Wait

She was so tired of loving him. The years, long and dry, had seen her shed countless tears over his unexplainable need to wait. Wait for the perfect time. Wait for him to achieve the goals that he had set forth some ungodly time ago. Her life revolved around his need for time to become perfect.

She knew that it never would. Time is never perfect. Never right for anyone. No two people had ever come together in the exact space and time that was without strife or forethought on their part. So, she knew, like the ocean knew where it would roll into the shore, that no matter how many years passed her by, she would always be loving him. And the timing would never be right.

And she was so tired. Restless. Ready to move on with her life. Ready to invite someone into her fold and care for them the way she longed to tend to him. But, there was no one waiting in the wings to swoop in and bring her the salvation that she craved. There was not a soul that could offer her the connection that he had placed in her reach unknowingly.

Patience. He had explained one night. Patience is the key. I still have work to do, he said. You have work to do. But, she knew she didn't have the labors of life that he had. She had her children. She had her home. Her life consisted of those two things. And she was quite happy with how trivial it had become. She had room in her world to accommodate him. He didn't.

He wanted her to wait. But, she'd grown weary of putting her heart on hold. Her soul cried out for her to let him go, her heart, precious and vital to living, begged for mercy in its frozen state. Let me go, it screamed. I was made to pump vigorously. Madly, I have love to give to others. You are suffocating me. Let me thrive and grow for someone one else. Anyone else.

But, there was no one. No one to grab her hand and tell her the waiting was over. She had no one to kiss. She was void of whispers and soft touches. Her hair was never touched. There was no one to inhale her scent and look into her eyes. She had no one to love.

Loving him was robbing her of years. Waiting was slowing killing her. Thump, by precious thump, her heart gave up its beat of life. Slowly, with the echos of empty promises playing in her mind, she would close her eyes and say she would give it just one more day. Just one more day to see if he would begin to love her.

Or just tell her to wait.

Death

I kissed Death today.
It was delicious.
His lips were soft
Like petals on a flower.
His breath was sweet
As honey.
His embrace was
Constricting and invasive.

I touched Death today.
I nuzzled my lips to his cheek.
I felt the smooth contours of his dried bones.
My fingers danced across his skull
They twirled around his long fingers.
They scratched across his ribs and
Tickled his spine.

I laid down with Death today.
He played in my hair
Twisting the dark strands and turning them
An ash grey.
He traced the contours of my body
And I watched as my skin crumbled under his spell.
He parted my veins and
Turned my blood to pools of black magic.
He kissed my eyelids and blinded me to the light.

I spoke to Death today.
He sang a sweet melody
"Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Lay with Me
And Forget the Fuss".
His voice groaned
And I moaned with
Pleasure and despair.
Never wanting it to end
I begged for more, more, more.

I succumbed to Death today.
I went quietly.
Enthusiastically.
He brought me into his black cloak
And took me down into the pits of his exquisite misery.
He wrapped my long hair around his wrist and turned
Me onto my side.
He grasped my throat with his hand
And whispered "Don't breathe".

I became one with Death today
As our bodies moved in time.
His breath
Hot on my neck,
Quick and fearless.
My eyes began to drip
The tears that I have longed for.
I took him in
And gave him all I had. 

Today was the sweetest day.

Bump in the Night

I have always been afraid of the dark. Always. Creatures live there. They exist where the light dies. Small beings, with hate and death on their minds, play and dance within my grasp. Their fingers tickle my cheek, lovingly caressing my hair as I hurry past them to step into the light. Walking the few feet from the living room to my bedroom causes my pulse to race and the blood to pump furiously in my ears. My couch stands empty when the room is lit, but as soon as blackness fills the void, a mysterious monster takes its seat in the middle of the cushion. How do I know this? Because I can hear it breathing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand tall signaling to me that danger is awaiting as I stand, hand still on the lamp, frozen with fear, in the dark.

Do not laugh at my fear of the dark and the monsters that inhabit it. Do not sigh at me as you would a pestilent child who refuses to go to sleep. My apprehension, which grows with each ticking of the clock that signals the approach of nightfall, is all too real. It is grounded in truth and reality.

