Conclusions are hard to accept.  There is nothing fun about them, no matter if the ending note is a positive one.  The end is the end, whether you see it or not.

No, I’m not stopping writing.  You cannot get rid of me that easily.

Whether the ending is this week’s episode of your favorite show, the end of the day, the end of a mug of tea/coffee (pick your poison), the end of a vacation, or from one extreme to another.  However, on the upside to everything–this is true–there is always a next time, a follow up or a return.  For things that have passed:  television shows can be watched over and over with buying the series on disc, memories can be recalled with storytelling and/or pictures, and places can be revisited with a little time and patience and money.

Death isn’t going to be talked about, because that is inevitable whether you see it coming or not.  Live life to the fullest, as they say, and don’t let the little things get you down.  There is always something great coming around in the upcoming moments.  Just like songs on the radio station–they are going to play songs/bands you don’t like.  You can’t skip them, so you’ll have to sit through them whether you like it or not, or you can change the station.  Both options are simple.

The end of a cup of tea/coffee is always visible.  You’re lucky to see those situations, because you can prepare for the inevitable:  another $2 will exit your wallet.

No matter the situation:  you’re older and wiser, and experience–familiar or new–is always a growing experience.

It’s probably safe to go into a little more detail about last night’s #2 outing (no, not the bowl movement, but I can see where that statement is a bit vague), and should I dare say dinner date for specificity with hope of poking at the inevitable jinx.  Yet, the sensitivity factor is up with writing, which may have caused a ripple since my last post about the #1.

We headed out to Skaneateles, where we enjoyed a delicious pasta dinner at Joe’s Pasta Garage.  She opted for the pesto, and I chose the Bolognese.

This was the first time I’ve been there in a long while.  My friend, Brian, and his family played at the open mic Thursday nights.  Joe’s Pasta Garage is a significant staple of the Skaneateles community and plays a large part in the Central New York Buy Local  scene.

We grabbed a Guinness to end the already late night at LakeHouse Pub before heading back to Syracuse.

Typically, I’m not afraid of lulls in conversation, but my being petrified poked at my head a little bit.  Pauses in conversation are natural, and they shouldn’t be considered as a death wish while out.  If people were expected to talk the entire time, and throughout their relationship 24/7, sleeping and eating and everything in between would never get done.

I asked a lot of questions about her (anticipated) line of work, because I’m genuinely fascinated with that field, and that’s because I’m never going to be a part of it.  Essentially she did more of the talking.  There were places where my elaboration would have seemed fitting, but I dislike talking about myself.  Questions, guys, but not 21 Questions.  It’s important to ask and elaborate.  Even when we  briefly talked about Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream, I didn’t ask her favorite flavor, because that would have strayed from the subject of the conversation.  It’ll be something learned, naturally, down the road.

She inquired about my trip to New York, which I felt insecure about.  I’m going to be a roaming gnome, in a sense, for figuring out places to apply to and to to work.  There is no set agenda with the exception of meeting up with friends, acquaintances, and people who are practically strangers.  Months ago, I wrote the biography for an actress, who followed me via Twitter, highlighting improv as the reason behind it.  We’ve joked back and forth, and hopefully Bonita and I can grab a latte or drink depending on our stress levels.  She’s a riot, and I’ve always wished her well with her career.  Scott, a gentleman who I’ve met through improv is in the Prospect Park area as well, close to where I will be staying (At Home in Brooklyn, which is a B&B run by the-one-and-only Don).  A friend, Lesley, who I’ve known for 14 years, will be meeting and catching up.

Of course, I will be making time for Cole, Becky, and their amazing two kids.  Amazing is too small of an adjective.

My insecurity is about having the ability to maintain a platonic friendship with women.  I’ve gotten hell about it several, several times in the past, which probably adds to the cause.  The point is to not intimidate this date, and I’m not sure of how she took my explanation of who I was hanging out with.

A couple of my pet peeves:  multitasking and cheating.  There is no excuse for cheating, and I could never bring myself to do so, no matter how intolerable the relationship turned out to be.  I’ve got a conscience.  There was one instance where I briefly saw a girl who dated a friend of mine; I felt weird doing so, but it happened.  This should have waited until the ashes from the relationship burnt out, but I was young and dumb.  It game to an argument where she told me that I couldn’t feel guilty about it, and she demanded that I chose friendship with him or being in a relationship with her.  I chose being friends with him, confidently, and she chased me across campus, screaming at me.  Since that time.  Despite their being broken up, I still felt that I’d done wrong.

There are few things that I am able to multitask with, and dating is not one of them.  Is it OK to go on dates with a couple people at a time?  Sure.  I’ve done the eHarmony stint, which I probably won’t go back to again, but you’re talking to multiple people at once.  It wore on me, and it was stopped.

Essentially, you’re supposed to treat a date, no matter how long the relationship lasts, as if they are the one.  Focus is important, in my opinion, so I take the one-at-a-time route due to past experience.  Granted, in certain situations, my DNA encryption of being a dick (something that all of us guys have) came to fruition, and poor communication led to the demise of budding relationships.  Did I feel guilty?  Yes.

Perhaps, I’m looking into this too deeply.

*     *     *

We hugged last night.  It was a firm, comfortable hug.  As she exited the car, we bid each other a good night.  She told me to have fun in New York, and I said thanks, and continued by saying that I’d talk to her between then and during my trip.  But the door shut promptly, and my words, as if they were fingers, were shut in the crevice of the door.

I faced ahead again after making sure she got inside.  The belt was buckled.  Shit was pushed through my teeth, around my lips.  Why this talk of possibly moving?  Why this position?  Why now?

Why? Why?  Why? (F’ing.)  Why?

The music was turned up.  Nick Drake.  A banner of echoing followed, dropping notes like breadcrumbs.