How much and what did I give? After a break-up people start having realizations about what they took from or got out of a relationship. Did I give too little? Too much? And, more importantly, why is this keeping me up at night? Either way, thinking starts and moments are relived. It's a weird struggle for balance. It's over, it's time to move on and figure out how far back to go and where to start rebuilding. Music sets my mind in motion and conjures up the ghosts of relationships past. One song will have me remembering a time when a girl said one thing, or maybe I said something, and another song will remind me about the night she decided to give me her checklist of ways I could improve myself. All and all, good and bad, I have to put those songs in the back of my mind and get them off my iPod as soon as possible. Deleting the songs from the iPod is the easy part. If we could delete everything from the relationship just as easy then the moving on part would be a lot simpler. I don't think Apple has made an application for this kind of thing (yet) so all there is to do is pick up the pieces and decide which records and cds are going to be traded in next weekend at Reckless. Unfortunately, I can't bring myself to part with a lot of music so the albums just wind up being put at the end of the shelf. The only I can hope is that enough time has passed before the day comes when I wake up, reach for something to listen to and bam! There it is! Staring right at me is the relationship in a plastic case with catchy artwork and even catchier hooks. It always catches me off guard. The trick is figuring out how the song makes me feel now. I heard a guy at a bar once say "time wounds all heals." I can't say I agree with that, the order is all out of whack. I can agree with the author of this story who contracted a love for Madonna and a lifelong obsession which is much better that contracting a case of chlamydia....
More dating stories posted daily. Click here to submit yours!
A Story About Gaining Something That Lasts a Lifetime (not herpes):
All I've gained from relationships are broken hearts, a Sesame Street Learning About Numbers video, and an obsession with Madonna. That last one is really tough, I never wanted that to happen. I never wanted to be one of those gay men, one of those flamboyant guys that obsess over Streisand and Cher. Blame Brian. Like a case of oozing herpes my love for Madonna was contracted from an awry three month relationship and will never be cured.
It started out wonderfully: we had a few laughs, enjoyed sushi downtown. He would often talk about Madonna, what he'd read on Madonnalicious.com that morning, what The Daily 10 on E! had said that afternoon, which was fine with me because I loved Madonna in a way us Americans love McDonald's and the Supreme Court. Sure, sometimes they're tough, but they're always going to be around. I had the Immaculate Collection. But Brian had plans: he had tickets for two shows of The Confessions Tour and when his best friend dropped out I was offered her ticket for only one hundred dollars.
At this point our relationship was waning. Probably because he was a well-dressed troll who would just lay there while smelling of Burberry Brit, and a close friend pointed out that his high-pitched, obnoxious voice was similar to Napoleon Dynamite's brother, Kip. Yet, as a gay, if you're blessed with the opportunity to see Madonna for cheap while she's on world tour, then you're contractually obligated to pay up. You will carry the ticket in your Calvin Kleins to the stadium, dance and sing along to Like a Virgin, and when Madonna screams "Jump motherfuckers!" you will do just that. Yes, I stayed in a relationship longer than necessary to see Madonna live and it was worth it. Confessions was as close to a religious experience as Madonna could be expected to deliver at 48. From then on I was obsessed: I wanted all her records in my iTunes library, and soon.
I borrowed all his albums and ripped them onto my computer. We finally shared a very weak bond but his puny arms and the queen of pop couldn't keep us together. The night before he left for London to visit his sister I ended it. "Goodbye," he said as he drove off in the rain. He waved slowly with his clammy, little fingers. It was like a John Hughes version of Brokeback Mountain. After that we talked for a while but like all exes he became just another nuisance on my Facebook Live Feed, but every time I play Ray of Light I still think of him. For all his negatives (a balding sprite with an old man face, tiny feet, cats), he did manage to get me to loosen up and dance. Regardless, I could have contracted something much worse: Chlamydia, crabs, Celine Dion or Enya CDs.