My first brush with the dark fear came when I was eight. Young and trusting, I climbed into bed that fateful night to sleep the sound slumber that I was used to. I felt the familiar weight of my eyelids as they began to close on my day. My breathing, heavy and rhythmic, pulled me down into the trenches of dreamland. My teddy bear, worn from years of love and closeness, was brought tightly to my chest. Time evaporated into the night. The moon rose in all its glory to signal that it was time to rest. My house settled in for the night, its baseboards ceased their creaking. My world, exhausted from the day's work, quiet within its own arms, embracing the solitude of silence, slept. The hands of the clock that kept time, quieted itself to a hushed ticking that only it could hear. We all heaved a heavy sigh of contentment as our consciousness changed course.

Now, I do not know the hour that the monster first visited. Nor do I know if it had always been there, quietly listening to the sounds as I comforted myself to sleep. And as my foot dangled precariously over the side of the bed, I can not say how long its claw reached out and scratched at it. What I do remember, even now, almost thirty years later with my mind cluttered with memories of years gone by, is the terror that seized my heart as I awoke to my skin being torn from my ankle.

Over the years, I have encountered other assorted monsters and creatures that take refuge in the night. There are the troll like beings, with their pudgy bodies and green eyes that follow you closely as you make your way to the bed. They live in the closet. They peer up from under neath the door to see if you are resting comfortably before they slowly turn the door knob and open the only barrier between a sleeping you and them. Their feet make the light thumping noise across your floor when they inch closer to the bed. That's probably what woke you up last night. That small, quiet sound. The sound of danger that is so faint, you shake your head and dismiss it before you curl back to sleep. Don't ever do that. I refused to accept that I heard it one night. That was a long night. That was the night that a smelly beast climbed onto my chest and robbed the air of the oxygen I needed.

As a child, I was more cognizant of the dangers that lurked underneath my bed. Void of the cynicism of adulthood, most children know to keep a watch out for things that go bump in the night. Their tiny ears know to signal to the brain that the noise they hear is not the house settling, but instead a slithering corpse that is crawling down the hallway towards them. A child's imagination will give them a close view of the black sludge that covers the naked body of the beast. It will tell the young one, that this being....this thing that drools and growls, all the while trying desperately to reach its goal of tearing the flesh off the inhabitant of the bedroom, is a slithering corpse of what once lived. A child's imagination is a powerful thing. It is the third eye to the soul and its job is to protect its young host against all that is evil. It will wake the child and show it the deadly eyes and outstretched hand. It will force him or her to scream for help. To scream until lights flood the room.

Yes, I have always been afraid of the dark. Even before I was eight, before I felt the thing underneath the bed, I was apprehensive of the creeks and groans of my home. Something within me spoke out and said that I was to remain vigilant. It ordered me to keep a watchful eye all hours of the night. However, it wasn't until that fateful event that I paid it any heed.

Last night, overcome with sleep deprivation, I closed my eyes and returned to the dream state that I knew as a child. Last night, after I made the mad dash from the lamp, through the blackened living room, past the monster nestled comfortably in the middle of my couch, I laid in the dark and closed my eyes. I now sleep in the middle of my bed. I am barricaded with pillows on all sides. A nightlight shines from my bathroom, illuminating the various corners between me and the closet door. But, last night, in the dark, during the sleeping hours, I felt a hot breath drift across my cheek. I stirred and settled back down into my desired slumber. A heart beat later, not only did I feel the hot moisture of death traveling from the side of my face towards my neck, but I could smell the stagnate odor of decay. Gasping, I sat up in bed.

But, you see, my screams fall on the walls of my empty home. They are absorbed by the carpet that covers the floors. There are no ears that belong to concerned parents that will come running to flood my small bedroom with light. So, I had no one to save me from the thing that hovered over me. The thing with the red eyes and the yellow teeth. The creature....the monster with the long black hair. It threw back its head and laughed a maniacal laugh.

I have always been afraid of the dark. Always. And I have reason to be.

