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BLIND LOVE: A Vicious Romance Saga

"Love is a trainwreck whose wheels have come off as it collides with a short bus."


A Vicious Romance Saga


Author’s Note: It’s Valentine’s Day, the saddest and most unstable of holidays and, ironically, the only one that makes sense to observe on our annual calendar. It marks the advent of Love, the day when some chubby little churl in a diaper flung an arrow at the closest Idiot in the vicinity and filled the human Heart with longing for something unattainable to some and impossibly crude to most. I am not one to pitch a feature article about things as inscrutable and invisible as Love or Romance or Chivalry or God, but then I’m not one to sit through another grotesque Year without cursing the general public for the horror and bullshit that we call the Human Condition. It is with this hate and overwhelming emotion in my gut that I spew this love-born indignation at you, the unassuming Reader who happens to be pathetic enough to be reading a magazine on Cupid’s Solstice when you should be out stretching the boundaries of logic by gazing into some bitch’s eyes and searching for the Magic that so rarely radiates. The following epistolary yarn is all that I have to say on the subject of Hearts & Flowers for now and, probably, the remainder of my time on this sloppy Planet. Hugs and kisses, bitches!


March 8th, 2005


Attraction. Animal lusting. Deep-seated emotional longing. Obsession. Infatuation. Connection. Love. Call it whatever you want. All of the above can make a person behave completely brash, brazen and careless. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s a bad thing. Sometimes it can mean never being able to look somebody in the eye again.


Anais Nin once said, "Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic."


Nobody could put it more eloquently. Least of all me, which is why I will forego the platitudes and just tell you what I am feeling: I am feeling guilty for having pressed her. I am feeling glad that we finally shared an affectionate embrace. I wish more forcefully right now than I ever have wished before that I could have her head in my chest and bury my face in her warmth, to feel her smooth, aromatic skin brush even one fiber of my own.


It is bad. It is real bad. And this particular one has struck a lot of nerves and left others in paralysis. An illness has manifested itself inside of me, born of another beautiful sickness that goes by so many inscrutable names. And this sickness has latched on with all fathomable might, and caused me to languish from the sleepless nights and nervous stomachs that have piled up throughout.


I cannot eat. Perhaps a cliché? I don’t rightly care when I’m in this state. Try as I might, this doesn’t seem capable of being shaken off. No closure in sight. How scary is that? Have you experienced it before? Because I’d like to say that I have. But I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Been through this sort of shit, but is this case particularly important to the Future?


Paragraph one explained it all. Mapped out the way by which we can falter and make asses out of ourselves in public and private. They say it’s a young thing, a dumb thing that occurs when you’re naïve and innocent and you think everything is "epic" in its importance. In our teens and twenties, sometimes even up to thirty, we act like immortals, assuming we can treat our bodies badly. That’s what the mystics tell us.


This doesn’t contend with the issue at hand. Whether unstoppable, untouchable…love can get you in the end. He’s young. He’s stupid. But he’s been there before. So why put all your eggs in one basket? How special is that basket? Can she get all modern and English on you? Can she "stop the world and melt with you?"


No cure for this itch. Not even rehab or NA meetings. This is another creature altogether, and one so austere and imperfectly amazing in her beauty and many-faceted quirks that it seems hard not to stumble around like a harlequin and run for the ringing phone. Hard to pass up even the most heart-breaking invitation. Hard to imagine losing someone who you’ve only known for such a brief yet substantial amount of time.


When you become enamored with somebody, it is not utterly unheard of for you to act out of sorts, or to even project selfish limitations on The One. Selfishness is another damper not unlike anxiety and the two seem to go hand in hand quite naturally. Or is this just me? Please tell me I am not alone.


Some cynics would say that very same thing of relationships and one’s desire to find a suitable significant other: "All you’re really looking for is someone who will fill the void and remind you incessantly that you are not alone." But feelings of genuine trust, love or admiration cannot withstand such broad and ultimately unrealistic ideals.


