Out of respect for The Prettiest Girl in the World, in order to retain whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left at this point, and to prevent you, innocent reader, from experiencing a personal meltdown that would make Timothy Treadwell look like a pillar of stability, I am going to cease and desist from getting personal on my web log once this update has posted (I keep forgetting that this thing is supposed to be about indie film for some weird reason--duh).
While I know I’ve made this declaration before, and while I also know that it won’t be long before I’m divulging myself in a shameless manner that would make a journal-keeping schoolgirl shriek with embarrassment, I am going to do my best to keep my word. I’m now finally beginning to realize that my desperate demand for “honesty at whatever cost”--though noble and intriguing in theory--is actually a dangerous personal malfunction that I need to address if I ever expect someone to consider me as a serious mate. It’s the reason I ruined the greatest thing that has ever happened to me up to this point, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let it happen again.
But before I do that, I must come clean about something.
In my previous post, I mentioned something ridiculous about the “blame” being 50/50 when it came to the dissolution of The Greatest Story Ever Told. That is complete and total bullshit.
I AM ONE THOUSAND PERCENT TO BLAME FOR WHAT HAPPENED.
Again, I’m going to spare you the shameful details, but just know that I instigated the collapse, I created the tragedy, I turned the best hit of ecstasy into the worst acid trip ever.
At the time of writing last week, I was still caught up in the moment and couldn’t see the situation for what it really was. But now that the black fog has had time to fully settle, I realize that I, and only I, am the guilty one. It disgusts me to think that I would have written that. So I apologize--to The Prettiest Girl in the World, to you, to myself.
But don’t worry. I’m being punished. This past week has been the most unbearable week of my adult life. Time hasn’t simply sat still; it’s regressed. I don’t know where my stomach went, but it sure as shit isn’t in my body anymore. I erupted in tears while making a ham sandwich yesterday morning. While I haven’t officially tested myself, I think I’m impotent. I, my friends, am not doing very well. So while that doesn’t excuse my unforgivable behavior, I’m certainly getting what I deserve. (And, truth be told, today was much, much better, so no need to call the psych ward or anything.)
The only trouble is, according to my firm belief in the yin-and-yang theory of existence, if I just had two extraordinarily great months, does that mean I’m going to be feeling this way for TWO FUCKING MONTHS? I mean, I guess I deserve it, but all I can say to that is O-to-the-U-to-the-C-to-the-H. Like a muhfucka.
Though, if I’m truly honest about things, THIS is the truth:
Had I actually made it to San Jose this past weekend, the impossibility of our being together would be confronting us even harder right now upon my return to the east coast (something that’s even more terrifying to think about--so I won’t). It simply wasn’t going to happen for some time, and we both knew that from the very beginning. I now understand that my behavior can in some part be attributed to my frustration at that impending realization, and while it doesn’t justify the snippy behavior that triggered the collapse, it certainly helps to explain it. I just wish it hadn’t gone down the way it had.
The worst part for me right now is realizing that--all ‘true love’ aside--I might have ruined my chances at a genuinely meaningful friendship with a really, really, really great person. I can only hope that once this awful fog scatters into the ether, The Prettiest Girl in the World will find it in her heart to forgive me and welcome me back into her life. Later on, who knows what might happen. But only time has the answer to that one. So I can’t worry about that right now. I have to dig deep and grasp whatever glimmer of hope still remains within me and hold onto that fucker for dear, precious, insane, impossible life.
As a symbol of my shame and sadness, I have begun to grow a Beard of Sorrow that’s gonna make Sasquatch look like Vern Troyer. Seriously, look out world.
Before I end this soap opera once and for all, let me say that while this might all seem hopeless and negative, it’s not. I trust the world, I really do. While it isn’t supposed to be impossibly great, it isn’t supposed to be impossibly terrible either. I firmly believe that. So all I can do is keep on keeping on and wait for the yin to return. I’m about to bust a cap up in yang if he don’t take his shit back across town.
And thus, my friends, concludes “The Diary of an Ultrahypersensitive Cancer Sissy Boy.” Thanks for tuning in. You may now return to your own stable, optimistic, wonderful lives.
I mean it.
(For those of you who haven’t officially bailed on “Boredom at Its Boredest,” I assure you that tomorrow’s update will be film-related and will actually be POSITIVE. It’s a really good one, I promise!)