So, 2010. What a year, huh? My first novel gets published. The Saints win the Super Bowl. My wife moved out a month ago. They say two out of three ain’t bad. I’d like to find “they” and beat his head against a brick wall until my arms get tired.
WhaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!
Oh, yeah. That.
Now, listen kids, before I go any further, we both want you to know this didn’t happen because of you. And we don’t love you any less. It’s just sometimes, two people . . .
Well, to be honest, I don’t know what the hell happened except it happened. I wasn’t going to write it here because it seems sort of private and I can’t stand the thought of anyone writing blog comments offering condolences or asking questions or giving me phone numbers for meaningless late-night booty calls. (And, seriously, I ask that you don’t comment on this post. Or on Facebook. Or anywhere. Got something to say, e-mail me. You remember e-mail, right?)
As far as the privacy goes, it’s sort of disingenuous for a person who blogs, Tweets and Facebooks as much as I do to start making noises about privacy only when the shit hits the fan. And I have nothing to hide. There was no bad behavior by either party. And I certainly didn’t want to do any passive-aggressive half-drunken weep-blogging, with little dribs and drabs coming out here and there, the sort of thing used by some folks to get the other party to ask, “Is everything okay?”
Besides, once the paperwork starts happening it’s all a matter of actual public record anyway. (Not that THAT will happen anytime soon thanks to the ass-backwards divorce laws in New York.)
And booty calls? Save ’em. Unless you’re really into drunken, mediocre sexual encounters that will definitely end in one of us–if not both–crying.
So why now? Aside from the handy month mile-marker, you may have noticed I haven’t posted much in the last month. That’s partly due to laziness and depression, but also partly due to the fact that every time I logged on to WordPress, it was the elephant in the room. (See what I did there, AXA Financial? It’s an elephant, not an 800-pound gorilla that’s impossible to ignore. The 800-pound gorilla is WRONG.) Anyway, where was I. Oh, yeah. Elephant, a big ol’ writer’s block, dropping big ol’ elephant turds all over the place. Elephant turds of LIES!!! And also turds of self-delusion: If I didn’t write it, it wasn’t real. Yeah, that’s it.
Hell, I’d taken all sorts of notes in Hawaii—I was there for the tsuper tsunami from hell, after all—but the reason I didn’t share was I figured some of you meddling kids might start nosing around and start asking questions. “Hey, did you go to Hawaii alone? What’s a married guy doing in Hawaii alone?” Then again, no one said anything about the 100% wife-free photos, so you’re not exactly winning points for being observant.
But there it is. It happened. If you have questions, save ’em. I’m sure it’ll make for great writing one day, but for now I’m tired of talking about it.
And, for the record, I did go to Hawaii alone. I loved it. Traveling alone has its benefits. And it sure as hell beat moping my way over to The Brazen Head every night and pounding Jack Daniels until my liver started crying. Or I did.
Whatever the case, onward. See yall in the bars.
KEN WHEATON 