11:14 p.m. - 2004-04-30
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My life has been a long timeline of silence, interrupted by men and women and sometimes sex. My first sexual experiences was numbing and I convinced myself that he died of GRIDS.
I met this guy. I don’t know which guy I should start with, or who started the long line-up of men that populated my life in scarce spurts from age thirteen to now. But they all were common to one another, all specific to the almost/over-thirty category.
One of them had this fiancé from Mexico and he was totally fucking desperate and loved his fiancé and in return I loved him, and she left him and I was still desperate and I was the only one left in the relationship.
I perpetually became the extra party.
Another would tell me how I was the apotheosis of brilliance and beauty and the entire universe. He is with someone with a name and they have a dog, whom they named. I remained nameless and convinced myself that it never happened.
I have this tradition, formed out of repetitive circumstances I guess, in which I kind of kill people in my mind. This condenses the alienation and misery I feel from people leaving me. This way, I can put the pain into a manageable, palpable grieving process. He didn’t leave; in fact, he died, and it is my duty to lament his absence from the world. He is the tragedy, I am not.
I have always been looking for detergency. The ultimate extermination and self-ablution, like taking a burning hot bath in holy water, in a white porcelain tank.
I stopped seeing people years ago. At first, my inability to see people was palliated by distributing my isolation in a day-to-day format. For instance, “Today, I was too unhappy and busy to be with other people; however, tomorrow will be different.” Soon, it was weekly stints of isolation. Next, I hadn’t been touched in years.
Today, I am unhappy and busy and I don’t think tomorrow will be different.
