Happy New Year!!! Starting Off with Sarah With the Boobs. And the Eyes. And the Hair..."

There's a girl at my office with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

They are, for lack of better terminology, ginormous.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every guy in the warehouse knows "Sarah with the boobs." 

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So the other day, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local office "Christmas Party" -- where the good times are incessant! -- for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose." 

And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, hon. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former Kora who had a model-quality ass, the kind that snarls traffic and turns men to stone at first glance [how I let that one slip away is still a sore subject]. But she was convinced her impossibly curly natural hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Hours of sweating my balls off in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll probably tell you what they really dig is how I always pick up the tab on dates & outings.

I Still Don't Understand Women

So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her bummed. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.

This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.

And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.

And I tell her again that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- provided, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.

And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Dave Matthews fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.

So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.

And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."

But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.

If there's one thing I HATE, its a bad kisser.

There are certain things I can overlook in a relationship. Psychotic behavior. Rambling stories about the ex-boyfriend. Threatening me with an empty Heineken bottle. Having to be carried out of your best friend's wedding because you drank 15 Jaeger shots and proceeded to vomit on every inch of carpeting in the reception hall. Rambling stories about how the ex-boyfriend liked your blowjobs. Erratic, almost irresponsible driving. Refusing to tip the paperboy because he "seems Mexican." Throwing all my clothes out into the driveway because I was a half-hour late coming home, even though you knew I was tending to my sick aunt.

But one thing I can't overlook is a bad kisser.

And, man, they're out there.

When things fall apart, they really fall apart.

When things fall apart, they really fall apart. I had been sober since December 26th. Got pretty fucking drunk last night.

Things built up and built up and I couldn't handle it anymore. Completely lost my shit, and wanted to die, just like I did at Christmas.

No excuses. I'm a big boy, and I should be able to take care of myself. But I let myself down, I let my friends down, and I let my kids down.

Mental health problems are a real motherfucker. Things that are normally no big deal can feel massive.

And actual problems seem catastrophic. It's an ugly, lonely, terrible feeling, and it can be so fucking hard to escape it.

I have lots and lots of problems. Some very real. Some in my own fucked up brain. I tried this time. So hard. I tried to fight through.

I did what I thought was right for my children, even though it killed me inside.

I went to the one person I was sure I could count on, but they didn't want to deal with me and my problems. And that killed me a little more.

So I fell. Right back to where I was on Christmas Day. Out of control and wishing I was dead.

Trying to find a way to kill myself and make it look like an accident so my kids would get my insurance.

I decided last night that I was gonna do it at work today. Even had a couple drinks before I headed in to stiffen my resolve.

Couldn't do it, tho. I love my boys too much to do that to them. I love my friends too much to do that to them.

Things seem so fucking bad when I'm like that. Like my life is a bottomless well of despair.

Yeah, things are bad at home. Things are tough for everyone.

Yeah, the girl I love doesn't love me back. Welcome to being an adult, Ben.

It's hard. And last night it was just a perfect storm. Everything coming together in a crescendo of misery. And I fell.

But, I'm still here. I owe my friends an apology. A big one.

Especially Kira. She did her very best to talk me down yesterday, and I failed her. I love her dearly, and I hope she'll forgive me.

And lots of other people. Shimmy and James have stuck by me no matter how fucked up I was, and I love them.

All my friends in the Wankers are the most amazing, supportive, non-judgmental people I've ever met. I'm so lucky to have them. Sorry folks.

And I have to thank Erin, because she reached out to me this morning and made me see some sense in the chaos that was my brain.

So I'm gonna start over. December 18th. I'm gonna try really hard to not let you guys down again. The people that care, I mean.

Because I know there are lots of people that care. Bethany cares fiercely and I don't think I'll ever be able to let her know what she means.

Please try to be kind to each other. There's enough ugliness out there. Pick each other up instead of pushing each other down.

Sorry for interrupting your day, everyone.

EXIT WOUND

you are an exit wound

the extra shot of tequila

the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out

you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre

pebble wedged in the sole of a boot

the bloody hangnail

you are, just this once

you are flip flops in a thunderstorm

the boy’s lost erection

a pen gone dry

you are my father’s nightmare

my mother’s mirage

you are a manic high
which is to say:
you are a bad idea

you are herpes despite the condom

you are, I know better

you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass

you are the morning after
whose name I can’t remember
still in my bed

the hole in my rain boots

vibrator with no batteries

you are, shut up and kiss me

you are naked wearing socks

mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks

you are the wrong girl buying me a drink

you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel

sweetalk into unprotected sex

the married coworker

my stubbed toe

you are not new or uncommon
not brilliant or beautiful

you are a bad idea

rock star in the back seat of a taxi
burned popcorn
top shelf, at half price

you are everything I want

you are a poem I cannot write

a word I cannot translate

you are an exit wound

a name I cannot bring myself

to say aloud

this is still a love poem.

you say, here is a casual reminder that i adore you

and i say, be not-casual about it, adore me un-casually,
pretend it’s really as big as it feels

sometimes i sound too much like a poet.

if there is going to be a sweaty body panting over top of mine,
i want it to be yours. cup my breast and call me sugar,
think about remembering to buy coffee when you’re inside of me.
this is a love poem.

we forget to put out the garbage on the right nights
and the milk goes sour in the fridge
because i’m trying that vegan thing again
and you’re never home to drink it. i buy it anyway.
this is a love poem.

i know it’s never really as big as it feels.
someone looking in from the outside will always see something
unremarkable. i’m okay with that. watch me
misplace my metaphors.

watch me put down my pen long enough to
slide into bed with you and press my cold feet up against
your warm legs.

If I Were a Dog

I would trot down this road sniffing

on one side and then the other
peeing a little here and there
wherever I felt the urge
having a good time what the hell
saving some because it’s a long road

but since I’m not a dog
I walk straight down the road
trying to get home before dark

if I were a dog and I had a master
who beat me I would run away
and go hungry and sniff around
until I found a master who loved me
I could tell by his smell and I
would lick his face so he knew

or maybe it would be a woman
I would protect her we could go
everywhere together even down this
dark road and I wouldn’t run from side
to side sniffing I would always
be protecting her and I would stop
to pee only once in awhile

sometimes in the afternoon we could
go to the park and she would throw
a stick I would bring it back to her

each time I put the stick at her feet
I would say this is my heart
and she would say I will make it fly
but you must bring it back to me
I would always bring it back to her
and to no other if I were a dog