God, fucking, damn. I wrestled myself whether to post or not post the final chapter of the fuckhead waste of my time. I might some day, maybe in a side by side with the shit where he was trying hard to charm me and the more pathetic shit where he tried really, really, really hard to put me in my damn place whilst trying to hide his agitation to maintain an illusory upper hand and coolness.

Nothing like the psychotic, emotional ping pong, quotes flipping from ‘you’re cool’ to ‘you’re a cunt’ in succession. My so-called friend who was goading me into replying, which I admit had a certain giddy fun to it, has a calculus for success. Basically, the game is to keep your rhetoric pretty level, use the same manipulation techniques, you know like a soupcon of passive aggression, and watch the psycho’s responses rise in length and stake-raising.

My major defect in the whole thing is I get all OCD and can’t deal over inaccuracies. I can fight anyone on the shit that’s true about me, my politics, my choices, my ideas, blah fucking blah. All damn day, I’m willing to listen. But, say shit that just doesn’t make sense or ring true, I want to fact check like a mental case. Top would be his interpretation as to my desire to jump onto his project. Hehehe.

If perchance one of his champions comes by and thinks “She fucking misses the point, his rants are a riot.” Fucking, please, he mined the desperate, lonely and female cliche so deep its just irritating now. We get it, chicks who talk back need to get laid, if only someone was willing to do the deed. Last I saw, his craggy, alcoholic face, he better get as much ass as it can this year, because he’s less than a minute from “That old guy is scary.”

Also, bitterness is not defined by my not enjoying abuse.

ENOUGH, ENOUGH, ENOUGH. The past is dead even if it does email me and then call me names.

I ride into work in a fucking convertible in weather that makes that pleasant. I come home to a guy who lets me rant pointlessly about this shit and understands my frustration. In the middle, I work with some incredibly interesting people, who all seem to go well the fuck out of their way to not treat each other like assholes. Even the lawyers and the French chick at work bend over backwards to not come off arrogant, and its genuine.

Once again, and better yet, it’s lemon season. (I don’t actually fucking know if lemons have a season.) But last year around now, a co-worker of M.’s gave us bag after bag of fresh lemons from his tree. Since he’s not working with that guy any more, I felt desolate and non-citrus-y. Today, joy was restored. Lemon fresh JOY. Someone I work with gave me a bagful.

(On a side note, an onlooker in our cubicle farm, originally from somewhere East of the Missippi, mocked me. She said that she too embraced all bags of lemon when first she moved out here, but the love fades. We shall see.)

Here’s where I am a year after walking away from the Boston past — I’ve moved up in doing better shows with audiences and proper hosts and all and gotten paid a bit; People email me to perform when they have a spot, instead of my always having to ask; I’ve submitted a couple of things to competitions and contests; M. and I put together a show, I hosted and some charities got some dough; I got sunshine on a cloudy day; M. and I havve evolved from a long-distance relationship to a close-up thing; I got a job; my job is sending me to a conference about ‘blogs, v’logs, media and broadcast and last convo I had with my boss, she mentioned the need to free up more of my time to work on media shit; and a week ago, I bought the best, most slamming, fucking awesome shoes ever, and I’ll continue to wear them to work, even though it’s sandal time.

I dunno, maybe my upcoming trip to the old town is making me antsy about how far both M. and I have come. It kind of reminds me of when one of my best friends moved back East after going to grad school in San Diego. He wasn’t a happy camper that year, and all of his edges showed.

But, I got lemons man, and I opted for life to hand them to me. Fresh.