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.
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my life in the ghost of Bush
time-lapsed (part 1)
unreconciled
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.