Egads! One Should Not Read Miller's Tropics During a Breakup
12-10 11:40 AM W
Shirelle never called. I left messages and paged her, but she ignored me. I was plagued by insomnia the whole night. I wanted to go to her house and pour syrup in the gas tank, drain the oil, put nails in all the tires, shatter the windshield. I called in sick to work. She called and we talked. At first she lied about where she was, but eventually she admitted she was sleeping with her new guy. It makes me nauseous. The whole world is fucked up. If nature and righteousness existed anymore, I could kill the fucker who fucks my love. I cried on the phone again like a baby. It' so unjust that I'm not given an opportunity to fix things up. Johnny come lately. She doesn't acknowledge her wrongs and it pisses me off. I should not give a fuck. I should get out there with a vengeance. Love is so rare it seems. We almost had it. A compromise here, a concession there. None of it could change the simple fact of her dishonesty. She says I pushed her away. It was her lies, and possessiveness which made it so. Even still, I loved her, would not leave her, would not lock her out, would not turn my back. My loyalty, my dependability, my truthfulness, my trustworthiness mean nothing to her.
I'm grieving and she's fucking around having a good time. "He's perfect," she says. "He's just like me," she says. She can't know that fast. She's make hot, fast decisions before and been wrong. Is she sure this is what she wants?
I'm left holding the pieces. I don't know how I'll meet anyone else. You never do know, I guess. It took years to find Shirelle. I guess I'll write her one last letter and then I'll snip my fucking aorta. I called Glorious at six AM. Asked her if she would do me a favor and come see me. She did. It helped a little, We held hands in the market, and I hated myself for not doing that with Shirelle. I took her to get some dinner and I hated myself for not doing that enough for Shirelle. I helped her do her laundry and wanted to cry because I wouldn't do that for Shirelle. I'm afraid that to move on is to look at all the bad, the way she cheated on me, stole from me, lied to me, disrespected me, and see them no longer as symptoms of immaturity, but as lifelong character flaws. I taught her independence. Hopefully she learned honesty, too. Some other fuck will reap the rewards.
Shirelle never called. I left messages and paged her, but she ignored me. I was plagued by insomnia the whole night. I wanted to go to her house and pour syrup in the gas tank, drain the oil, put nails in all the tires, shatter the windshield. I called in sick to work. She called and we talked. At first she lied about where she was, but eventually she admitted she was sleeping with her new guy. It makes me nauseous. The whole world is fucked up. If nature and righteousness existed anymore, I could kill the fucker who fucks my love. I cried on the phone again like a baby. It' so unjust that I'm not given an opportunity to fix things up. Johnny come lately. She doesn't acknowledge her wrongs and it pisses me off. I should not give a fuck. I should get out there with a vengeance. Love is so rare it seems. We almost had it. A compromise here, a concession there. None of it could change the simple fact of her dishonesty. She says I pushed her away. It was her lies, and possessiveness which made it so. Even still, I loved her, would not leave her, would not lock her out, would not turn my back. My loyalty, my dependability, my truthfulness, my trustworthiness mean nothing to her.
I'm grieving and she's fucking around having a good time. "He's perfect," she says. "He's just like me," she says. She can't know that fast. She's make hot, fast decisions before and been wrong. Is she sure this is what she wants?
I'm left holding the pieces. I don't know how I'll meet anyone else. You never do know, I guess. It took years to find Shirelle. I guess I'll write her one last letter and then I'll snip my fucking aorta. I called Glorious at six AM. Asked her if she would do me a favor and come see me. She did. It helped a little, We held hands in the market, and I hated myself for not doing that with Shirelle. I took her to get some dinner and I hated myself for not doing that enough for Shirelle. I helped her do her laundry and wanted to cry because I wouldn't do that for Shirelle. I'm afraid that to move on is to look at all the bad, the way she cheated on me, stole from me, lied to me, disrespected me, and see them no longer as symptoms of immaturity, but as lifelong character flaws. I taught her independence. Hopefully she learned honesty, too. Some other fuck will reap the rewards.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 3:16 AM
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