The Rebirth of Textual Narcissism
Ask me about inconsequential shit.
Ask me about inconsequential shit.
Last year I had mentioned to my best friend that I wanted someone to come along and ruin me. In America, dreams come true.
Perhaps it isn’t really love that I’m experiencing but the pain is unbearable. There is a great rift in my chest that is held together by a paper-thin strip of pride and logic, but for moments at a time, the shit breaks and I’m a complete wreck. I go through cycles of self-loathing and him-loathing and situation-loathing and when I feel like I’m ashamed of the blubbering and angry epiphanies and the questioning of all things impossible, I reapply logic hoping to seal this deluge of bitterness.
I walked down the bustling corridor of the Airport this morning listening to music on my hacked DS. And for a moment I was part of a cinematic cliche. Alone, I tread on towards the gate, bleeding everywhere, Thom Yorke gently crooning in my ears. But one integral thing does not happen: The Cowardly Lion does not intercept me before I board the plane nor does he call.
When I arrive home I futilely check e-mails and message boards for any sign of contact, some explanation, some fucking clue as to how to tidy up this oozing mess that is my self. But this is Him we’re talking about. Him who never initiated contact ever in the first place. I’ve deluded myself into thinking that he grew a fucking backbone overnight.
I want to know why. I want to write the 4-page email. I want to send the furious, hurtful texts. I want to make 2am phone calls. But thank you, logic, for not failing me at this time.
But for the love of Pete, someone call a plumber. I can’t fix this fucking leaky tear duct by myself.