What’s that other thing they’re always saying? "Hold on tightest to something with an open hand?" Seems about right, at least for now, until I find a way to discredit it. By "feeding the void," all he or she would be doing is exploiting their would-be partner for the sake of filling up space. Anyone stolid and self-concerned on that level certainly does not deserve to drink of this sweet nectar.


Maybe the easiest way to put it would be to admit to a pure and half-mad thirst for the elixir of pain and ecstasy. Agony is a close relative of amorous intent. Rites of passage are scattered around every step of the way and the trick might be to adapt to these conditions, to revel in them.


What’s really important? What is "the right thing to do?"


Should I let go and see what happens? Should I sit here and stew and wonder whether everything I have said has driven her away? Have I pressed her for an answer? I never really meant to.


Situations can be so strange.


 "Love seeketh not itself to please,Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease,And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair."—William Blake  

A grandiose number of people, important and unimportant alike, have written of Love in its many earthly and otherworldly forms. Only an exclusive and superior group of these persons have ever gotten it right or even merely realistic. Everyone has heard the expression, "It takes a village to raise a child," but how about a far more understandable and truthful aphorism: It takes only one person to Love, but it takes two spirits in tune to see that Love through the many gray clouds and cavernous mud tunnels of Life.


I am sure if you are anything like the rest of us—cynical and myopic, strangled and confused by the dog-eat-bitch world around you—then none of this is making any sense quite yet. Just chill the fuck out and read on. Soon the slide will slip into focus and the specimen will be magnified to suit your stubborn vision.


 "If thou remember’st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not loved."—William Shakespeare 

April 2nd, 2005


I never went to college, but She did and so, you could say, a Spring Break was apropos. Especially on such a dreary afternoon.


The night before was a rough one made no better by excessive consumption of Rumplemintz. L, the She so integral to every key I am about to punch, was visiting a friend of mine with me and we decided to get the bottle. Several shots into the evening I began feeling threatened with the rich dialogue my friend was engaged in with L, and felt like neither of them had any need for my stale rhetoric.


This feeling was no doubt amplified or even directly caused by the ‘Mintz, but that thought did not occur to me after the initial two or three hours. Instead the only thought in my head was, "How ‘bout another drink?"


In no time at all, I found myself in my friend’s backyard, on my knees in wet grass and vomiting alongside a tool shed in a torrential downpour. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, each hard raindrop a blow to the face, I couldn’t help picturing the fanciful conversation that I was missing.


[I was making the first of many mistakes people make with Love, hording it and developing petty insecurities that defy their natural rationale.]


The next morning, after waking up with cottonmouth and realizing that the evening had ended without decent resolve, I knew it was importunate that I make an escape, even if for just one day, one night. I raced down the driveway and into the mist of a foggy and achromatic day. It was drizzling, but no so flagrantly as to affect my fast, bitter jog up the corner block and around the corner to a Dead End.


When I reached the cul-de-sac I was greeted by an impossibly huge puddle. Nay, puddle is too small of a word. This was a miniature flood, the kind of water mass that only idiotic Long Islanders could deserve for buying property by docks and canals. It goes without saying that I wasn’t happy to find it here on a morning when hell-for-leather speed was a must.


In my dark sunglasses and bushy bed head I must have looked quite the derelict to the two old men gabbing by the flooded portion of the street. But I wasn’t a derelict. I was a man on a mission, a Lover desperately seeking a vessel by which to reach the only individual that deserved his attention.


A lousy guttersnipe fool would say that I was running away from a problem that needed to be faced, but that’s not what this Radical Romantic Lush was doing. He was running away from those jailers who would keep him from lavishing his petit amour in laughter and dimwitted pop culture-driven rhetoric. The only irresponsibility he was guilty of was in forgetting the poems he had written of her, for her. But something told him that they were not good enough. So he left them behind, however subconsciously.