Patrick and The Holy Grail

It had been two weeks since my friend had died. Two weeks since I had been sitting in my cubicle at work when I'd received the phone call.

"Hey Wes," he said on the other end of the phone. "Patrick died. He just....died."

That's basically what had happened. Patrick, mid conversation, just dropped. There was no dramatic pause to indicate anything was out of the ordinary. No ominous music played in the background. One minute he was saying he wasn't going to make the move from North Carolina to Maryland and the next he was, well....

......dead.....

I was shocked. The air that I breathed became shallow and stale. My heart continued to thump, only it increased. My brain searched for ways that the caller could be lying to me. A practical joke, maybe? The wrong Patrick, perhaps? This couldn't be my Patrick. The one who had bartered for a Child's Play Doll so he could send it to me in time for a birthday party. Not my Patrick, with his hazel eyes and his crooked smile, that would accept my random text messages and would reply with the most bizarre responses.

Hey Patty.... Ya ever wonder if maybe the reason I see shadows everywhere is because I'm really insane?


Nah Wes....It's like that saying about women with big feet. Ya'll just have big egos....

Not him. Not the guy I could sit and tell the story of the man who decided to shoot his wife to add spark back in his married to. Not my Patrick who understood with perfect clarity that my mind works on the oddest levels and that my attention span rivals that of a three year old.

No, that man in Maryland, the one that they were unsuccessfully able to administer CPR to was a different Patrick. My Patrick was traveling back to North Carolina. My Patrick, all 6 feet of him, had just asked me to marry him the night before.

"Come on Wes," he laughed. "No one understands you like I do."

But, it was my Patrick. My Patrick that I never told anyone about because I wanted to keep him to myself. I never wanted to share him with anyone. He was my special person. My person that had been there when the worst thing that could ever happen to a woman had, indeed, happened to me. He was my safety net. The one who listened when I was too tired to be angry about anything. The one who sat, nodding enthusiastically, when I discussed my story ideas. His reassurance was what I reached for when I felt too insecure to be in my own skin.

And now he's dead.

That was two weeks ago. Actually, it will be three weeks tomorrow. But, last week, it was two weeks ago. Last week it had been two weeks to the day when I contacted the Holy Grail about dinner. The Holy Grail had said yes, and I realized (a day later) that it might not be a wise decision to ask the last guy that broke your heart out when you are grieving over the death of a close friend.

But, if I were the type to make wise decisions, I would never have any subject material for this blog.

So, this past Thursday I met the Holy Grail for dinner. It was a nice restaurant in a nice part of town. The Grail didn't know what was going on in my life. My contact to him had been out of the blue. We had not spoken, except for the occasional random text, in months. So, after we had ordered, I was not the least bit surprised when he asked me what was going on.

And I was nothing but truthful in my explanation. "See, I'm using you. Just using you. My friend died recently. And it, well...it sucks. I need what he gave me. I need that one person that I don't have to be anything other than me with. I need someone who knows that I have all kinds of quirks and accepts and understands why I have them. I need that accepting person to allow me to lay my head on their shoulder. I need to be listened to. I need to ramble. My attention span is all over the place and I don't want to have to control it. I need the comfortable silences. I don't want to have to perform. I don't want to have to make someone laugh or be witty or carry on an analytical conversation. I just need a couple of hours where I am me. That's it."

The Holy Grail understood. Just as I knew he would. For all our ups and downs, he does understand me. He gets me. So, the rest of the night was spent in casual conversation. Light hearted topics. Music. Daily routines. Kid stuff. It wasn't until the dinner was over that Patrick was even brought up again.

"It's tough when someone so young dies," The Grail said. "It leaves us with a lot of anger and fear."

Yes," I replied. "But, that's not the part I am dealing with. I'm dealing with the isolation. I kept him to myself. He was my person that I hid from everyone else. I discussed my heart, imagination, and everything else in between with him. And I kept him to myself so much, he remained so hidden, that I have no one to grieve with me. I am isolated now. And that is what sucks the most."

