday was the best long walk I've had in an even longer time.

OH yeah! Before I forget! That picture of the shower? For the record, the pink color is from the camera, it's not some weird discolored mold I’m too lazy to remove. Although if it spoke, that would be cool.

"Morning mold!"

"Morning Rob."

"What are you doing today?"

"Not much, just thought I'd try to take over the soap dish."

"Hey! Good luck with that!"

"Thanks Rob."

Ok, now that's off my mind.

Yeah, when I got home, I took my shower and drank a vat of my cranberry stuff.

Cranberry stuff? Man! You ask a lot of questions! It's

2/3 cup Cranberry juice

16oz sparkling water

1/3 cup lemon juice and

1/4 cup sugar.

It's really good...and that was really weird. I'm sharing recopies. Great, log in tomorrow and I'll explain what to do about those troubling blemishes.

Shesh! There goes my macho persona I've been cultivating.

Thank God I do some cooking, I'd be screwed once MyWife left. I'm actually better than she is. At least at specialty stuff. I do the baking, and cook for company. She does/did the day to day. But that's another routine I'm going to need to get used to. Cooking for myself. It's going to seriously alter the portions.

Who knows, maybe I'll take pictures of my culinary delights. Maybe I'll even think of Ken when I'm eating chicken. Or Nancy when I Google. That's what it's all about.

I'm building anew.

Home again home again jigity-jog

Stop!
Shower time!

Mile 8

When trash trucks mate

Mile 7

Mile 6

Mile 5

Maybe the freeway is faster...

Mile 4

Mile 3

Mile 2

Mile 1

Start off!

Welcome to suburbia

"Hey, what's the point of this…"-The Flys

Good morning early birds! Here's your worms! I know, I never post this early. Kinda freaky huh? What's up with that? It's long walk day.

I can hear your sighing from here. My walk posts aren't that bad. They're quick, but c'mon, I need the exercise. But if you guys are good and don't trash up the space while I'm gone, I'll send you cool picks from my walk, while I'm on it.

Hey wait! Where are you going?

Thanks a lot.

Well then, back to our previously scheduled blog, already in progress...

"...I'm going to go try these on."

"Ok, I'll be over here fondling the panties."

She sighs.

That's when I knew things were taking a slide. If I'd said that 3 years ago, she'd have said something like "Make sure that nobody's in them first." That was her then: always full of safety tips. She accepted my insanity, and embraced it.

Like tonight, we were discussing our dining options for tomorrow.

"How 'bout hot dogs? We have plenty." I offer.

"Yeah, so we'll have hot dogs and chili, beanie weenies, hot dogs and kraut…"

"Give it a chance, you just have to be creative. What about hot dogs and pancakes?"

"Ew!"

"C'mon! We'll wrap them up, Pigs in thermal blankets!"

"What?"

"Pigs in a quilt?"

"You're an idiot."

"Well yeah, but I'm a creative one."

See? No joy.

I miss our banter. Don't look at me that way! I don't mean like, "Waaa! I'll never replace her Waaa!" I mean more like, "I need somebody to keep me in check." Not only for my sanity, but also for my creativity. I work better if I can rebound off of someone. I used to talk things out with her, play dialogue off of her, that type of stuff. She'd read my stories and go, "Is that the only reason I'm here? To try your material out before you write it?"

"No you help create it."

She'd look up and sigh.

I need that. I need the dialogue. Where else can I get it? I have my writers' group, but you can't take conversations from writers; they call it plagiarism.

And see, that's what works for me. I'm already struggling with a handicap. It's like yesterday's post. I had to do some research; I couldn't spell "Palahniuk" I really can't spell at all. Anybody who knows me, is bobbing their head right now, and it's not to the music. It's true. I can't spell, and as a writer, it's quite the handicap. I'm like a castrated porn star. I struggle daily with my shortcomings, and concentrate on my cuddle time with spell check.

Without rapport, I might as well write grocery lists.

Ok, I am over exaggerating, but it is one of those things that worries me. Who's gonna keep me honest in my writing?

Speaking of which, I've got to go get some sleep, so I can get up and do my walk. I am going to try and send a photo every mile, so watch the blog. Since you can't buy a cell phone without a camera anymore, I might as well use it. This is probably gonna suck for everybody but me. Well maybe even me, but what the hell? The ones where I pass out due to heat exhaustion ought to be pretty amusing.

In the meantime, here's some dark refrigerator poetry from a few months ago. If you rearrange the words, you get a secret message from the author.

Try it!

"Some people just aren't the type for marriage and family…"-Against Me

Failure.

Boo!

There. I've said it, it's out in the open, now deal with it. I do daily. My marriage failed. Did I fail it? Did MyWife?

Yes.

And no.

I blame David Eggers.