While L and I shared a mutual disgust for clichés, I was oftentimes predisposed to using them. So to hand her something peppered in hackneyed declarations of amore would be both arbitrary and ridiculous, thereby cheapening the genuine feelings behind each of the stale words used to describe what my heart holds in its ever-swelling container.


It took a lot of maneuvering and stealthily scaling the pillars and walkways of very expensive nearby mansions in order to avoid falling into the drink and drowning in buckets of five-inch deep polluted water. When I finally reached the Lindencrest Diner along Montauk Hwy, my legs were rubbery and I had to limp due to a twisted ligament in my left leg.


My fingers tickled a goosebump as I rifled through my pants pockets for some change.

L and I had only been seeing each other for a month, and the situation had bore its fair share of potholes along the way. This seemed like just the ticket we needed, a vacation from the environment we had found each other in.


If she hadn’t picked up the phone I may have taken that dip in the drink after all. It was a real relief when she picked up the phone and was happy to hear from me.


"I didn’t think you were gonna call," she said. "I thought you were gonna hate me after last night."


L hadn’t held my head or patted me on the back while I was throwing up and, apparently, I had made clear very boisterously during the course of that drunken walk back to my house that I didn’t appreciate her lack of interest in me getting sick.


"I’m sorry," she continued.


"Don’t be, I’m sorry for making a big deal about it."


I told her I was taking off in pursuit of an afternoon. She said that she would get a ride to the Lindencrest. In spite of my urge to keep her free of my burdens, it really was quite pleasant to hear that L would convene with me at Lindy’s biggest luncheonette.


 "Love commands us to step outInto nothingness—and bears us up."—Paul Brown

It was going to be some time before L arrived with bubblegum-flavored lip gloss on, and I already felt half-dead. Time to kill and an empty stomach. With this on the brain, I decided to get a booth and eat some breakfast, thinking it would provide the requisite energy I would need to brave this rainy morn.


Instead of picking me up, the dish of soggy eggs, flaccid bacon and dried up hash browns left me with cramps and the urge to purge. Fortunately it would be several hours before she arrived, so the "tummy in turmoil" would have time to stop rumbling in its gastrointestinal discord.


When she walked through the doors, her big, blue, star-adorned bag of goodies on her side, I greeted her in the same fashion that would come to be a mainstay in our many

travails—by looking up, bright-eyed and slack-jawed, and rushing to put into a smile exactly how delighted I was at who I was seeing standing there before me.


Appearances, as all wise people know, is only a surface concept of who someone can be or who they aspire to be. "Beauty is only skin deep," we’ve all heard that one. But understand that if ever there were someone whose physical shell matched their capricious and formidable inner-self, L would have to be it. Her dark hair feathered in such a way as to reflect the brush fire maelstrom concealed in her eyes. And those two delicate longer pieces framing her cheeks. No wonder the slack jaw.


Later that week, I would share a song with her that I had written, the chorus of which contained the following line: when two minds think like one. No greater example of this like-mindedness can be found outside of L’s response upon assessing our situation.


"There’s really nowhere for us to go unless this rain lets up. All I know is I’m not going home tonight."


"We should get a motel room," she said.


It had been my intention to broach the possibility of a motel stay very delicately and I was still working up to it when the words came off her own tongue. If I wasn’t smirking on the outside, I probably should have been.


I had no cash, but L had $200 from a school grant that had come in the mail, the larger part of which had been usurped by her Madre. We came to the agreement that I would charge the room on my credit card and L would cover food and drink expenses.




The Marina Motel was a notorious hooker spot whose only long-term residents were either "on the job" or doing a job on someone in between construction gigs. Trashy, in a word, but home to many. The management were a bunch of sleazy Indians whose office reeked of curry and ass. A room for three hours cost $35, a room for the night $65. Although the math never added up, $65 was reasonably inexpensive for a night in any motel and we jumped at the opportunity to charge it up.