Again, he nodded. He understood, just like I knew he would. And as I drove home from my much needed dinner, I couldn't help think about how ironic my night had been. How, in my grief over my friend, my soul mate, I had reached out to the one man that has broken my heart like no other. Funny. I could have had the same conversation with anyone. But, I know it would not have had the same comforting affect that the talk with The Holy Grail had. It just goes to show you how funny the heart can be.

Huh....who knew....

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

She was sick. She had, in fact, been sick for a long time. She'd hidden it well. She would remain stationary when breathing became too difficult. Conversations were cut short. Grocery shopping only occurred twice a month instead of weekly. She confined herself to her bedroom on most days to spare the rest of the house the smudges of her fingerprints. Microwave dinners replaced home made meals. She kept her life simple. Clean. Small. She did as little as possible. Too much energy spent would cause shortness of breath and chest pains that would prompt her husband to call for an ambulance. She didn't want medical help. She had already refused the referral to a specialist. She knew that would be the beginning of procedures and medicines that would ensure she got better. Healthier. She'd live longer. And she didn't want that. She preferred death to the constant debilitating strain of life.

Over the years momma had tried to hurry death along the best way she knew how. She'd taken a handful of pills, lay down, and pray not to be awoken by the sun in the morning. Each failure confirmed the belief that she was no good. No good as a human being, mother, wife, or friend. She was so no good that she couldn't even kill herself. Waking up would fill her with such agony, that she was forced to wrap herself tight within her own arms. Rocking back and forth, she would use the movement to calm herself. She would try to convince herself that outside her bedroom door lived the normality of life that she'd never been able to experience. She'd lay there for several hours crying and cursing the day that she did not wanted to see. She felt betrayed by the sun that greeted her each morning, showing her she was still alive. She'd ride this wave until she couldn't do anything other than leave her bed and proceed to survive the day. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eat. Bathroom. Sleep. Repeat.

When momma could no longer carry the weight of her own mind, she would call me. Day or night. Time did not matter. I accepted the ringing as a call to arms. As her daughter, it was my job to bare her burden until she was able to lift it again. Her anguish became mine. Her tears flowed down my cheeks. I could only reassure her of my love for her. She would reminisce about the days when I lived with her. Our memories intertwined as we spoke of how I used to love her so much. I would listen as she tore through me with hate filled words. Each phrase uttered sliced through me like a blade, leaving me open and vulnerable for the next attack. I accepted the role of villain to her victim.

"Why don't you love me?" She'd inquire. "Remember when you used to love me? Worship me? Why did you leave me so young? I remember when you couldn't bare to be a part from me. Don't you?"

And I did. I did remember anxiously awaiting her arrival home from work. I could remember, with longing and fondness, sneaking into her bed at night. I could recall her arms reaching around and pulling me into her. I have performed the same ritual with my own children. Pulling their small bodies to mine. Taking in the scent of their hair. Allowing the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest to lure me back into a slumber.

I could not tell her that those precious memories of a child hood now past has been replaced with the nightly phones calls that break my soul a little at a time. My brain could not connect the mother that used to braid my hair with the woman who cried for death almost every night. If my mind were to ever make that connection, my heart would surely have broken into two.

"Momma," I said one night. "Your body was not meant to die by your hands. It was meant to survive. To thrive in a world full of elements that can kill it. Death is not an easy destination. The road that will lead you there is filled with nothing but pain. As much as you push your body to the point it will break, your body will push back even harder. It will fight with all the strength it has. And your body is strong. If you refuse to admit defeat, if you do not give up your dream of death, you will end up far worse than you are now. Your body will turn on you. It will do everything it in its power to protect itself. You could become trapped within it. Unable to do anything but be."

She never heeded my warning. When her husband took the pills and hid anything sharp, she knew of no other way to actively try to kill herself. She was almost ready to accept defeat.

Almost.

The day the doctor informed her that the chronic illness she'd been living with for years had turned into a ticking time bomb, with her heart as the explosive, she almost clapped with glee. Here was her chance. She knew all she had to do was be patient and let nature handle the rest.

