Boxing day in July

I'm a little hung over. Just a little. Well, okay, I got sufficiently tipsy last night to determine that all I needed for happiness was breakfast cereal, a 1984 camaro, and a shaved monkey.

I kind of needed a drink yesterday night after hearing from J. the response that after all, I mostly expected. Which was no, not now, and probably not ever. Which is sensible. She

1) Is not single
2) Lives on another continent, and
3) Would have to work hard to trust me again.

I knew all this, but I still asked. And maybe I shouldn't have. It put her in a terrible position and hurt her a lot. If I'd been able to say the things I said to her last week, back when we were together, she would've been overjoyed. But I wasn't and now it's too much, too late. Life is not a movie. At least not a Meg Ryan movie. Maybe it's Nights of Cabiria sometimes, or Naked, or something.

So I'm trying today to box up everything, my hope, my feelings, my pictures, my letters, my memories. They won't go away, and I won't stop loving her, but at least I can put them in storage and try to forget about them.