What followed was the Ignition of our mutual passion, six solid days and nights of intense praying mantis fucking so powerful as to tear sheets and tear up eyes. My song had come true before I even sang it for her later that night.


I’d slit my wrists to wear your kiss

To wrap around convulsions

If we could wear each other’s skin I’d learn some jet propulsion. 

What’s inside me

What’s inside you

I’m fucking bots

We’re crazy too. 

Watch me throw away my fix

Just so we can play some tricks

Call up perverts, prank them good

‘Cause we’re so misunderstood. 

C’mon, mami, move on in.

So we can share some sins and grins

Loving you is fun to do

Even when I’m bruising too. 

Bite me back and please draw blood

‘Cause scars are always fun

Let’s clamp together

When we’re done. 

Let’s play on the playground

Let’s sing our shaky song

Let’s play ‘cause we are saved

When two minds think like one.

When two minds think like one. 

Our stay at the Marina Motel left me weather-beaten and scabrous, but no less dizzy from all of the raw Estrus and our shared emotional tailspins. Bleary, bloodshot, blue eyes and bigger bedhead than Johnny fucking Suede. Calluses and grime covered my withering and grateful body, my ribs occasionally frowning when I yawned, jutting out like the rings and bags adorning my sleep-starved face.


By the third night/fourth morning the sheets were a hopelessly tangled and charcoaled mess, and the clothes we had been wearing all week were sopping wet.


"Love works miracles every day...favoring the passions, destroying reason, and, in a word, turning everything topsy-turvy."—Marguerite De Valois

You said it, Sister. The Spanish are so wise. L was my Puerto Rican dream, the perfect blend of exotic with an ass to match her temper. Mucho caliente, to steal a definition that perfectly described her…it might seem easier to borrow legendary powerhouse aphorisms from the Philosophical fossils of Yesteryear, thereby saving myself the legwork. But these were quotes that collected in my Diary during those first few fateful months, the black little book with the Remington typewriters all over the front cover, a gift from Love personified.


"Love is spontaneous and craves expression

through joy and beauty, through truth, even throughtears. Love lives the moment; it’s neither lost in yesteryearnor does it crave for tomorrow. Love is NOW!"—Leo Buscaglia

Leo pretty much explained the reason why we awoke to a checkout time every single morning we were there and paid by day. We couldn’t bear to part ways in the morning and before her eyes even opened I was already scribbling to myself in that black book, "What will she say if I insist we stay another night? Will she ever forgive me if I tack on another seventy bucks to the fast-growing debt?"


April, 2005


Hard to say whether my fears outnumber my desires or whether my desires outnumber my fears, because I am constantly gripped by concern and longing until it drives me up invisible walls of my own creation. These walls cannot be scaled and I find myself fever blistered out of upheaval at my own feverish frustration.


These walls cannot be scaled because new ones are erected in their place, in their absence.


I’m afraid of where I am going, but more afraid of where I have been. The indentations, clots of sticky living collecting beneath my dermis, road signs pointing to old mistakes and predispositions…


…But I should not climb the walls when there’s so much to keep me in, and I am slowly teaching myself that Love is the only reason without reason.


Keep a low profile whenever applicable. Stand on top of walls and move rooms for my damsel with pastels. Walls are nothing to fear when they’re the foundation of your castle.


Room 208 was not at all what we had come to expect from small roadside hooker motels. Besides being much larger than your average "suite," its walls were a therapeutic beige color, and the expensive faux-marble countertop held over two hundred pounds of solid weight—as we would later learn when, in drunken zeal, I stood up on it and took a free fall onto the bed.


There was something in its basic architecture and interior decoration that was surprisingly quaint. Somehow it cried home, which is why our journey is so appropriate. Who would have known that this austere motor lodge room would become our haven, a place that we would both call home in the weeks to come—and, yet again, more than a year later?