She wasn't prepared for the pain, however. As her heart grew larger in order to pump more oxygen to be carried through her blood stream, oxygen that her lungs no longer cared to give out, the sharp stabbing pain she felt on each unsteady pump, was too much for her. Unwilling to give her any pills, the doctors prescribed patches that barely reduced her pain.

Without any forethought or understanding, momma had sentenced herself to hell.

Unable to take it anymore, she agreed to see the specialists she had managed to avoid for so long. The news was not good. In fact, the prognosis was grim.

"You have two choices. You can continue on as you are. We will do everything in our power to make you comfortable as possible. Or you can have surgery to alleviate the pressure building within your heart. However, with the surgery you will face many risks. You run a high risk of never waking up. The chance of you regaining the ability to breathe on your own is slim. Very slim."

And there it was. The opening she had been striving for. The guarantee death she had prayed for for years. The pain. The sadness. The grief over having to live when all she wanted to was die was on its was to loosening its grip on her.

Death was welcoming her in.

"I want you to make the decision," she said to me. "Tell them to take me off the machine. Pull the plug. Whatever. Let me die."

Suicide by daughter. This was the plan. No longer able to be an active participant in her own demise, momma was handing the task to me. She trusted that I would instruct the doctors, without hesitation, as she requested. She believed I would make the right choice. Her choice.

What momma failed to realize, what she never suspected, was that each attempt she made on her own life, each phone call that stirred me out of my sleep, or disrupted my living, each time she questioned my love for her, she had planted and cultivated a seed of hate within my soul.

She could not possibly have fathomed that after years of hearing her desperate plea  for death and after repeatedly defending my love for her, after all these years, I wanted nothing more than for her to feel the pain and mental anguish that she had inflicted on me.

Death was a beautiful release that she would never get the chance to experience on her terms.

The day of the operation arrived. And just as the doctors predicted, she began to flat line as soon as her breathing tube was removed.

We sat around a conference table in a room reserved for the difficult decisions that most families do not want to make. The doctor sat across from me. Using words like "stroke", "pain", and "seizures", they described the struggle momma was facing if she were to remain on the machine. You have to make a choice, they said. They referred to her quality of life as they placed the appropriate forms in front of me, that when signed, would end her suffering.

"No." I said quietly.

Two weeks went by. Two weeks filled with seizures, morphine drips, antibiotics, steroids, and tubes running here and from there. By the end of the first week momma had swelled so much that the doctors began to discuss ways of alleviating pressure. Quality of life was again discussed.

"No." I said quietly.

Night and day, I sat by her side. I watched the monitors tell the story of her heart rate. I saw the I.V.s feed her fluids and medicines. I observed the machine breathe for her. In and out.

Her husband visited daily. Always begging for me to release her from her prison. He approached the doctors, demanding the machine be turned off. But the decision was mine and mine alone.

At the end of the second week, I stood by the hospital bed and looked down on the bloated shell that was once momma.

"Your body is a machine that was created to live. It is a living breathing machine. The more you push it to die, the more it will push back to live. All you had to do was live. You did not have to love. Just live. Breathe in. Breathe out. Eat. Bathroom. Sleep. Repeat. But, you couldn't do that. Could you? You couldn't just survive. No. You had to destroy. You had to destroy your body, your life, and me. You should have never given me the power that you didn't posses. It was your body's decision when to die. Not yours. Not mine. I don't know where your headed, but I hope it's better than the hell you're in now."

With no forethought or remorse, I gave the order to turn off the machine.

Four hours later her body decided to die.

Men 101: A Response to the Friend Zone Blog

Last night, with my ego torn to shreds, I poured my heart into a lovely blog about my recent experiences in the tenth level of hell that should be named The Friend Zone. I received several emails regarding this topic since my post. Some were from men who sympathized with my plight. Others were from women who understood all to well what it's like to identify with Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. And while Molly did end up getting the guy, and a great birthday cake in the end, I don't have such high hopes for me. 


One guy was even nice enough to offer up his bootie call services should I ever find myself lacking in that department. His exact words were: "Don't worry, I'll take one for the team." How thoughtful.


