Lament for Adonis

Great Adonis, unfortunate great Adonis, thus I might meet you for the very last time, and thus I will enwrap you, and thus I will mix lips with lips. Awake just a little, Adonis, and love me again for the last time, love me as long as this kiss lives, die close to my mouth, and finish your breath in my heart (lit., liver), and I will milk your sweet charm, and I will drink from your love; and I will guard this kiss as if it were Adonis himself, since you, ill-fated one, leave me. You leave a great distance, Adonis, and you might come to Acheron to the side of the grim and savage queen; and I, wretched, live and remain a god and I cannot follow you. Take my lord, Persephona; for you are much stronger than me, and all beauty flows down to you. I remain in my fate, and I hold this insatiable grief, and I cry out for Adonis, who died on me, and I fear you. Die, o trice-desired...

My Interview with the FBI

I forgot to post an interesting little anecdote from last week:

On Thursday, I had a job interview with the FBI, mostly just for fun. Who knows, maybe they've read my blog before the interview (in which case, if they're still reading my blog, I may be getting myself into trouble this very minute!), because Special Agent M seemed to know that I was doing it just for fun. That is, he didn't ask me a single question about my qualifications, and spent the entire time trying to convince me why I would want to join the FBI. That's a strange pitch to give to someone who's already submitted a resume, don't you think?

Anyways, I don't know if this was a slip-up or something he did on purpose, just to freak me out. After we had talked a bit about how someone with my language and cultural background might be able to work within Korean-American communities, he asked me in a friendly manner if my family made our own kimchi. I answered that we had started to just recently, since my parents retired. And if I remember correctly, that's ALL I said; that my PARENTS were retired, and that they now had more time for things they couldn't do before.

Then Special Agent M said: "Your dad sounds like a fun guy. I'd like to meet him."

I just about fell out of my chair. Totally confused, wondering if some as-of-yet-unknown multiple personality had said something that my regular personality missed, I stammered out the vaguest reply I could think of: "Well yes, my parents are wonderful people."

If this was a slip-up - which I doubt; he's a trained professional, after all - I hope this post doesn't get M into trouble. He was a genial dude. If M threw that remark in there to freak me out, good job. It worked!

Also, M didn't mention that the interview was classified, but if I'm committing some vast faux pas by writing this, please let me know, as I would hate for you (the FBI) to come in and shut down my blog. It's my baby.

Fiddlesticks

"I'd rather be in extreme cold than in extreme heat, because I can always put on more clothes to get warmer."

How many times have we heard people say that? Frankly, I disagree. Right now, I'm wearing just about all the clothes I can wear without looking stupid, and I'm still cold.

No, I'll take heat any old day of the week! All I have to do then is jump into a tropical blue ocean, and all my problems are solved.

It worries me, because I can't begin to imagine how they swing it in Michigan or Chicago, or even New York.

Horse Feathers

I saw my first Marx Brothers movie tonight. I'm not sure what the title means. Classic comedy! A little disorganized, and sometimes too slick; I think I might have missed some of the punch lines. Having seen Groucho, I now understand much of what's in Woody Allen's head. My favorite is Harpo. You'd think that the sad, mute clown would be scary...but on Harpo it's just sweet! The most classic element of their classic comedy: vaudeville/physical jokes.

But the part that touches my heart the most is Harpo's harp. He plays beautifully! And it's such a poetic finish, to see the goofball have a serious moment, and the mute have a voice. He becomes something completely different with the music.

I found a poignant little bio piece about Harpo on IMDB: "As a child, Harpo was apparently infatuated with music. He rejoiced when his family bought a piano. He then fell into dispair when he found out that they could only afford to let one brother have piano lessons. His brother Chico Marx ended up with the lessons, which he did not take seriously." Well, I thought Chico played pretty well, but Harpo is the one who melts the auditor.

On top of all that, Harpo Marx loved children and adopted four of them; and he loved the same woman all his life. What a good guy!

Desire

Nothing is more difficult than patience. This afternoon I ran into an old acquaintance with whom I associate springtime, and luminous evenings, and warm conversations that fool me into believing, briefly, that my first dream had NOT died - my dream that poetry holds everything which makes life worth living! Through one dinner span only, we got along like two firecrackers: telling stories, laughing, discussing books, and enjoying beauty. But strange to say, by our second meeting, that delightful magic was deader than dead. Perhaps he knew what had changed; I never did. Instead, I continued to associate him with the spring, my first impression. When I saw him again today, it was winter - so monotonously cold that I found it hard even to imagine being warm again, and not frumpy. As we chitchatted, I smothered something inside me, just a little.

