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The sermon for Wednesday, May. 22, 2002 is: 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d'elle 2:45 p.m. � She snores. She sleeps on her stomach. � She hates the sound of people brushing their teeth. When we watch movies wherein people brush their teeth (a popular genre here), I have to cover her ears against the sound. � When she was a girl in Michigan, she raised a lamb for 4-H. She named it Lambert. It followed her to school one day, where she slaughtered it. � She's going to Vegas this weekend with a random boy she met yesterday, when I was ignoring her. I asked her if she was flying or driving, she shrugged and said she didn't know. I'm upset for some reason. � Her eyes are violet or dark blue. Kate says she wears contacts. � I can't think of anything else to say. I'm upset that I am upset, and that there is nothing more I can tell you about this person. I'm upset that the thrills of life, its grandiose dramas and travails, becomes in time opportunities for gossip and anecdote. I hate that I fall in love -- shit, did I just say I'm falling in love? -- and at the same time think of how I can tell this story in future, how shall I phrase what heartbreak electrified me the last time she held my hand? how will I describe just how unendurable this jealousy is, what words will I use to shroud my grief, the corpse of my heart? � Yesterday she failed a test. Do you do this? Do you test the day, do you test god, do you test yourself? I come up with stupid tests for people to see, oh, if they truly love me; like, if he calls today, he loves me. Or, if I see a crow I will kill myself today. Once I awoke and told the empty morning, If I don't get a letter from Monica today I will eat this bottle of Demerol. I didn't get a letter from her, and I ate that bottle and lived the next two months in hospital. Her letter had come the day after I did that. So, this girl. I said to the empty yesterday, If she calls me today then she loves me. If she writes me an email then she loves me. If she gives me any hint that she's thinking of me at all, absent any gesture from me, then... oh, then what? I don't know. She didn't write, she did not call, and now she's going to Vegas. La la la la la. � Another girl, another planet: I sat in her room (this is a different girl; for some reason right now I'm loath to say any names, it seems presumptuous of me, it gives the misimpression that I actually know people) on her bed watching her chat on-line with the world. And I said to myself, my empty soul, If she gets up off that chair by the time I count to five and kisses me, then I won't die tonight. It was impossible that she actually would, you know? I guess I just wanted to die that night. I counted to five; and right when my suicidal heart whispered "five," that girl -- her name was Marlo -- Marlo got off her chair to go to the bathroom, and, passing me, gave me a kiss.
 
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