My favorite among the heart felt emails is below. It is simple and to the point. A man's point to be more precise. I find the insight helpful, intriguing, and depressing. I hope you, dear readers, will be able to take something from it as well. Enjoy.

Your average man has very few categories of women. 'Friend' isn't actually one of them. It is the word men think is polite women speak for I don't want what you want. It is rare for a woman to understand man categories since they are very different from theirs. The 'Friend Zone' to a male is more of a term for a woman who will let you spend money on them and do stuff for them but has no intention of being sexual with you. I don't think this applies to your case so let me break down the top ten types for you.

1. Family - All men start out with women in their lives and are taught it is wrong to have sexual urges for them. This is Mother, Sister, Aunt, and Cousin. This would be the worst zone for someone not actually blood related to be in. However, you may not be so far out of luck by someone who considers you a cousin instead of a sister. There is even something called and Oedipus complex for a reason so there is always hope for the truly determined.

2. Scary - Someone who provokes the flight response or at least is impossible to get an erection for. This doesn't even have to be about looks. Sure, if you outweigh your perspective love interest by half a ton, their fear may be understandable just taking gravity into account. However, many men fear women who are smarter, more aggressive, or can do anything better than they can. Those sort of men seek someone so dependent she will stay with them no matter what mistakes they make. Avoid this type.

 3. Mopeds - If you find yourself constantly sneaking into someone's place, they never go to public places with you unless they are far from where you live, and you have never been introduced to friends and family, you might fit this classification. Mopeds are fun to ride but you never want your friends to see you doing it. Since this type of man is pretty shallow, it is entirely possible to be not only friends but even best buds. In their mind, they are doing you a favor by giving you sex. Friends do favors for each other right?

4. Hit and Quit - These are ladies who men use just to improve upon their numbers. Men have some unusual math which involves their unique preferences that determines if the woman is worth a second round. The fact that they did not do this calculation until afterward shows you the type of person they are. Believe it or not, there are women men will not sleep with again even if they have no other options. Those women are in this class.

5. The Ritz Cracker - When you are starving, a Salteen tastes as good as a Ritz. I know you may find this hard to believe but men will sleep with and have relationships with women they don't want simply because they don't have another option. These men either have someone else in mind who doesn't want them or are waiting for anything else better to come along so they can upgrade. These are easy to spot if you are another guy but some women seem to be in denial with these type of men and nothing you say to them will get through.

6. The Dream Girl - Some guys have their ultimate girl in mind. This could be a barbie model or simply a woman who turns into a pizza and beer after screwing their brains out. Some think if they work hard and make enough money, they will miraculously attract this woman and she will throw herself at his feet. Take note of what this type of man considers all women to be.

7. The Close Enough - This is usually a woman that meets 70-90% of the physical criteria of a man and they balance out any crazy or annoying habits in order to establish a real relationship with. This means the man isn't actively looking for anyone and will even turn down someone who looks slightly worse than you in most cases. This sometimes is more of a business arrangement to a man but can develop into real feelings.

8. Love at First Sight - This is the girl that makes the guy gaga and he will bend over backwards to get her attention. He sends flowers, poetry, and even hangs out in the bushes from time to time. This can happen in a mall, crowded store, or class. However, it is most observed in the men who keep turning their paychecks over to the same stripper every month for a few looks and sultry words.

9. True love - This is the woman who gets them. She finishes their sentences and even if she has no interests in common, she understands his passion for midnight ice fishing and packs him a snack for your trip. It doesn't matter what she looks like because she becomes his entire world. Unfortunately, this is a combination of right place and right time too. Men have their cycles. They just aren't monthly or blood related.

10. Wife/Baby momma - Sometimes the other categories make it to wife but this is a relationship built around children. It can be one of hatred, disinterest, or pure love. However, even the smallest endowed man can have a weaker brain. This means men have a hard time thinking or caring of consequences. Heck, it is something they are known for. Women are smarter by far but many think that sort of thing will never happen to them. Hence, we have a rather common relationship. Unfortunately, statistically this may be the saddest of all relationships to have with a man. I am a product of one of these so I can say if you have a boy he isn't likely going to want this unless it is meaningful first.