It's not painful or infuriating, but it wears you out gradually. Desire is like waiting for a phone call or email that you know will surely come, though you don't know when. It might be today, it might be three weeks from now. I know, because I've walked through this past week waiting for that one or two or five messages which I'm expecting, waking up in the morning to check my email, coming home after class to check my answering machine. And each time, I try to snuff out that excited element, tell myself that I'm overly blessed as it is, and be patient. It makes me feel small and childish, because I do it having no other choice. Also, I'm not good at it.

I had thought today might be a big day. (It wasn't.)

I Wonder What a Passing Grade Is

Blech. I think I failed my French reading exam. (a) I didn't finish it, (b) there was one sentence that made no sense to me whatsoever. Perhaps a D will be a passing grade.

Bling bling

Prof. David P from Michigan called today and said that I got the full 5-7 year fellowship.

Yeehaw!

Unbelievably,

we were sitting today in Greek prose comp, and the lecturer - a pompous man if I ever saw one - was making some point about Latin grammar (in a Greek class) that he says we will never hear from anyone in the world other than himself because all the world's experts, he claims, are intellectual frauds, while presumably he is not (!), when his cell phone starts ringing...

...and he has the gall to answer it. And start talking, on the phone, right there in class.

Disappointment

Well, I finally did it: I managed to disappoint the dude who made no demands on me whatsoever. How does that even happen? Why didn't I just pay attention and get my shit straight?

Alessandro B is my Latin professor, the nicest, wittiest, and most charming man in the world, who also (almost paradoxically) happens to be brilliant and inspiring, stimulating in spite of his laidback style. Our class was ridiculously easy, but it was amazing how much pith we were able to get out of the few short passages we read.

Prof. B very well might be my first professorial crush, in all my 5 years at this institution. Unless you count Rene G...which I don't, because that was all cerebral. Prof. B is happily married with teenage kids, middle-aged, silver-haired, and though he isn't chubby or even potbellied, his body looks oddly overburdened for his bone structure. It's hard to describe, because he's a tall guy, and by no means frail-looking, structurally. Anyways, my ponit is that in spite of all that, I adored him! I used to sit in class breathless, eager to hear what brilliant thing he would say next.

I remember, two years ago, talking to a first-year grad student who said that he felt this way about his lectures ("what will he say next!"), and I remember thinking he was off his rocker when he said that. But now! I understand.

But lest you think this is once again a cerebral crush, let me assure you that Prof. B is in fact sexy, in his own way. Mostly, I think it was the charm. The man has charm.

To get back to my original point: yesterday, we took our final exam. I didn't really study for it, because we hadn't made that much progress since the midterm, and I figured what we did cover was an ace in the hole. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that there was one passage that we didn't really get assigned, and instead did a sight-translation of in class. Guess what passage shows up on the final? I was frantic with fear, but I managed to get by.

Prof. B gave me an A, but his comments made me sadder than if he had given me a C. He wrote that he believes in my potential, but was "alarmed" to see how many errors there were in my translation. He concluded by praising my (unspecified) scholarly qualities and advising me to pay more attention to details.

There it is in a nutshell: the details. That's what I've lost in college. Haphazardness and bullshitting, forgetting that the little things matter. What a sterling thing it is that Prof. B can separate the wheat from the chaff.

Nevertheless. I feel blue that I let him down, the one person I did not want to let down this quarter.

Posidippus

If Pythias has another I am off. But if she sleeps alone,
let her by Zeus invite me in for a while.
Give her a sign, that drunk and through thieves
I have come with daring Love as my guide.

* * *

Do not think you are deceiving me with persuasive tears, Philaenis.
I know: you love absolutely no one more than me -
as long as you are lying beside me. But if another man
were holding you, you would say you loved him more than me.

* * *

...and on a wager I once ate a Maeonian ox.
For Thasos, my country, could not have provided a meal
for Theagenes. Much as I had eaten, I always asked for more. For this reason
I stand in bronze, stretching out my hand.

Ekphrasis

This has been the It word of the quarter. I realized a little while ago that I've been hearing it in discussions for like the last 8 weeks without having a very clear idea of what it means. I gathered that it generally meant a description, but I thought there was a very special usage for it, judging from the way it was talked about. So, here it is from the horse's mouth:

"Ekphrasis, an extended and detailed literary description of any object, real or imaginary."

Hunter S. Thompson

God rest his soul.

Is this disrespectful? I was surprised to hear that he committed suicide, because I kind of thought he already did that a few years ago. After the movie "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," of course, but before now. Come to think of it, I was surprised to hear that Arthur Miller lasted until 2005, too. It seems like such an anachronistic year for legendary authors.

The Dude Abides

That rug really tied the room together.

You mean coitus?

I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.//Ow! Fucking fascist!

