Don't feel bad, Siggie. I was walking down the street with Matt, bawling like a bitch at the time. How badass is that? Not very.

It was the story of my life: While everyone else stood up I sat down. When Nathan Thomas approached us - for a nice, friendly chat, he mistakenly assumed - I was standing. And once the shit hit the fan, I sat. I distinctly remember saying "I think I'll sit this one out" to Jamie's mother as I joined her on the couch the instant things went from bad to ugly. I hope that she didn't hate me for barely standing up for her daughter. I hope she wasn't disappointed that I only minimally condoned the asshole who knows damn well that he holds all the power in the Jamie-Nathan situation, who knows what he's doing to Jamie, who knows that he's been stringing Jamie along with absolutely no intent for years.

I've been analyzing the moment I took a seat ever since it happened. Of course, it's partly because I hate confrontation. I'm hopelessly idealistic in that I just want everyone to get along - or at least to pretend to. (I'm not idealistic enough to expect life to actually work out that way.) It's also partly because I hate watching people get hurt, and certainly don't want to be the one causing it. I know that Nathan Thomas is an asshole and deserved every insult and bit of unpleasant truth he received, but that doesn't mean that I enjoyed watching him almost cry. Ever since John Henry ripped my heart out, I've had an enormous problem with watching other people experience discomfort. I sat because I don't want to be remembered as a bitch, and because I'm much better at observing and dissecting life than I am at actually living it.

The largest factor in my decision to sit, though, is the most complex. (It's also the one I'm least sure of.) I think I also sat because I realized that what was unfolding - that is, ganging up on Nathan in such a violent, fierce, colossal way - was the equivelant of removing the last bit of rubble from the site of a horrific collapse. I didn't want to haul away the last of the memories; I didn't want to sever the last link to what we used to have. ("We" being Jamie, Nathan, John Henry and I.)

Jamie used to have a photograph tucked into the frame of a mirror that was in her bedroom. Her father had taken a random snapshot of life as we lived it. The four of us were sitting on the couch in her old house, and John Henry had an acoustic guitar. We all looked terrible in that photo because we weren't expecting to be immortalized in that instant - we were just four teenagers, alive and happy. Eyes are half closed, mouths are half open, faces are partially turned from the camera. Even so, it was perfect. In the few minutes it took to jump Nathan, that photograph - already metaphorically torn down the middle - was shredded and tossed into the landfill.

That's really why I sat, I think. I feel guilty for it now because I've been practicing my Fuck-You-Nathan-Thomas speech for years...every time he hurt Jamie, in fact.

That's a whole lot of practicing.

 

Nathan and the catalyst for the outpouring of wrath:

"Don't go away, say what you say
But say that you'll stay forever and a day
In the time of my life 'cause I need more time
Yes I need more time"
~Oasis

Good for you, J.Mo. Wait...is this Nathan we're talking about, or some other pansy-ass-motherfucker-piece-of-shit? (Not that it matters; they're all the same, really.)

PS: I updated my webpage.

You know...I am ASTOUNDED by the disgusting manner in which men think they can treat women...They really want to hurt us into such pain and misery that we have absolute self-loathing and become submissive, mealy-mouthed little pussy bitches. Because they don't want the risk of coming second or being shown up or looking like they're an equal to a woman...they don't really want a spunky, personality-girl. So I guess I don't want them, either.

I thought I wanted John Henry to call me for my birthday...I thought I wanted him to give me some little sign that he knows I'm still alive. (I assumed that he wouldn't.) Surprisingly, when that John Henry kid did in fact call, I wasn't happy about it. I came home from work to find that he'd left a message on my machine ("Hi, this is John, just calling because it's the 4th of July,which means it's Sig's birthday, blah blah"). The kid always acted like my birthday was the biggest burden in the world. He always made a fuss about having to come home for the fourth...and one year he didn't even bother to come home, nor did he call or send me a birthday card or even email me on my birthday. And now that he's no longer obligated to care or even remember, he called. What a fucker. I know he was trying to be nice, but...it didn't work. It pissed me off. And, yes...it made me terribly sad. That's one of his best skills: accidentially upsetting me.

* * *

I sat on the porch step alone tonight...I'm always alone, it seems. Andy had joined me for a few minutes, but because the dog wouldn't shut up he went inside to placate it. The dog stopped barking, and Andy never came back. Oh well. I've grown accustomed to being walked away from and forgotten.

The outdoors was hot, moist and stagnant. A smoky haze from the city's hour-long fireworks display (and all the fireworks my neighbors lit) hung in the air, along with the acrid, charred Fourth of July smell. It didn't seem real...but it was. I've found that even when things don't seem real, can't be real...they are. Sometimes that's a hard thing to swallow.

It was just me, a candle, a wine cooler, and my sparklers. I burned a few - I watched the golden sparks fly onto the pavement, fizzle and die. My sparklers were of the particularly cheap variety, so they didn't last for more than a few seconds. As quickly as they were ignited, they were dead...they sputtered, momentarily glowed orange, and gave off a thin wisp of smoke. They cried in protest as I extingushed them in the bowl of dirty water sitting on the steps. They faded into oblivion, discarded and forgotten. They're rotting in the trash can right now, along with some uneaten rice and a soggy dog biscuit.

While the people in my neighborhood lit fireworks - I could hear them crackling and popping, and occasionally caught a glimpse of that hopeful, exciting fireworks light - I abandoned my sparklers. They just weren't fun to play with alone. Besides - I wanted to light a fire that would last; I wanted to light a fire that I could extinguish at my own discretion. I peeled the label from my wine cooler. It was soggy, but caught fire when I dangled it in the candle flame I was using as a lighter. It quickly sputtered, leaving a trail of smoke curling up to the sky.

So I tried to light a sparkler box, first shaking it to make sure it wasn't one of the full boxes. It, too caught fire. And, mirroring my first attempt to create a blaze, it died. I tried again, this time lighting the other end...but to no avail. The fire burned out, and smoke exited the box at both ends. Attempt number three was a total failture. The box's burned edges glowed red but refused to ignite. As it turns out, the boxes are better quality than the product itslef. In any case, the cliché is a lie: The third time is not a charm. When the fire has burned out at both ends there's nothing left.

Nothing.

* * *

The particularly disgusting thing is that I know I'll call him back.