Sorry For Being Silent

Part of me likes to think that if things had worked out differently, we would have been together forever. But I never told him that, and we had talked about me not saying things on the Internet that I can’t say to his face. Although, I didn’t really say anything to his face. All I said was, “I’m unhappy.” And he told me, “I know I can’t make you happy, so I’m not going to hold you hostage in this relationship.” Which felt generous, but, damn, after everything’s that happened I think I was hoping for a more scintillating conversation on the demise of our romantic endeavors. No, “I’m sorry, I want to make you happy” or “Fuck you, I’ve tried so hard.” Just: “Okay.” Which feels so unfair. After all the highs and lows – to just peter out with a whimper? No negotiation, no effort. Just: “Okay.”

I know that there are extenuating circumstances that contribute to these conditions, but as I speed away from everything that happened and glance at it in the rear view mirror, I can’t help but thinking, huh, that really wasn’t worth fighting for. Or fighting over. Just left it on the side of the road to die in silence and darkness.

That is so fucking frustrating and disappointing and boring. How is he one of the most exciting, interesting people I have ever met, yet we are letting each other go without a second thought. Don’t we believe in romance? And love?

The last break up I went through lasted ten months. This one lasted one hour. I was prepared to go down in flames together, but instead I’m here, alone, on fire, and feeling like this is less the spectacle that I got dressed up for and more like something that will die in the wind momentarily.

I guess there’s something merciful about it. But I don’t want mercy. I want rage.

So I’ll take my rage somewhere else, and burn down something beautiful with someone else. You will hear me screaming in the streets soon enough.



“You need to put more effort into our sex life,” he tells me.

“I drank your piss two days ago, how much more effort do you want?” I ask.

Threeways. He wants me to set up threeways for us. As in, he wants me to fetch other pussy for him to fuck. That kind of effort.

This confuses me. He can get his own pussy. I’m pretty sure he does get his own pussy. He’s probably just getting greedy. And lazy. If I’m going to find someone new to fuck, it’s not going to be some woman that I’m going to offer up on a platter for him. I’ll find myself someone to fuck.

This is where the relationship is. This bores me. This non-commital, semi-loving, disconnected relationship. We are, as he loves to remind me, ‘just friends.’ Then why does he take up all of my time? He has told me over and over again that this relationship has no future. So why are we here? In the future? We’re not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be gone, and I’m supposed to be on to the next one, which I am, but he’s still here.

This isn’t even a real relationship, but it has all the hallmarks of a toxic relationship. None of the benefits, all of the pitfalls. Yet I still haven’t left. What an uninteresting way for me to live my life. I am disappointed in myself for falling into this half-set, lazy trap and not having enough resolve to leave something that is so easy to leave.

Explanation of The Monster

“I’m not a monster!”

Fuck. He’s right. I shouldn’t have called him that. And in this moment, I find myself a little bit at a loss as for why I did that. No, I didn’t say it to his face, I just took a bit of creative license in my writing on this blog and also the other one. I thought I was being so clever and so visceral. But I was the one who was being an asshole.

I don’t think he’s a monster. I never thought that. If anything, I think he’s more human than almost anyone else I’ve ever met. And that’s fucking beautiful.

The point that I was trying to make, and which I probably didn’t make, is that the duality of man encompasses both the good and the evil in our hearts. If anything, I struggle with facing down my own moral impurities, especially because I was given the misconception that we humans are capable of moral perfection and that we should achieve it. (Hello, Catholicism.)

This flaw goes both ways. I have never been able to achieve moral purity, and I don’t even really try. But this is at odds with my inner desire to achieve it. Nor have I ever met someone who is morally pure, but I still expect that from other people. It’s just a giant, impossible, unmanageable circle of loathing. I’m trying to deal with it better.

Using the allegory of monstrosity wasn’t intended to deny him his humanity, even though perhaps it may have read like that. The allegory of monstrosity was meant to illustrate that I have become better at accepting myself because of him and his unrepentant humanity. The allegory of monstrosity was meant to be hyperbole for all our inner flaws. Monstrosity is meant to reflect the horror and anxiety we have with our own flaws and with other people’s flaws. It wasn’t meant to imply that someone is burdensome or undeserving of love or respect or trust because they are flawed.

If anything, being around someone who is so honest and accepting of his own flawed nature has helped me be more honest and accepting of myself. I admire and cherish that opportunity.

Never a monster. Always a lover.

