' view me in profile Just like the Bible, except less sex MAIL ME YOUR PRAYERS Write your own Bible at Diaryland!

The sermon for Nov. 30, 2002 is: because it is bitter and because it is my heart


12:47 a.m. Dear Diary,

This page will be blank, except for this necessary stain to remind me why this page is blank. This page is blank so that when I achieve closure with Stephanie and Yong I can put it here, where it belongs, with its sibling pages of stains and stupidity and heartbreak.

Um. Quick catch-up: Yong bought Stephanie a ring from Tiffanys, as well as a metric shitload of other crap from eBay and the like. Stephanie quit her job and her apartment and me; she's moving to San Francisco, where Yong is, and they are looking for a condo there. For a while there we were actually quite chummy, I was Pope Innocent IX-like in my forgiveness and granting of indulgences, I was a lamed vovnik, I was Aval�kit�svara, I was St Jonathan the Incredibly Gracious, in short I was wonderful, with Stephanie and Yong being nervous and insecure with one another and using me as a go-between (which reminds me, the past is a foreign country: they drive differently there). I played the role of the kindly avuncular court counselor with unmanifest secret lusts and desires percolating in his heart. For a little while, Stephanie and Yong and I wanted to marry one another and live together in six-legged sin; though of course S & Y would live in the master bedroom engaged in unending Nobel-laureate calibre copulation for the benefit of humankind, whilst I'd live above the garage and clean the pool. Then suddenly Yong stopped talking to me. I instant-messaged Stephanie (telephones suddenly seeming too intimate) to see if he was okay. Yeah, she wrote back. Is he ignoring me? I asked. Yeah, she wrote back. Um, I replied. I don't want to talk to you anymore, she wrote. Goodbye.

That was a week ago, which is an epoch in Jonathan-time. It's a long time to live without speaking a single word. Since they're both not talking to me, I assume they are now in some conspiracy belonging to Stephanie and Yong alone. I wish them well, since I'm stupid and I love them, I love them even more now that they've decided to jettison me and go on with their adult lives. I love them and I hate them and I hate them because they abruptly do not care. Sometimes I imagine they care and I love them. Sometimes I imagine they care, something reminding them unexpectedly of me and they look at one another and shiver involuntarily. I can only imagine what they think, since their hearts are shut to me. Perhaps they despise me because they think I enjoy overmuch playing the martyr. I wonder if they understand the commedia dell'arte at all, that in our little punch and judy they're fulfilling what's expected of Harlequin and Columbine. I'm Pierrot here, and all that I do in this drama is fade into the background and cry.

Jesus fuck, this page isn't as blank as I meant it to be. I feel it necessary here to remark that I'm exceptionally intoxicated right now, perhaps even toxic. (I will lick my knee and see if my skin's litmus paper. Ah, I am a delicate blue.) All I'd wanted was to blunt the gnawing and mewling tapeworm coiled inside my heart agitating for vanished satiety. I didn't consider that it would make my writing so fucking prolix and vulgar.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I am underdeveloped emotionally in that I don't deal well with anger and cope even worse with loss. I'm always mourning people who wouldn't spare a rat's ass for my feelings (assuming a rat's ass is something easily spared -- standards may vary in your region). Fucking Stephanie, fucking Yong -- what really fucking bites about this abandonment is that despite this rather blatant Fuck-Off-And-Die Jonathan I still persist in sustaining them in my thoughts and affections, I still include them in my bedtime prayers. And they care not a fucking whit. Not that they should care. But they should care. I loved them, goddammit! I loved them. And they broke my heart completely. And then they broke my heart completely again.

And more thoroughly. I know, love is not a meritocracy. Love is its own reward. Love is unconditional, independent even of acknowledgement and recipricocity. I know I know I know. Well fuck you, Carl Rogers, and fuck you Abraham Maslow, I wasn't thinking. I didn't even suspect that they'd just tra-la-la sunsetward into compulsory heterosexuality without so much as a card or a polite stabbing in my stomach with a penknife. I thought they

fucking

loved me.

I am such a whiny bitch. Oh lord Jesus Christ, oh God oh God, you delivered your people from cruel Pharoah in Egypt-land; why won't you kill me? You protected Daniel in the lions' den; why won't you kill me? You rained manna in the desert so your people would not be hungry; why won't you kill me? You put your hand on Meschach, Shadrach and Abednego in the heart of the fiery furnace; why won't you kill me then, you nepotistic motherfucker, why won't you kill me, you brute, you philanderer, why won't you motherfucking kill me?

I am manic-depressed.

This page is blank.

flip flop





Sept. 25, 2004
the Funny Show
Sept. 23, 2004
agriculture poem
Sept. 23, 2004
my life in the ghost of Bush
Sept. 18, 2004
time-lapsed (part 1)
Sept. 16, 2004
unreconciled
Goodbye present, hello past









Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.