So what if the little desktop ice box had a broken door and we had to get crafty if we were going to keep Bud Ice tallboys from spilling out in the first days of Spring heat? And if the knob on the heater blasts us with gelid air on already blanket-worthy late nights? This place will keep us out of the rain, and keep us together on inundating afternoons of blinding light and gridlock. It took us a few days to ascertain this fact, but who would have thunk it? We had become Vampires, the kind that feed on each other.


May, 2005


I studied my itchy palms for a moment, tracing the seemingly inconsistent and out of control pattern of flaky dead skin. "How about you tell me something else about my palms," I said, recalling the palm reading L had given me in late-March.


That much-welcomed and sought after smile graced her face and she wrapped her fingers around mine. "I was just thinking about that."


When two minds think like one.


This was something that we and we alone shared from the Advent of our relationship, a Cosmic Thread that filled our every day with moments that remain paragons of Oneness and so many absurd coincidences that were anything but.


Seeing Six (of Blossom fame) on some recent twenty-something television series after having engaged in a lengthy screed about her character on the hat-crazed 80’s sitcom, made me think about the night of our first true kiss(es), an evening that had begun with the revelation that we both loved No Doubt’s "Tragic Kingdom," and had really taken off once we arrived at the Phunky Fish to find a poster in the front window advertising an upcoming performance by a No Doubt cover band who called themselves…Tragic Kingdom.


"Love is not ‘blind’ but visionary. It sees into the very heart of its object, and sees the ‘real self’behind and in the midst of the frailties andshortcomings of the person."—Andras Angyal 

I saw that Real Self and I am fairly certain that we both glimpsed it, especially in those early days before the Devil got in the way. And it saw through shortcomings and frailties and lifted us up like the Good Book. This is nowhere more illustrated than in the proverbial little black book.


As Paul Brown would have it ordained, Love commanded me to step out into nothingness and it felt like it really did bear us up. It may have been the motel, but I think Love was what kept the dark at bay or made it so that we could tolerate the dark.




There’s about a mile between me and the closest 7-Eleven carrying 99-cent cans of Bud. As I was walking by the canals along Shore Road and taking in my bleak environs while pouring sweat and sulking, my mind seized up with resentment. The area I was strolling or, rather, stomping through was home to many stupid young wannabes with little on their minds outside of where their weed would be coming from in the morning or whether their daddies would be springing for the latest mini-motor bike or electric scooter. Who is fucking who? How can I fuck my friends over and gain street cred from doing so? Can I wear a purple do-rag as a white boy and not look like a tard? Am I acting the thug or acting the fool? What stranger will give me money for a blunt and some Quiznos tomorrow?


My muscles tensed up and my vision blurred as I mulled it all over. I suddenly felt a great ire at my entire generation and the even more flawed generation underneath me. Their parents moved to the Burbs so they could live a privileged life, and all they took from it was the car keys and the Get Out of Jail Free Card. Their families struggled so they would never have to confront “the elements,‿ and these predominantly white little shitters maxed out their parents’ credit cards on gangsta weat and deafening car speakers and started meandering through residential neighborhoods with faux-attitudes and would-be ghetto male machismo.


I was nearing the corner of Shore when I looked down and, amidst hubcaps and broken glass, spotted a tiny pile of garbage no doubt tossed out a passenger side window after a late night binge. The prominent debris in the spill were two empty packs of Newports and scattered McDonald’s remains. The perfect symbol of a generation wasted and spoiled. The take, take, take and never give back mentality. Who cares? Whatev. Someone else will clean up my mess. Apathy at its most grandiose.


I could have been hating myself and not my whole generation, but it is distinctly possible that I was hating one because of the other. Perhaps they are interchangeable. It doesn’t matter, though, because I was really meditating on the situation at hand. $2,000 in credit card debt and no job; an awful, physically exhausting and mega-itchy skin rash on my hands, legs and feet; and an untimely alcohol dependency exacerbated by my living situation. The real trouble, of course, had to do with L.