Let's Talk About the Weather

The rain sucks. All Californians know this. However, most people are willing to make exceptions for certain circumstances - overwhelmingly, when they're in a sad or longing or otherwise poetic mood, and they feel that the heavens and all the world are in sympathy with their one random speck of a soul in the universe, and therefore everything is in harmony. I learned to love the rain when I was 16; that was the year of El Nino, which would have been pure hell under any other conditions. But I happened to be in love that year, for the first time in my life, with a boy who was taken (and in hindsight, probably gay). The rain was gentle and despondent and everlasting, like my love.

By the by, I may have been sarcastic about the "random speck of a soul," but I do wholeheartedly believe in whatever philosophical school it is that claims that everything in the world would cease to matter if I, Rex, did not intercept and cogitate upon it. Cartesian? (PS, I swear I'm not a terrible person; this conviction has more to do with my postmodernism.)

Anyways, pop has consistently confirmed my thesis that rain is beloved mostly as a materialization of one's mood. Clapton, "The Sky Is Crying" (though I think this was a cover); the Ronettes, "Walking in the Rain"; "Singin' in the Rain," in a happy, inverted way; the ending of "Breakfast at Tiffany's"; "Point Break" (just kidding! I threw that one in for me); etc. etc.

Yes, yes, this is all very nice. My point?

The rain sucks! Here I am in the best of moods, feeling loved and validated and hopeful and humbled, even, as I haven't felt in a long, long time, and the stupid rain is killing my buzz.

That's okay; I'd rather feel good and irritated than bad and poetic. At least for a little while.

Joy

Fuck yeah! I got admitted to University of Michigan and UT Austin! This is just incredible. After 5 years of NOT getting what I want - scholarships, accolades, boys, dance teams; and don't think I didn't try! (okay, well I kind of half-assed my dance ambitions) - things are suddenly gliding like butter. I guess there's something to be said about Providence, and life letting you know what you should be doing.

Funny thing: one of the first things I felt this morning, as soon as I got this double-shot of good news, within minutes of each other, was guilt. I will never escape my neuroses, and I guess you'll never stop hearing about them, alas. Basically, I figured I did a fantastic job misrepresenting myself - as you're supposed to do in any admissions application, right? - but now that they've actually bought into it, I feel kinda bad. There's consolation in the fact that I can accept only one offer, and so I won't be letting anyone else down.

Nihilism

Nihilists! Fuck me. I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.

Democracy

The Romans had a vision of world domination that, I think, is difficult even to imagine in our post-Judeo-Christian-Islamic ethos. They probably thought they were better than everyone else, true; but if all the conquered people should choose to hold inferior values, that was their prerogative. Today, if we see people living worse than ourselves, we refuse to rest until we've made them like us (with or without military conquest). On the one hand, this is a good thing, cf. hunger relief squads in third world countries. On the other hand, we have a thousand years of crusades, missionaries, persecution, censorship, Nazism, etc. to make us think that maybe the rich and powerful don't have all the answers, and maybe it's better to err on the side of keeping our nose out of other people's business.

There seems to be an illusion in our day that we are past this history of fanaticism, and that we can administer right alongside tolerance to the end of doing what is best for the world. While most of us are no longer wedded to the notion of the Jealous God, I think we are equally as fanatic as we have ever been. Today's analog? Democracy.

Americans cannot endure the sight of a non-democratic regime, ostensibly because it means that a population is being oppressed by some government they did not choose. But I contend that democracy is not right for everyone; like any other ethos, it has to evolve organically in order to fit the culture it serves. South Korean society, for example, fits uncomfortably in a democratic system, in my opinion. It's a thousand times better than communism, Japanese subjugation, and probably even the old monarchies; but nevertheless, Koreans generally continue to exercise their old tried-and-true system of nepotism, which more or less puts political ideology at odds with social practice.

But then there is the macro consideration of doing what will make the world as safe as possible for everyone, vs. the micro consideration of attaching an organic ideology to a small group of people. That is, we Americans will never feel safe as long as Iraq or Afghanistan are not democratic (or as some would say, American puppets). There are success stories to this side of the argument. For example, the democratically elected Palestinian prime minister Abbas is doing a better job at the peace talks with Israel - probably since Israel is bringing a democratic ideology to the negotions table, so when in Rome...

But when you see the low voter turn-out in Iraq's election last month, you start to wonder if we're imposing our notion of right onto a peoples who clearly believe it is wrong. Are we really tolerant, or is this a second medieval crusade? Has democracy replaced the Jealous God?

I Wish I Were Home

It makes me sad to think that there's so little I can do - and even less, sometimes, that I want to do - to be there for my mom and dad, when they have always been there for me.

She Is Beautiful

I ain't got nothing to lose
Nothing to lose
Going to throw it away
And talk to you
She looks good
She looks good
And it's true
And it's true
The girl is beautiful
She is beautiful

There's one thing you may not have known about me, and it's this: I have an attention span like you wouldn't believe. Either that, or OCD. I'm perfectly capable of listening to the same five-minute song over and over again, for five hours straight (or longer), completely rapt the whole time. It comes in handy every now and then, like when I have to translate Greek for hours on end.