A Writer’s Anxiety

I am finished with the second edits of my first real (“real”) novella. I want to set it on fire. Throw it out the window. Die without it. I hate it. It’s wretched. It’s such a reckless reflection of so many things I don’t believe in. It’s not me at all. Why did I write it. All of it. There is so much of it. It’s all so stupid. Who would want to read that. Does it make it any sense? It doesn’t make any sense. Not at all. It is a whim on the tip of butterfly wing, about to get blown out with all the other specks of dust that don’t matter at all. I am going to get blown away with it, me in my little life, with my little words, and my little book. It will feel good. I want to shit this thing out of me like a disease and be done with it forever. Flush it down, watch it wash away. Let it be someone else’s problem. Let someone else sanitize it and put back into the drinking water. So that it can poison me again, and I can die all over one more time.


I lied. It wasn’t an easy break up! It was a fake break up and I knew it all along. Which is why I didn’t care. What, in years past, would have been a tidal wave was a mere petering on the sandy shores of another season of my discontented heart. Okay. That’s okay. I’m okay with it. What can I say: I’m manipulative. I knew the exact ebb and flow of in and out of this entire relationship. What can I say: I’m being manipulated! Help! Someone help me! I have no power or control here whatsoever!


I dig my toes into the sand. I soak up the sun. I wait for him to drown me. He is the ocean, I am the parking lot just over the horizon where people leave their dusty mid sized sedans and mini vans so they can pretend for a day that they live their entire lives at the beach. I keep their secrets. Their bluetooth devices. The reality of: he is the ocean, and I am just about to touch him, but I can’t, or I won’t, and I run back to the city to drown in a different kind of death. I’m blinded with neon. It is his fault that I had to run away. I would rather swim than ride the subway, but I can’t backstroke my way to work today, so I set my phone background to a picture of the water. That is the kind of closeness I can stomach today, with the clank of the cars and my head buried down while I listen to songs about someone else’s life on my way to living one that I am not very interested in.

All the Old Things I Used to Write About

I went combing through the archives because I had nothing better to do but rehash old words I had written years ago. It was bleak. Looking back at my dreams with that long look of pity in my eye. Oh. I could have done better. I could have tried harder. I could have dreamed bigger. I could have written more. I can always write more. And more. And more. Forever and ever. These words are like a river, and I am floating lazily down their back, hoping one day to drown inside of them, in bliss and asphyxiation.


I have said so many seemingly shocking things that I no longer have a barometer for what is and isn’t interesting. The hum of my voice as it leaves my mouth has always been monotonous, which is why instead of speaking I stare blankly just past the horizon. I wonder what is out there. I wonder what I haven’t seen yet. I wonder what is blatant and blaring and gauche over there. Here? Nothing is very scandalous. People politely fuck each other and fuck each other over, and it’s fine. It’s a tempered status quo. We’ve gotten used to it. The knock down, drag out fights are nothing worth nodding at any more – just let those people live their peace which is also their violence. That’s none of our business. I keep looking beyond, slightly squinting. Maybe if I stare at the sun too long, I’ll go blind, and then I can write beautiful poems about what it must feel like to still see. No. That is self indulgent. Mustn’t self indulge. Must be a natural beauty after spending hundreds of dollars on powders and creams and lotions. That is the only way to cope with this. Must let my dreams fade into the background and then completely forget about them so that I can continue to live in this landscape which is dotted with other women who are exactly, down to the fingernails, like me. Must be okay with it. I am okay with it. I am okay with being here. I am keeping my head down and being here. I just wish that it made for less boring prose. Being surrounded by like minded peers who value the same things as I do sure makes me feel content, but who wants to read about that? Where’s the war these days? How am I supposed to sell magazines when all we have is peace among nations? Why do my dreams die in the absence of violence? I have been conditioned to be a creature of survival. I will always strive to be the fittest, but once I am the fittest – then what? The chore of world domination? Yawn. I want to feel small again, like I can slip between the cracks, beneath the pavement, into the gutter, back towards the ocean, where it is clean and warm and I can waft away into some cinematic ether. It would be nice to know that everything is going to be okay. Instead, I know that everything is good enough, it’s eh, it’ll do. But it could be better. And it won’t be, because as soon as it’s better, there will be some better better just out of arm’s reach. Why are my arms so short. Why is my imagination so small. Why am I trapped inside the cage of a dream that wasn’t big enough. Why didn’t I dream for the entire world to be mine? I mean, I don’t want it, but it would be nice to at least have the option to have it. To say no. To look lofty, alit on some moral high horse, a champion of the people, with a sword that is on fire and my hair looking good. That would be nice. Is that my dream? To be the rebel, vindicated? Revolution, attained? Ugh, but if I attain revolution, then what do I revolt against if not my own revolution. Or – do I just keep turning, all the time. I can stand still on this planet for twenty for hours and that is enough of a revolution for me. That is enough of a dream achieved. I have done it. I have accomplished the revolution by sitting still for twenty four hours. Hooray for me. I should write about that. Right?