So because of an amazing incident from Amazon I somehow wound up with 2 copies of this season for the price of one. I have yet to undo the plastic, it is completely new,and I’ve decided instead of selling it that I would do a giveaway in hopes of getting this show more audience.
I have a random…
The man who built little cities for me out of my toys. A right wing conspiracy theory nutjob who emptied my bank account. I can’t make both of them make sense.
And what I am most afraid of is what I will forget. Her calm blue eyes. The warm smell of gifts she gave me. Her voice. How her chair rocked as she watched her stories. The silence when words failed me as she was dying. Holding her hand. Sleeping over on silk pillowcases.
And then there are all the things only she could have told me that I will never know.
Sometimes, I realize I am friends with my parents on all the social media sites and I can’t say what I want, which is mostly:
“I really fucking hope there is someone for me to fuck at summer camp.”
Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
Henry Charles Bukowski”
It’s hard to imagine how a face to face conversation with my roommate is going to not lead to an awkward two months of living together since I am basically kicking them out.
Number of fucks given: 0.
We broke each other’s hearts.
That is probably the most fair and accurate way to succinctly put into words the neverending cacophony of events that comprised my romantic life until this point. I can tell the story as a victim, as the remorseful antagonist, as the grown up version of a dumb kid.
The worst part is it’s not an original story at all. Whenever I get deluded enough to think that I am a hopelessly complex and interesting person, I only have to think back to sitting across a shit brown library table across from an indignant and silent Sean waiting for an answer. I realize that the story of my life and the story of probably everyone else’s are moments like that, moments where simple truths can’t be put into simple words, or any words at all. Seconds, or weeks, or months where you can recognize potential and do nothing to change the inevitable failures of your own life, and that fault is rarely in your stars and nearly always in yourself. In an incapability for change, or of honesty or communication. I haven’t encountered anything more painful than recognizing a missed opportunity to alter the course of your future, or at least, missing the glimpse of what it could be, if human beings weren’t so fucked up in the first place. It’s to me proof of the non existence of God. Why, given infinite power of creation, would you choose to make this?
In the green and brown faux woodpanelled abomination of a high school library, I refused to admit fear. I was afraid, sometime I still refuse to admit or succumb to in my life in general. I certainly wasn’t going to admit it when he masked his fear with open hostility. Heartlessness was left as the only choice for both of us and we pursued it with restless abandon. Breaking up and staying present in each other’s lives lead to the most paranoid and self-centered viewpoint I hope I will ever have. I can still to this day turn even any innocent action of Sean’s into something malicious. Maybe all women are trained to do that by movies and friend’s thoughtless attempts to make us feel better. At least for my sanity, Sean admitted to purposely trying to deconstruct my life. It makes me feel better that my perception of him purposely subverting my longest standing friendships was completely accurate, but I am smart enough to know that there are no easy answers to anything. Every simple answer is most likely so oversimplified that it might as well be wrong. And so I am stuck, halfway between learning a lesson and knowing that in the long history of the world and the long history of me and Sean, nothing can be put in a nutshell, categorized, or easily referenced.
I’ve only recently come to understand why every few years he reaches out to me for answers. It’s tempting to think that someone else could fix everything. If coating ourselves in the saliva of other people hasn’t worked yet, and I can safely say that it hasn’t worked for me, then we must only be able to fix each other, but when it comes to me, and him, and us, we are both utterly incapable of telling the truth and unwilling to accept “I don’t know” as answer. We are unwilling to risk opening up the wounds that are scabbed over but not healed, unwilling to create more bruises.
I took it upon myself to come up with some ideas:
1. It’s revealed through flashbacks that President Bartlet was one of Sloan Sabbath’s economics professors.
2. Sorority Girl is Donna’s little sister.
3. When covering the 2012 presidential election, Newsnight talks with legendary White House…
LORD JOHN MARBURY!