A Memo Concerning: Animal Love, V Day, Face Lifts, and Douching.

On any given night I just might bite a pillow. It is a sad fact that I still have nightmares about particularly cruel games of Musical Chairs. I bite hardest when the music has stopped and the whole world freezes, the faces of my peers caught in all stages of fear and apprehension. Eyes shift to the insufficient collection of chairs, the outstretched hands hoping to seize one of them. We are blind to what we are about to do to each other, too caught in the fear of being the last douche bag standing. Alone, without a chair. On Sunday night, moving well into Monday morning, during a rather emotional exchange I was accused of being "an emotional coward" (an “emotional coward” during an emotional conversation, paradox anyone?) and too "scared to listen to (my) feelings." And so we have A Memo Concerning: Animal Love, V Day, Face Lifts, and Douching.

It all begins during News Years Eve, usually after that third bottle of champagne when your totally rocking outfit has already begun to disintegrate into a disheveled walk of shame-esque jumpsuit. By this point Prince's "1999" has been played twice and you have begun experimenting with brand new, never before attempted dance moves that will surely leave muscles you never knew you even had a little sore the next morning. It becomes magnified as individuals begin to pair off randomly much like red rocketed dogs start humping at the park. What is this "it" I speak of? "It" is the realization that in fifteen minutes they will wheel out Dick Clark in typical "Weekend at Bernies" fashion and the clock will strike 12. This means that you have fourteen and a half minutes to catch the eye of a stranger, usually someone three notches lower on your standards scale, and box tonsils or else risk being that awkward douche bag who is just screaming while everyone else is sharing germs. The worst part of "it" though isn't those fourteen minutes, rather that after those minutes pass they are stretched out over an entire month before Valentines Day. The music plays and the music plays and we round the chairs and the behavior of full grown adults gets more and more bizarre, and then I get phone calls in the middle of the night.

For many years, and sometimes even now, I would spoon my dog at night, so dedicated to the animal that I would spray my bed with flea repellant. I come from a large family of dog lovers so this was not considered strange. There is an exception in one of my most passionate and loving brothers. I think it began several years ago when a puppy under his care died after it exercised some less than stellar judgment. From that moment forward I wonder if he has felt that dogs are not trustworthy enough to risk giving his affection to. Maybe he is cautious with his heart and afraid of going through the pain a dumbass animal could bring to him. Even as someone who dedicates a daily portion of his day to rampant adoration of My Crown Prince Champion of the World (my mother’s standard poodle) I understand where my brother is coming from. I will never forget the look on Siegfriend and Roy’s faces during their first public interviews after the tiger attack. Not because of their botox paralysis and intense nips and tucks that made it look like I was watching clay-mation, but rather how torn (pun intended?) they were over the fact that something they had spent their lives advocating and loving had suddenly turned on them. They were heartbroken. But what did they expect with a tiger right? What fucking douche bags.

For me, the most tragic part of heartbreak is not what we do to each other, but rather what we do to ourselves. We are probably the least qualified stewards of our own hearts. We betray ourselves-- refusing to see the ones we think we love for who they really are. Or, even worse, we try and convince ourselves that the person we love is someone that we really want, ignoring our own needs. Then we are somehow surprised when tigers bite. The fear of “it” drives us to this, drives us to kick our own asses, and then we get angry at ourselves for letting “it” all happen again. Jimi Hendrix sang that there was nothing more “Bold As Love.” These days I feel that there is nothing more courageous than saying no to feelings you know will hurt you. There is great courage in saying goodbye to someone, into moving on. Realizing that what may be best is being without someone is very bold. The fear of “it” is cowardly. Perhaps in some ways this makes me a coward; maybe I am afraid of my own feelings. I might just be the douchiest of bags.

In a couple of minutes the sun is going to come up. Blades of grass will turn to it, petals will open, and everything may change. I’m sorry if this isn’t the most entertaining memo you have read. I’m sleep deprived. Maybe today I will realize that everything I just wrote is complete bullshit. But I know one thing ladies and gentlemen, there are no chairs set out before us, the music will not stop playing, it keeps on going. There is nothing as bold as love, and there is nothing more bold as saying this is someone I cannot let myself love.