In the past three months we had grown in love, the sort of maddening, manic and beautiful love that inspires(or should inspire) great, epic concept albums. And there wasn’t a waking moment when we weren’t together or fighting, finagling and charging to be together.


When the bills piled up and the ramifications of our greedy and glamorously decadent nights finally set in, we had painted ourselves into a corner. Still it did not matter.


The Promise

A Message to L


I desire a lot in this blistered state. I want so much for your soft little lobes to p(r)ick up at the violent sound of me thinking these fevered thoughts as you sleep. I want pink trails across my outline, tiny ditches dug with your new nails.


I want to wade in our collective fluids at that crucial moment, begging my flesh to keep up with our souls. My belt should fall apart on this night. Every day I will buy another one.


I want to be a Plushie so I can tease you with stuffed animals. I’d graze you with Teddy just to remind you of the difference betwixt playthings and Me. They are stuffed, but they can’t stuff you.


I want mashed potatoes at our very own table and cerveza with a view. But more (much more) than cheap repose, I want to laugh about all those butt nuts we see on the monitors of glitterati and stupidity.


I want your toes on my tongue and your ankle not far behind. It sounds funny when I say it, but it’s not as ridiculous as when I have my own foot in my mouth.


My hands ache to cut off air supply, to bring you to the edge before pulling you back to seeming safety atop my supercharged lap. I want my incontinence to always make sense. Only between us and never to Them. I want candlewax on nips and heat on our cheeks. I want to see you in the ceiling when you’re breathing real deep.


Can’t always chase away demons, but I’ll hold you real steady and while you’re asleep I’ll list more desires.


I want to be a praying mantis, as lithe as a sub-human can get. You love it when I rhyme and I love it when you’re wet. I love that you totally saw that one coming.


Weird that I wrote this…I already got what I wanted…




Our grunts and our hiding games, eyes disappearing behind veil only to reemerge in the company of fresh smiles…these have all become memories far off, reduced to parlor tricks or the stuff that seemed too magical in a movie when you were eight years old and now you see it and you can see all the cigarette burns and cheap latex for what it is. Or maybe that’s overstating it, maybe that’s cheapening something even worse than it’s already been cheapened.


Love never dies and no amount of pain can take away the Happiness already enjoyed. But it can be besmirched and when it is, it keeps knocking on your heart like a crazed junkie boyfriend who won’t go away until you undo the chain or reach through to hand him the last of your rent check. This is what happened to me and L.

 I think back to what Buscaglia said: "Love is NOW!" It may be the reason why we weren’t working out, because we never invested in our potential Future, and, therefore, didn’t have one. Fichez-nous la paix.   “If it takes shit to make bliss, well,I feel pretty blissfully.‿—Isaac Brock  

January, 2008


When they said Love was blind, I didn’t think they were talkin’ about Ray Charles up in this Motherfucker. Maybe Mr. Magoo with a blurry set of bifocals, or at least a Helen Keller; something ultimately uplifting, a story of Hope and the Will of the Spirit or Spirit of the Will. But not Ray!!!


Alas, it would seem that Love is a walking stick-carrying, canine best friend-having, stone blind Geek who falls down elevator shafts and slips in dog poo without realizing it. Love smells the dog poo later and mistakenly places it as being a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Love has trouble finding its keys quite often. Love is a many splendored things. Love is a seeing eye dog with bad pigment. Love is never having to say you’re sorry and, yet, never being able to when you should. Love is a trainwreck whose wheels have come off as it collides with a short bus. Love is unique and weird and constantly notable. And the sting reduces strong men to feeling like tragic immortal gods.


Well, she went out the window and came back in with fleas and the most I can figure is I got some of these. And she came in the door and looked back at her phone and played pogo stick on your chestousizz while you were asleep. I ain’t gonna rhyme ‘cause this Love ain’t got reason. Let’s get back to the Blindness so I can share more.


