My Favorite Sandwich OR Giving Up Girls Who Cut Themselves

I don’t think I have writer’s block, but since LJ is kind enough to provide these daily topics, I thought I’d do this one.

I don’t have a specific favorite sandwich, but in general I’m a fan of sandwiches of the turkey-based varietem. This topic is lame.

The End.


I suppose I could talk about the emotional sandwich in which I find myself as of late, mashed turkey-like between the proverbial white bread of not fully satisfying decisions, enslathered with the mustard of moral ambiguity. No sir, you can’t get shit like this at Quizno’s, coupon or no coupon. Unless you work there and are involved in some kind of all-Salvadorian, all-Quizno’s love triangle.

I suppose it’d be ungentlemanly to go into too much detail, but suffice it to say dating an emotionally fragile woman of a (vastly) different culture and, let’s face it, different generation, ain’t always cookies and sugar plums, for God’s sake. As an adult, I’ve become as optimistic a person as the cumulative elements of my being will allow, but occasionally, by which I mean frequently, I wonder about that fine line between practical optimism and just ignoring all the signs. I’ve always had the suspicion that I could get along with any girl who’s halfway decent. How hard is it to get along? But then the challenge of narrowing down “the one” becomes nearly impossible, since, how do you know when good is good enough? No relationship is perfect. There’s a classic Del Amitri lyric I like:

I suppose because there’s beautiful girls in this town, I’ll stay here til I’ve chosen one.
And I suppose love’s like a hunt, really, the hounds have fun until the fox gets bagged.
And not one girl in this town will ever fall in love with me; they’ll get dragged.

And then:

I suppose that it [love] grows like a tumor, spreads like a rumor,
Like the grass, grows an inch in every day
And I suppose that before I even know it,
The tide will start flowing and the drum beneath my jacket will say:
“You know you need her everyday.”
She is the moon and she showed me her face.
She is the house and she opened the gates.

Sometimes I get to feeling just like the cynical-yet-assertive Justin Currie of 1985, my Hammering Heart pushing me ever forward from one futile romance to the next, fully aware of my mistakes, but loving them more than any woman. We relish the conquest for love, the “hunt” for that ultimate goal, that happy ending, but at the end of the day, our hearts start hammering, the tide starts flowing, and our inner clocks start buzzing that it’s time to bag the fox, perfect or not. Then it’s up to us to make the most of it. Currie never makes that point, though he was unquestionably aware, even as a young man, that love often calls for a certain amount of denial. The closest thing to a love song on the band’s debut album is entitled “Deceive Yourself (In Ignorant Heaven)”.

So I’m living on my own now, but still tethered to a half-hearted romance. Meanwhile, I’ve met someone in town. She is the dark water we are warned not to drink. I’ve weaned myself into adulthood on this dark water. She’s got scars on her arms. Dozens of them, from years of habitual wrist-cutting. She’s on anti-depressive meds and has attempted suicide more times than the combined number of girlfriends I’ve had in the past who have attempted suicide, and that’s a lot. This is the sign of a worsening pattern. I say with no false modesty nor–believe me–intended boastfulness that I think she’s falling for me. I’ve been the right guy in the wrong place at the right time enough to know the signs. And although I’ve enjoyed her company so far, any woman who makes my current girlfriend look like a normal person can only serve to frustrate me in the grand scheme. Or maybe I’m just sick of the pattern, finally. Burned out. Because I know how it’ll go. She’ll reel me in and reel me in, then just when I’ve gone too far, sacrificed my security and my pride, she’ll get bored, or “cured”, and run off. These suicidal girls. They love their false alarms.

I’ll be honest, man. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Living alone is great. But I can’t stand to be alone. I’ve got a good woman who demands nothing. Maybe all it takes to make things work out is for me to convince myself that they already are.

“Hammering Heart”:

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