I hope this has helped. While this isn't as romantic as suffering in a circle of hell for some unrequited love it can be put to practical use. I might also add, men who are interested in watching men roll around in the mud, tossing balls with receivers and tight ends, and have an opinion about how they lace shoes, might be fun to go shopping with but you should stop trying to date them. At best, they are pretending to be sports heroes and want to bang someone who reminds them of a cheerleader. If you are a writer go after men who appreciate books, or at least find someone who can read on a college level and not look at you funny for using the word doppelganger correctly in a sentence. (I recently received strange looks for using the word 'doppelganger')

If your conclusion is something is wrong with you because you are the common denominator with every man you have wanted, then you may want to admit math isn't your strong point. All you have found out is you might have bad taste in men and need to broaden your horizons. I'd accuse you of wanting to be a big fish in a very small pond. If you have discovered you are the wildest, most creative, intelligent, sluttiest, and magnificent person you know, you may want to find someone who can at least match you if not exceed you in quirk. The lamest duck is never going to want a swan but that does not diminish the swan in any way.

Dating: The Friend Zone

During the 14th century, a man by the name of Dante penned an epic poem about the nine levels of hell. In his narrative, he described the sins committed that would take one there and the torture they would surely endure once they arrived. He called this work of descriptive horror "The Inferno". It is a beautifully written piece of literature. However, it is not complete. In his efforts to expand his readers' minds and take them on a journey that would ultimately lead them to God, he neglected the tenth level of hell. This level, with all it's confusion, agony, and sorrow, is the level that all other hellish levels bow down before. It is the place that more souls are banished to than any other. Here, in the not mentioned tenth level, I (and many others) sit and lick our wounds while we try to put the pieces of our dignity and self esteem back together.

This level is called the Friend Zone. And it is the epitome of hell.

The Friend Zone is the tenth level of hell that I have become all to familiar with. It is here that men constantly banish me to. Within this torturous level, I am forced to listen to my various crushes describe their ideal woman. I sit at the foot of the lake of despair while my idea of Mr. Right tells me he wants to settle down, but how it's so hard to find a good woman. As I frustratingly pace back and forth from "just friends" to "friends with a little bit of benefit", he sweetly tells me how comfortable I am. He takes my hand, while I try real hard not to punch him in his left eyebrow and yell that what he desires is right here, he explains how I am the perfect fit for him.....As a friend.

Awesome. I'm a golden retriever.

I have always had a knack for making friends. I've been blessed with the ability to make people laugh and, therefore, make them comfortable around me. Girls like me because they can tell me about that one time they embraced their inner slut a little too much and ended up taking it to skank level proportions. They tell me these wild tales because they know I will not judge them. After all, I've embraced my inner slut a time or two myself. We are old friends, my slut and I. Hell, I even bought her a Christmas present last year.

His name was Bill.

Guys like me because not only do I know the score from last night's game, but I also realize had the laces been out, he would have easily made that field goal. I can also discuss all this over an ice cold beer.

Or, we can comfortably chat about that chick you banged last night. Bless her heart. Was she really that bad?

Normally I am OK with being the gal pal to the guy that most women would kill to hook up with. These types of relationships give me perspective into the male mind that normally I would not be privy to. I appreciate a platonic relationship between men and women just for the mere fact that it eliminates that awkward walk of shame the next morning. There's no need for wondering how long you have to wait until you contact the person.

And it's more sanitary this way.

My Friend Zone nightmare occurs when I try, the best way I know how, to tell the guy that I long for that I desire more than a common interest of sports to bring us together. Shyly, I try to convey the message that I want to converse about other topics as well. How was his day? Can I cook for him? Does he need a back rub? I give a great one.

Unfortunately, my version of "I want to get to know you" usually comes out as "I want to see you naked." And, no, when this phrase is uttered, despite what you may believe, passion and orgasms do not ensue.