The fact is this Blind one lapped up every minute of walking into walls because his Love was itinerant and for a while popped up. This is the One, the girl Barry White sings about, who had been here since ’05 and was part of Magnificent. And Magnificence came with Chaos and Estrus; they convened on a mountain of history and scars. The scars were okay, that was part of Allure and Allure came with the Beauty and the electric guitar. The guitar and the Beauty connected the spark and when we used to go to bed, man, those wheels would come off. The guitar was my tongue and soft licks make ‘em wet. I filled every hole, every hole in her heart.


Two years strong and then, ‘bout another half, that’s when history caught up and we were dealt a real hand. I don’t know.


Guess it was a few weeks before my Movie was finished and we were on our last legs before the finishing edit. And Beauty was fair and she fell to the ground, and that shit became wicked, and the Animal came out. A sick, warped, spiteful, resentful, fanged and snarling, ugly, fucking retarded Rage spilled forth from my mouth like bowls of Wrath, and her wicked tongue spat a Rat-a-Tat-Tat,and we cussed and we fought and we fired right back until both were left dying in a metaphorical sense. And the decision to split came from both of our lips and then more senseless blaming and bullshit and fits. Another scar, at least just one more. One on both of us and two in our hearts.


More blood was spilled by the big-bang-we’re-done, more blood than in my fucked up little flick. And the wound never healed up. We talked on the phone and caught up for a book and the minute we saw each other we couldn’t even look. The glow was unbearable and we tried to play coy, but that shit just would not let it fly.


Love rushed into the arms of this Fool and we were naked by the New Year in the Loft under the Moon. And the Magic seeped back in with a lot of Restraint because there was another young man in the back of the Wings. And apparently he was just as nuts as me; she placated him on the phone while I was watching TV. And the Return of Saturn was with us for a few and it seemed like a real chance at us to Renew the undying, unbeatable, statically-electric hand of Love, a flame impervious that, for some reason, could be Denied.


We called it Dating, but we knew it wasn’t; we were the same incredible cretins as we always had been. This was a Waiting Game that She knew was unfair and it’s fucked up to say, but she thinks that she cares. And I hope that she does because I love her beyond Death, but waiting it out didn’t work when this nigga shows up at my crib. He got my info off the Internet and invaded My Space.  He rolls up to my Driveway and we both look braced.


I’m ready for a skull with my pipe, but then we make eye contact and I realize I have nothing against this character. She’s the One we both turn to and the question is raised for what must have been the Thousandth time. Are you His or are you Mine? Initially she tried to hide, and that pissed me off brutal as I raged inside. She’s not a Possession, but she Possesses my mind. The only all-encompassing equal alive.


He’s looking at her and I’m looking at him. When he hurled out accusations she just met his eye by crooking her head to the side and making some stupid, "You know me better than that," look. And that, my friends, was the clincher. Love fucked up something that had been nurtured and treasured, and shredded it up and poured beer all over its face. Love said, "I’m not ready to give up either of you yet." And that was that and that’s just when I said, "Ya know what? You just fucking gave up."


Love sat there, pathetic, sobbing and hyperventilating, unable to redeem a 2 ½-year cosmic connection ordained by our Angel, not once being able to express apology except to and for Herself. And I can’t wrap my mind around it, it’s just tearing me up, to know that this person I can’t help but LOVE could neglect something so powerful for the sake of going through the Motions. This incredible powerthrust of Compatible Awesomeness traded in for Weed and awkward conversations and manic attacks and mid-morning beer binging until Blackout.


Like a buzzer went off and you heard a voice say, "Connection has been Compromised." Mission aborted, left out in the cold with shit on its viscera. End game what? Bizarre Love Triangle? Bad idea and a few simple words described how important Love was to the One. Blindly quashing a History that felt like it was leading to Legacy, abandoning post and sinking ships, cutting off oxygen to the Id and the Soul, sucker-punching the Memory and forgetting the Future, even three days after Tomorrow becomes Yesterday.

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