This day could someday be an anniversary

The hills are burning. It might be an omen, for the right or wrong decision. I don't really know. The thing is, about this, about all of this, was that when it first started to fall apart, last October, I thought my heart was broken then. I thought I had healed it, that things were getting better. But now that I look back on the last ten months I know that wasn't true. It broke big that day, in the bathroom, but it didn't heal. I just sort of added stuff into the crack, and it fell out. It broke a little more everyday. I did it to myself, which is the part that I don't like to admit. I thought I would be able to fix it, I couldn't. I thought I could look past it, I wouldn't. I thought I could forget it, I can't. To borrow from a friend of mine, to take something from him about something much more important and tragic than this, and try to attach it to something less, "in like a lion, out like a lamb gone astray". I was excited to plan a wedding, I was excited to wear a suit, I was excited to dance to my favorite songs, with my mom and dad and all my friends. I was excited for beer koozies and burritos, bachelor parties, cans on the back of a car, a honeymoon, all of it. And I miss it all right now. A lot.

I know it is right, that I am not getting married today. It isn't her fault. It isn't my fault. It is how the cards were dealt and how they were played. It would have been an epic party, the hills burning, it snowing ash on the bride and groom. It sounds too good to be true. And it is.

I've been running this in my head for months. It isn't a final draft, but I need to get them out of my head, for me.

I remember the first time I saw your smile. I remember the first time I heard your whit. I remember the first time we sat on the couch and shared all those surface level things that make us more of who we are then we care to admit. I remember the first time we got drunk together. I remember the first time we fought. I remember the first time we made up. I remember saying goodbye to you at the airport, and it being one of the saddest days of my life. I remember opening the door to you the day I got back, and how happy I was. I remember waking up in my tent, in my old room, with you, and it feeling perfect. I remember asking you to marry me on the beach that night, and puking afterward. I remember all the downs, and all the ups, all the hot days and the cold ones. I never wanted to spend them with anyone else, and I am glad that starting today, I never have to spend them with anyone else. I love you.

I wanted this to be the song we danced to. I'm sorry no one will ever see it.

About that picture

We went walking from her parents house down to the beach. We drank some beer and some brandy. We accidentally interrupted another couple enjoying the moonlit night. We stood a few hundred feet from the spot on the beach where the picture on the top of this blog was taken.

I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a ring. I didn't have an idea what the reaction would be. But I did it anyway. I got on both knees and asked her to marry me. If one is good, then two should be better, yeah? And she said yes. It was 1:16 in the morning. And only us, the moon, and the oceans knew.

I woke up in the morning, and we were both curious if we were still going to do it. We were. And we are. Phone calls were made to parents and the closest friends. Text messages and emails about the news were sent out. And now you know too.

If you read this, you are invited. We seem to be aiming for May of next year. When the official date comes, you will know. And you will get to see Whit marry people, in person!

So I'm going to start planning a wedding, you should start planning your next visit to California.

April 19th at 1:16am

About Last Night...

Dear smile I see almost every morning I wake up,

I was laying in your bed last night, on top of your blankets and sheets. You were sitting next to me and we were sharing a burrito. I picked up your phone to take a picture, that technology has yet to make its way into my pocket. The picture I took of us was blurry, poorly lit, and the composition seemed off. I thought it was just the camera, so I asked to look at your other pictures. And it wasn't the camera, it was me.

There was the Statue of Liberty, and Times Square. There was me in the kitchen. There was that picture you sent me when I sat alone in that bar one night. And that was all that was familiar. There were a couple of a guy I have never seen before or met. But I think I know his name, and who he is, but I didn't want to ask, and you didn't offer any information, not like you did with the other pictures.

Now I know, personally, what you were talking about when we saw their pictures of San Francisco and the pictures of their visit to the mid-west accidentally showed up. When all you can think about is spending time with someone, missing them, wanted them to be around, and you see them enjoying their life without you, well, that is a feeling I don't care to revisit.

But you can't go back, you can't take away those smiles, those laughs, those tears or those kisses. And there is no reason to get rid of those mementos. If you do, you might forget why you don't visit those place anymore, it happened to me.

Then there were pictures of your friends. And of car rides. And babies. And pets. And you and your ex, the one I know. And that was a year ago. Or more. And you looked so happy.

I was hurt. Not for all of these pictures, but for the ones that weren't there. Of us. I thought that you didn't want pictures of us together in your phone, mingling with your past lives. And I thought that you might not take as many pictures as you used to. But I didn't say anything.

We shared a couch later, and some drinks. I remembered the flowers from mere hours before. Your surprise, and your smile.

And I wasn't hurt anymore. Who cares what pictures of who are where? Who cares if your interest in cellular photography has passed you by? At the end of the day, we share a bed, and in the morning, you wake up in my arms, smiling. And all of those hours between mean just as much, if not more. So I'm sorry for the brief cold sentences yesterday. Patterns are easy to repeat, ruts are hard to get out of, but I'm trying.

I hope you find this.

Sincerely,
Me.

monday morning, 1:46 am

I'm listening to old mixes, looking at old photos. thinking old thoughts, waiting for phone calls that I didn't even know I was waiting for. I may sound sad, but I am really happy. I'm just putting x's on calendars for the next 5 days. It feels right to say it, life is good.

I hear that sometimes you fall into old habits, I am just one old habit after another

I spent approximately two hours fighting for something I should not fight for at all.

Two weeks ago this saturday I met a girl. I'm not being vague. She is a girl.

We have spent some evenings together. We have spent some mornings together. We have spent some afternoons.

I like her. I enjoy her company, I enjoy her personality, I enjoy the time we spend together.

We have had two fights. Actually, I was found out about spending time with another girl while things were still being figured out between the two of us, and tonight we fought.

I fought. She said the same thing over and over again.

Honestly, we hung out and I wasn't sure if we were ever going to see eachother again, so I hung out with another girl. Once we hung out again and I thought we would hang out more I stopped hanging out with the other girl.

Apparently people who barely know me are telling this girl to look out. Granted, I have done shit things in the past, and I will do them again. But I don't know what is being said about me, and I don't know who is saying it.

The point of this is I fought for 2 hours. For a relationship that doesn't even exist. It's a "hey, I like you enough to not try to fuck other girls right now" sort of thing. Is that a relationship? Maybe, probably not though. Is it worth going through you most recent relationship/love/sex information and hitting levels of honesty not expected from a man at most times? I doubt it.

I argued like my life depended on it. (That's a Booth trait, if your keeping track.) I argued like a marriage was ending. I argued like I haven't in a long time. I argued like I cared. And I did. But if your going to believe things said about me said by acquaintances and not give me the opportunity to say those things are true or false by not telling me what is said, well, I'm just going to put another Booth trait into action and drink Jack Daniels. That will solve as much as me making my point 15 times and you not getting it.

I fucking said it, I fucking mean it, I fucking meant it. (that's for you gabe)

I am going to bed. I am pissed.

Tomorrow is friday. It can only get better, unless it gets worse. I won't stand in front of any buses.

I hate you for making me fight so hard. I hope you see it.