A few months back, I received a telephone call from a "buddy" of mine. I have known this guy for a while. He's what is the closest to my type of guy that one can get. (I don't really have a type.) He's smart. Funny. Laid back. Can discuss various topics openly. He makes me sigh when I speak to him.

Anyways, his phone call was to specifically talk about the previous night's football game. As I am driving to work, he's going on and on about how the ref made a poor call. He then proceeds to tell me that I am one of his "best buds". No. Scratch that. I am actually one of his best GUY pals. I tried in vain to explain that I couldn't possibly be a guy pal. I informed him of my correct gender. I even went a step further and described my girl parts to him.

"I promise you," I said. "I have boobs. Granted, they help me sweep the floor when I take my bra off, but I assure you, they are there."

He remained unconvinced.

A guy that I hang out with here and there approached me late one night. He was upset and said that he needed a friend. Someone he could trust. A shoulder to lean on. And me, being the woman that I am, made myself readily available. I am here for you, I informed him. Talk to me. What do you need? Do you desire a warm embrace? An uplifting word? Dinner? A back rub? Come hither and let me take care of you.

You know what that idiot needed? Advice on how to ask a girl out.

Friend Zone - 2. Wes - 0.

Not too long ago, I became friends with this other guy. A sweet guy.  We'd gotten to know each other over the past few months and I realized that I had developed a small catholic-school-girl-grab-the-wooden-paddle-made-for-porno size crush on him. As per my usual form, I tried to tell him.

His response? "You're so funny." Yeah. I'm freakin hilarious.

So, not to be easily discouraged, I pressed further. Trying to get to know him and see if he was more than a handsome face and nice body, I initiated further conversations. And still got nowhere.

So, I eventually tried my hand at the direct approach. However, my "I want to get to know you better" in Oreo speak is loosely translated into "I want to see you naked and do wild things to you that may cause you to seek counseling later" in normal people language.

Yes, I know. I need to work on that.

After more tap dancing, I took an even more straight forward approach. I just came right out and asked him why he wasn't interested in dating me. Now, I did pose this question to him after he asked me to help him wright a personal ad for a dating website. But, what the hell I figured, my dignity left on the south bound train a long time ago.

His response? "You're a great friend."

Yeah.....I'm gonna need you to take that knife out of my heart and help duck tape the pieces of my fractured ego back together. Thanks so much.

Don't get me wrong. I love the fact that these men see me as their friend. Honestly, I am thrilled that they choose me to confide in. I listen to what they have to say and it stays with me. I coach them through whatever it is. Nod my head. Smile pleasantly. So, I am a-OK with not being "The One" for the guy that I have an animistic craving for. I just would like to know when my vagina turned into the guy equivalent of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Not too much to ask. 

So, here I sit, in the tenth level of hell that Dante neglected to mention. The Friend Zone. I can't help but wonder why it is that I keep getting sent back here the same way a humiliated teen is forced to sit at the kiddie table at Christmas. Is it because I like watching sports? Could it possibly be due to the fact that I am more at home in jeans and a t-shirt instead of a dress and makeup? Does it have anything to do with the fact that I worked my ass off to make sure that I can solely provide for my family, thus needing nothing more than a companion in my life instead of  a knight in shinning armor to come in and save us from starvation and homelessness?

Normally I would not put this much thought into it. Dates have come and gone over the years. I have come to realize that my Mr. Right may take the form of a best friend instead of a passionate soul mate. And I am OK with that. What makes me pause and reflect is that although the men that I have dated are from different backgrounds, race, religion, and so on, they all have one thing in common. Me. I am the common denominator in this heart break equation of love. I can not help but think that there is something wrong with me other than the fact of my sheer quirkiness.

Unfortunately, I don't have the answers to any of these questions. Nor do I know if my theory that I am too different to ever find a true match is conclusive or just hog wash. But, I do know if I were to go back and re-read Dante's Inferno, the answers would not lie there either. He probably never mentioned this unholy tenth level, aka Friend Zone, because he spent quite a deal of time there himself.

He was probably just as baffled as I am.