In an attempt to clear my head and get on with my life, I now endeavor to do something so pedestrian, so contrived and presumably ineffective that the word cliche hardly does it's hackneyed banality justice. I am brought low and curl over, retching out my most poison thoughts. This black bile must be purged from my system and the accompanying spasms and tears must flow in order for me to get over the loss of my girlfriend.
I have not entered anything on this blog in almost... 3 years! It seemed like such a good idea at the time and I thought it would help me become a better writer. I see now that the real benefit of it will be as the perennial "Dear diary" skreed of hope and horror. I have no idea how to start, so I will probably just throw some stuff at the wall and see what sticks.
Here' goes:
I loved her. I really, really loved her. I miss her and yet, I hope she is suffering. I know she isn't, she is right now in the carefree honeymoon stage of her new relationship and that is of course, just grist for the mill. I am a staunch atheist who scorns all manner of superstition, religion and even people who knock on wood, but curses on her and him, may they endure a life of limp dicks, headaches and bad breath. I want the power of the main character in Like Water for Chocolate, the woman whose emotions would be transmitted through the food she prepared. A few of her tears dropped into the pot would cause the whole table of guests to be overwhelmed with melancholy. I want to drop this ache pounding in my chest in their pot, I want the anger that warms my head and keeps me awake at nights spread on their bread and I want this confusion and loneliness in every bite.
So yes, I'm bitter, even to the point where I've lost my self-deprecating humor. I have nothing witty to say, even after two months of going through this, two months of a kind of navel staring that would impress a research scientist.
Like the Bajillians before me, I just want to forget, I want my normal endorphins and opiates back. Some minute part of me wants to be happy for her, which I know would somehow release me, but there are darker, more primal forces at work here. There's the old lizard brain that doesn't know from kindness and acceptance. It wants the Juice back, it wants the elation of love and orgasm to light up the whole fucking block and remind it of carnal days gone by. Stravinski's motherfucking Rites of Spring! All it knows is flight, fight and fuck and right now we are in short supply of all three. On stage now is mister mamby-pamby pre-frontal cortex who's acting out some kind of tedious and menacing Harold Pinter play that nobody wants to watch anymore but don't dare leave the theater because it's raining outside.
I know that love is a drug, I have read the books and heard the experts. I'm sure most people, if they paid enough attention would see the parallels and give up on this notion of it being some kind of god-given transcendence from the human condition, it's not, and yet we hold infatuation to a separate set of standards, but in the same breath, I know it isn't the same. It is a drug that insures the perpetuation of the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world, the genetic code that makes more of us, the selfish gene. The mayor of your brain, pussy control! The chemicals that course through your body when it is real are the real elixir of life, our only chance at immortality. All of the arts are awash in the misery and revelation of love and to be truly in it is to have a hand in that composition. All the more reason for the personal apocalypse upon loosing it.
I know the only cure for a broken heart... Another fix. Like Peaches said, I need to 'fuck the pain away,' or I will surely implode. But who wants to fuck someone with the thousand mile stare? What is sexy about a man imagining, not sex with this prospective partner before him, but that of his ex and her douchebag boyfriend 1000 miles away. I am damaged goods and damaged goods I shall stay for some time, one foot in the here and now and the rest of me in an embrace with a ghost. But I know I must move on and move on I will, I wouldn't be writing this if I wasn't serious about kicking the habit. And even though I would throw it all away to be with her again, I know life must go on.
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