Why? He wrote a book, You Shall Know Our Velocity. You may know his other work, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. If not go read that. No need to read Velocity, it's not as good. Sorry David, it's true; I asked my mom, she agrees. Cheer up, I'm not going by MyWife's review, she didn't like Velocity at all. She did like Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club. I'll let you work through the hidden meaning of the titles while I continue with my story.

May I?

Why thank you.

Why blame a book? Because it explains the problem. Eggers creates 3 characters, all friends, one of them is dead. The thing is, that the third friend never existed. He represents the relationship between the 2 childhood friends, now adults, now no longer the friends they were. What they were is now dead.

Beginning to see a pattern here?

Every significant relationship becomes a person unto itself. It does things you might never do as individuals. It flicks straw wrappers in Denny's at three AM, it watches the sun set from a new perspective. It dares to change, and cowers when it happens. You may blame the other person for these things, but it's not. It's the both of you. Take some credit, because you do the same for them. Without that third person, there is no inspiration.

There is no blame.

There is no failure.

I had a friend who was fun and friendly, but in his marriage he became violent and introverted. They divorced. Later, he remarried, but was not the same married person. He and his wife created a new third person, a better third person.

Some relationships are destined for failure. We don't see it, but at the end, there it is.

MyWife and I? We both have some good individual qualities. We even had some great qualities as a couple. At least they looked good on the box. Unfortunately, there are other qualities, Darker qualities, Qualities that became more obvious than your neighbors lawn Santa that's still sitting there in July. (Yeah, go ahead and look. It's still there.) Qualities in me I didn't even know existed. And yeah, I failed.

And if it comes right down to it, I blame her for her failure as well. I blame her for giving up way too easily. I thought she was tougher.

"Get back out there Rock."

But all the blame and failure doesn't change the fact that we both beat our third person to death.

Thanks David.

And know that in any dead relationship, it doesn't matter if you’re the leaver or the leavee (yeah it's a word. Look it up. No, use my dictionary…), both feel failure. There's no exclusivity on guilt. "Should I have tried something different? Should I have tried one more time?" are questions only the three of you can answer, because only 2 of you will live with the results.

So sure, let's lay it out there: We failed. Now what?

We move on. Divorce is a scar; it doesn't have to bleed forever. We learn what we can, and move on. But moving on is more than just stepping out of the rubble. It's accepting the scar as a part of who we are.

"I got this one from my first wife."

"Wow, pretty deep…"

We need to forgive our partners, but we also need to forgive ourselves. I'm trying to become more forgiving over all. I'm going to let "I'm Sorry" carry more weight in my life, because a grudge is too heavy to carry. And I need to forgive myself for my failure. It's done. I'll have plenty more time to screw up other aspects of my life, so why should I carry this forever? And yeah, forgiving others is much easier than forgiving ourselves, yet we fail to do that either.

I had a dream a while back, actually 2. I was dealing with some issues of feeling betrayed by a friend. The first dream, I was at home when somebody broke in and started taking my stuff. I managed to escape, and when I got outside, there was my friend, guarding the house for the thieves.

Yeah, it doesn't take a therapist to see what was going through my mind there. The next one came a few weeks later. In my dream, my friend was a woman. Gender doesn't seem to mean anything in my dreams, and please don't analyze that, thank you very much.

Anyway, I was half awake and saw like three rows of six of her hung and executed. I have no idea, so don't even ask me. In my dream, it made sense. Then as I fell deeper into sleep, I was in a room with a mirrored closet door. I noticed a balding spot on the back of my head. Kind of a yamika bald spot. I remember thinking in my dream. "This won't happen. I won't go bald there, neither of my families have a history of baldness, and especially not there. I'll lose it from the front first if I lose it at all." I'm glad I so logical in my sleep when it comes to hair loss. But put in a fuzzy monster chasing in stilettos, and I'm all like "Ok, that makes sense."

Anyway, after I observe myself, my friend entered the room, they look like the girl from Numbers (Charlie's GF). I asked her how she was, and she said, "Frustrated."

I'm sitting on a bed, "Why are you frustrated."

There's a moment of silence as she sits in front of a chest of drawers rifling through a furniture catalogue, looking at anything but me. I want to say something, but wait the silence out.

Finally she puts the catalogue down in her lap and looks up to me. Her eyes are wet with tears. She's not crying, but it's coming soon. My heart drops as she says "Please forgive me. I've forgiven you." I want to say "Forgiven me for what?" but I don't. I've already forgiven her, so it doesn't matter. I don't say anything, and the dream ends.

It was weird and vivid. But it was all about letting go of the blame, the failure, and the wondering "why?"

The closer people are, the harder it is to let it go. That third person is so real, such a good friend, with millions of memories, but letting them go is what we need to do. It's how we continue, it's how we thrive. It's how we create better third people the next time.