Terrorbird, mon amour

(Listening to: Zero 7 -- The Garden. Might change in a minute. Need more minor notes to write this blog.)

So instead of going to my neighbor's show tonight, the show I'd been planning to go to since last week, I'm here, sitting in my pajamas, on my bed. The wet spot on my right pant leg from where I leaned too close to the sink is really pissing me off. I don't want to change my pants. But I don't want to sleep in wet pants either. Everything seems just a little too hard these days.

Why am I here? Well, I need distance, for one. My heart is pulverized, smooshed and twisted out like a wet washcloth that you need to be wet, but not sopping. Perhaps saying "my heart" is an overestimation of just how much the neighbor has gotten to me. It's a mind game after all, one that he set up and I played right into. I'll be the first to say though, that I am probably more to blame for the situation. I mean, besides being completely hot, a musician, a gourmet cook/baker, a lover of kittens and a motorcycle repairman, he really doesn't do much for me. He's not at all interested in what I do, what I want to do, or how I live my life. He has a perception I suppose, and he's happy with that. I think it's lovely that he loves his life so much.

(oooooh. switch to Death Cab. This is getting awful.)

But the last time I checked, having a relationship with someone meant caring about their life too. Asking questions, or at least pretending to be interested in the answers. Understanding what they value, and respecting that. Maybe that's too much to ask of a 26 year-old man in a band. I'm not sure what it is about guys in bands. They get spoiled somehow. Perhaps they know on some level that being in a band instantly makes them hotter, and affords them the luxury of not trying as hard as the rest of us. They can afford to adopt a nonchalant approach to human relationships. People COME TO SEE THEM. They don't have to go see people. People, people they don't even know, clammor for their art, for their picture, for three minutes of their face on video. It's no wonder many of them (not ALL of them, of course), develop a complex.

So I didn't want to go tonight for several reasons:

1. I wanted to get more than 5 hours of sleep. I need sleep to do good work, and I need to do good work.
2. I didn't want to go to see the neighbor. I wanted to make sure I was going to go because I wanted to hear music.
3. I didn't want to see the girls adoring the neighbor. Jealousy is one of my worst secret animals.

I'd like to make a resolution now, to dismiss the neighbor, to be proactive about finding a new person. But I don't want to lie anymore about that. It still sticks me, right in the middle of my chest. It looks at me in the mirror, and tells me I don't have the right skin, the right face, the right look. It tells me my life is boring, and that my interests are unimpressive. It tells me that I shouldn't have said something, or I shouldn't have offered him something. It's my terrorbird, and it holds me hostage daily.

I might have to declare war.