The Gonzo Journals
May 17th, 2023
The date was May 17th, 2019, and I was incredibly nervous. She was the best part of everyone I’d ever dated or been married to without all the cheating or strange snail trail discoveries on my mattress. I feel sorry for memory foam sometimes. It’s one thing to inadvertently be part of a threesome, but for an inanimate object to be forced to remember such acts? Human technology has crossed a line. As Ian Malcom said, “we were so preoccupied with whether or not we could, we didn’t stop to think if we should!
We’d only been dating for six weeks but, upon the agreement to do so, we made it perfectly clear to each other that we were both looking for the next forever. I was in my mid-forties, and she was in her late twenties. A few kisses later and math flew out the window. We’d been in love with each other for a bit but neither of us knew it. Was it truly lunch dates or was it two people who worked together eating lunch at random restaurants and didn’t invite the others? Why does everything need a title and a game plan?
The first obstacle was our office. She was technically my boss, after all, and we worked ten feet away from each other. After a few weeks of random glances over our shoulders and sneaking little make out sessions here and there, we decided it was time to tell our coworkers. Some of them were a little freaked out. They’re lucky I didn’t go into relationship details. Remember that scene in Stand By Me when Lard Ass makes all the people in the grandstands throw up during the pie eating contest? Yeah, that’s how I imagined it. If they did, at least they held off until they got home.
Next? I reached out to the ex-husband for a meet and greet. I was going to be spending a lot of time with his young son, after all, and I thought it only fair to initiate a meeting out of pure respect. As expected, no respect was offered in return. He accused her of being pregnant and flung halfhearted insults my way for the better part of an hour. At some point, I think I growled at him, and he curled up into the fetal position, making little sucking motions with his lips searching for his lost trust fund tit. I’ll admit, it must suck to think you have everything in life, only to realize your imaginary American dream ended at the hands of a crusty old fat fucker who doubles as a washed-up novelist. I’d be mad too, but I wouldn’t be scared. I would’ve hit me, and that’s what separates the boys from the men in my world. Welcome to it. I also know he trolls me from time to time, so I hope he enjoys this little contribution to my literary legacy. If you don’t like the truth, then change it.
Then, there were my children, who I thought would just be all “meh” about it because it was their drunken, eccentric father being himself and doing what he’d been doing for the past few years. The only difference was that my bride to be was only a few years older than my oldest daughter. What a mind job that had to be. Now, after four years, I totally get it, but I’d never take it back. Happiness is rare, and I needed some of that happiness in a way that no one else will truly understand.
I was on the verge of suicide before I began dating Sam. I was slamming energy drinks to wake up, working all day, and drinking a twelve pack of beer every night to go to sleep. On the weekends, it wasn’t a rare occurrence for me to go through sixty or so beers from sundown Friday to sunup Monday. I won’t even comment on the whiskey and weed. Depression was kicking my ass, I was experiencing terrifying bouts of sleep paralysis, and my bed should’ve boasted a “now serving” sign. I was nothing more than a shell looking to get on with the finale. I’d planned on moving to New York City when my son graduated high school in 2019, score a writing gig to support myself, and drink myself to death in a tiny one room apartment in Queens where I’d be just another dead body who succumbed to the pressures of modern-day big city life. No one would know who I was, and that’s how I wanted it to end. Then, there was Sam.
I loved to sing, and I normally spent every Friday night at a bar taking turns with karaoke fanatics offering semi-decent renditions of 80’s hair metal songs. Sometimes, others wouldn’t sing, and the night would turn into a C. Derick Miller concert. Those were fun! Four years ago on this date, I paused in the middle of I’ve Just Seen A Face by The Beatles and asked her to be my wife. The rest is always unfolding history.
Now, my ex-wife immediately claimed this was “our” song. It was the first karaoke song I ever sang in front of a crowd, and she just happened to be there. I only did so because it was an easy song to sing, I’d recently heard it for the first time while watching the film Across The Universe, and we were only at the bar to watch one of her side fucks sing to begin with. I mean, I had to show the bastard up, didn’t I? It’s kinda my thing lol. How much of a narcissist do you have to be to think every song you ever listened to during an eleven-year relationship is “your” song? I know, I know. I should’ve sung the Juggalo Chant. What was I thinking? Dolt.
So here we are, four years later. We survived everyone’s shock and awe regarding our age difference, insulting and vengeful previous spouses, older children who didn’t “get it” at first, pandemics, shitty “friends” who wouldn’t know politeness and tolerance if it came up and licked them on their butthole, workplace crime and espionage, a 48 year past due Autism diagnosis, and laughable power trip cliques in the independent literary field. When were those fuckers going to learn that we are both too stubborn to give up on each other? Happy engagement anniversary to my Sam! I’ll never understand what you see in me, but I guess I’m not supposed to.
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