I'm going to begin by Saying That I would rather write Something short, delightful and funny Than indulge this accursed and unshakeable daemon of inner turmoil. I'm no Freud and Proust dog or Better not describe or outline the Psychological ravages of sexual jealousy, But of all the ideas Imposing orbiting around my mental focus, These Thoughts on The Fastest spin my condition. The subject Seems too complex to tackle Marcel's Elaborate Without prose, but I'll take a quick stab at it.
The nature of this journal is haunted by the specter of her , Defunct now my three-year love affair, from the very pit of STI Beginning in '03 to the lethargy of the Sporadic present, and I can not continue Any writing of the posts i have in store Without purging myself of this abject spirit. The following is an attempt at a written exorcism, a confession stuffed in a box with breathing holes.
I haven't spoken to her in two weeks. The estrangement is easy. Her physical self is not nearly half the object of my torment as much as the sharp, recurring memories of her and me together. I'm not sure whether I love her or not, because I never really think critically about a girl I've conquered until I no longer have her, in other words, until it's too late. As vain as the word conquer may seem, it's not meant as a sexual or mental boast, rather it represents the highest ground that I've worked hard to land upon and capture, a plateau on which I can operate, at full capacity, the machinations of love. It is the point wBecome a Vacated s empire of hers That Continuously Denies Any comfort of rehabitation. This exposition has Become a testament to my shame and sentimental Weakness. I miss her. Would I go running back to her If I could, if allowed my pride. However, my pride will only allow These confessions. I would rather Claim That I do not think of her at all anymore, me and my girlfriend That Are Involved in One Another happily only, grinning at the wake of past love and Stock, But the truth is That I feel Deprived at Almost Every Hour , and my obsession with her Presence Has Not dwindle for a single moment. Perhaps, it is because i love her That I offer this account of my misery, for her Benefit and satisfaction. I'm sure
It Would Be Easier If I could smoke pot to subdue these remembrances of her That seems to bubble forth from by Being, That Arise Without fail from a boiling desire, to torture me fifteen to twenty times a day, half of them to be sexual, the other half various, heartwarming instances of her blind adoration. It Was the pot That Kept Me From Leaving her. Consistent blunt after blunt of smoking over the span of four years, the time Following my father's death, clouded my perception of the truth and doting Kept me along. I WAS mad from loss. Either she wasn't my type, But she Reflected my emptiness and remind me of a more innocent era. My art and inspiration Were slowly thwarted by her company and drawn Into regression. I entertained a foolish confidence in Figuring That the Continued Exposure to my bold personality, Combined with the weathering offake-Breakups, Could Forge a Better partner for me, That She Could Be Forced to take on my winning Qualities, my intelligence, social aptitude, and empathy ... I Dreamed the hopeless dream That She Would learn to perfect herself for me. Our stubborn ACCOMPLISH Would love it! It Was That She Hated herself Evident, That she wallowed in her own futilities and Would Have No Other alternative in seeking to Improve herself. Instead, she sucked my will Weakened STONER Expanding Into her abyss of self-doubt. More and more, I started Becoming like her ... lazy, apathetic, lonely, desperate. I Was infected by her Incapacity. I chafed Wants and Needs Against her, I rose my freedom to protest, only to fall back and latch onto her weitere. I lost all romantic energy. I cheated on her for gasps of fresh air, and to Prove That I still Had What It Took. I bedded new lovers, But I Was so conditioned to Requiring her modes of sex, They Became That in time of little worth to me, and my attentions Careful That won me so much favor in Their Eyes Would trickle away and vanish. I Was shackled in place, more so sown, and I Could not enjoy the passing events, beautiful faces.
i have four months left of court ordered sobriety, But Even So, relying on drugs is a kind of Cowardice No Longer That appeals to me. I'll only drink in a social setting, pero Scarce to avail. I've Always Been Able to simulate the comfort and fearlessness That eating and drinking alcohol with Any Further provoker my savage impulses, like picking fights. Had
She always read my little posts with animmutable fear That I Might reveal Any or all Aspects of Our union That Could turn the stomachs of mutual acquaintances of ours Who Might perchance read my journal. She Was horrified the world of What Might Be allowed to think at my insistence vulgar! Imagine Their disappointment upon the discovery That she wasn't really a quiet and mysterious
intellectual, an optimistic subterfuge silence her raven exuded Might Have, But wings, She Was a boring and bottomless, sexual symbiote, and That All I Could Possibly record About Our Relationship Is That it consists of us fucking Each Other Into a state of total vapidity. I remember the sickly langours in bed, the heaviness at the end of bliss. Under the pretense of an indestructible love, Would we forego intimate conversation and Stock, which was a waste of time, due to our lack of connection, and proceed to numerous sessions of industrious fucking. We were no strangers to pleasure. Up until I met her, I had racked up so many lovers, my past could be mistaken for celebrity. Initially, she held back the experience that would become apparent in her movements, so that I wouldn't suspect the crowd of lovers preceding me. When I found out that she had fucked nearly a third of my count, which seemed to me, for a girl of her calibre, vastly sluttier than my own. I reconciled by telling myself that I had what I finally deserved, a Madame, a
sexpert
. She knew what she wanted and she knew that I could give it to her each time. My joys rested in the finalities of her pleasure. My selfless goal in our sex was alwanformation. She would tell me everything about her new man, where he would take her, what she would do, down to the minutest sexual detail. She would have to leave nothing to wonder about. Love would forgive her each and every thoughtless transgression. The worst that could happen is that the sufferer would cease to love and be pushed towards the road to recovery. Of course, her powers of description and analysis have always been poor and her reasons left me even more unsatisfied. I would hear her stories and it always seemed that this older sucker with the corny qualities was buying her off and using her for sex. I couldn't bear that someone else was toting my prized trophy as if it was his latest trifling bauble.
I broke into her diary one night and that took care of
that
. Our working plan called for full disclosure, but what I met in those pages was a startling account of selfish deceit, a deplorable narrative stranger with the vilest of plans and intentions. She was purposely fooling herself into a new love and toying with my lingering heart in the process. All the information she entrusted me with was at best incomplete. I became convinced that she could not only effectively lie to me, but that I couldn't help but continue to believe in our pact en toto, like a love-struck fool ... Really, I should compliment her on all of her LIES. They were well-executed.
The fact that I never wrote a sweet entry just for her or even a short complimentary poem must have irked her. I know for a fact that the strangers that would cometo compliment my journal annoyed her to no end. She Would not dare complain or comment at the Risk of sounding out of place or stupid. This reservation echoes her reluctance to tell me anything, to mention Any Thought She Might Be HAVING, Despit my urging her to reveal her Every notion. She figured beforehand Would That I Had to find whatever she say intolerably dull or commonplace, as if my life experience or erudition Were a wall too daunting to approach. It Was Almost myth ... I Was everything, She Was Nothing, That never spoke two halves, bound to constant collision and an intermingling That Was Purely Physical. I do not know myself, But I Communicate Constantly in an effort "to rein the fragments staff and find a pattern, the monstrous spine. I speak in contradictio
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