How To Win At Solitaire

So 2007 is the year that I forget about the pursuit of Him. That was my New Year's resolution. And for the most part, that's been going pretty well.

I haven't been perfect in my adherence to this. Bruiser, the smokin' hot heavily tattooed man, sure got me off course, but it seemed that there was something going in both directions. Alas, that turned out not to be the case. But after that excitement subsided, I've found myself settling into a peaceful easy feeling with being single.

That doesn't quite express it. There's something more. Something deeper.

The Baron and I have always had this Bone of Contention. Often, when we're talking, and I start in on the "I met a guy..." riff, the Baron breathes a deep sigh. Sometimes he'll bite his tongue, but regardless, I know what's going through his mind. When he expresses it, it goes something like this: "Again and again and again you distract yourself with romance."

I respond hotly. Defensively. Always.

And my arguments are sound!

Like, what the hell would be so wrong if it worked out and I found somebody to share my life with? Or have a good summer with?

Like, distract myself? From my isolated life stuck here away from all my friends caring for my ungrateful father? Forgive me if I opt for distracting myself from that!

Like, you're just bitter because you haven't had so much success in the romance department.

But though it pains me to admit this, the Baron might--just might--have a point.

I play softball. I go to church. I look for a job. I'm trying to work out a way to go to school for a certificate in Construction Management. Today, I managed to fix my father's tractor and mowed the lawn (the grass was up to my knees), I weeded my perrenial bed and covered it with peat moss (it looks so good! although a little sparse). I enjoy sitting on the porch of Starbucks in Doylestown smoking cigars and reading the Times. This weekend, I'm heading up to a gay campground in upstate Pennsylvania (not that gay campground, the other one) to meet up with Man of Discipline and I'm gonna take him out to a nice, deserted place in the forest, string him arms akimbo between two trees, and whip him till he bleeds. And they have a hot tub up at the gay campground, and I love hot tubs.

Something is different. Something, something, something...

I feel it most when I go to bed at night.

There are three pillows on my bed. Two go under my head, and one lies next to me, and I wrap my arms around it. When I'm all hung up on some guy, the pillow gets the guy's name.

"'Night, Bruiser," I say, pulling the pillow closer. (Or hot tub guy, or Mr. Big Shot Hollywood Producer, or whoever.)

And I'll follow it up with some nice pillow talk, appropriate to whoever the pillow is that night. Something like, "Hey. You're a very hot boy. You're the hottest I've seen. Who owns you, boy?" To which the pillow replies, "You do, Sir!" "Yeah? You like that boy?" "I like that a lot, Sir."

That kind of thing.

But lately, my pillow is my pillow. I'm there, in my own bed, in my room, content to be alone. Appreciating the cool night air coming in through the window. I think back through the accomplishments of the day behind me and think about stuff I have to do tomorrow.

And it's all good.

Not saying I'm opposed to meeting a guy. To starting something even. But he'd have to work pretty hard.

Y'see, I have a rich, full life. A life that I love. And since I have things just the way I like them, like the perrenials in my bed in the front yard.