The latest victim to my compulsive listening is Andrew WK's "She Is Beautiful." Nevermind that like 90% of the song is "she is beautiful" and "na na na na na na na na." There was one line in particular that suddenly became meaningful to me on this Valentine's Day: "I ain't got nothing to lose...going to throw it away and talk to you." There's an odd parallel between this narrative and the story of Miles the Dog. It didn't matter to Miles that the people he loved were bastards who didn't have better sense than to let their dog get that fat. All he cared about was that he loved them, and he was willing strain his gimpy leg and fall down stairs, just to be with them.

Like Andrew WK, Miles decided that he had "nothing to lose." And that's what love is! Love isn't about relationships and holding onto that bitterness when they abuse you or neglect to put you on a diet. Throw it away! Go for it, just because the feeling of love is so wonderful in itself, wonderful enough to carry you through kamikaze desires and staircase catastrophes.

I was thinking tonight about that boy I once loved who later drove me to the most violent anger. I remembered how I felt about him before the shit hit the fan, before I was struggling to dance the tango of seduction or juggle the practical logistics of a relationship. And the basic point is that I felt truly happy. It's easy to forget just how rare that feeling is, until you start to search for it.

So when we do find someone who makes us feel warm and fluid and excited like that, the first thing we should do is feel thankful. It's a rare and beautiful accomplishment, and a gift to us, the lover. Afterwards, there's always time to key their cars or break their kneecaps. But first, let's appreciate that being able to love beats just about everything - including being loved.

Miles the Dog

My brother told me the saddest story.

Miles is a middle-aged overweight dog. He is so overweight that his legs can't support him; one of his legs, strained by the extra pressure, has had to undergo surgery about five times. What with the weight and the messed up leg, Miles has difficulty going up and down the stairs.

Nevertheless, Miles, like so many dogs, has a lot of love to give. He likes to visit the boarders who live upstairs. Often, he can't, and he'll sit at the foot of the stairs and cry. Other times, when he's feeling a little stronger, he triumphs: Miles climbs the stairs and visits his friends.

One day, there was an enormous thud and crash that resounded through the house. "What was that?" asked the houseguest, startled.

"Oh, nothing. That's just Miles falling down the stairs."

Poor Miles! His leg had spazzed out mid-flight, and sent him a-tumbling.

Dancing With Myself

Dancing with myself
Oh oh dancing with myself
Well there's nothing to lose
And there's nothing to prove
I'll be dancing with myself

A Big Thing

Last night was a big night for me. I confronted an adversary for the first time in months. My well-meaning friend advised me not to do it, and I thought I didn't want to either, but at the end of the night, I realized I HAD to.

I was shaking in my boots as I walked toward him; he scarred me before, so who knew what new damage he would inflict now? He tried his best to ignore me. And then it hit me: he was even more afraid to talk to me than I was afraid to talk to him.

It was a bewildering feeling. In my own nervousness, I never dreamed that he might feel uncomfortable. If you compare our situations, it's obvious that I have far more a reason for terror than him. But there he was, wishing I'd go away, while I was willing to stand my ground and face all possible pain. Who knows, maybe he felt "embarrassed for me," or some weak bullshit like that that people say when they don't have a pair.

But anyways. What matters is that I proved to myself that I HAVE balls. It made me see that the adversary never could have gotten under my skin, except that I, Rex, let it happen. So maybe I'm crazy or neurotic or annoying or scary or histrionic or whatever; therapy can fix all that. At least I have balls, and in my book, that makes me a queen.

Elvis

Elvis is sexy, but Fat Elvis is sexier.

Why? Because I've come to think that sexiness is more meaningful in terms of coherence theory than in terms of correspondence theory. That is, sexiness is only minimally a response or an interaction or a status that an individual has with the phenomenal world. It's a state of mind; essentially what it is to feel GOOD. In the most desperate moments, it's an escape. For that reason, I think of sexiness as something analogous to fiction. Its a mental place that we need to construct for ourselves, and like fiction, it's effective only insofar as it's independent of (and hence without correspondence to) our real-life experiences.

Spoken like a person with zero sexiness, huh? I won't try to defend how good or bad I look, physically. The extraordinary thing is when a person can have no regard for physical reality, and through sheer force of will or imagination or DENIAL maintain a seamless image of that fictional location of well-being that I define as sexiness. Hence, Fat Elvis. He struts and glitters and croons, until he encapsulates some concept desire that is in no way accidental - and that's artistry.

It's also rebellion, the spirit of rock n roll. I don't believe in the Elvis-vs.-Beatles debate, but if I had to choose, I'd come down on the side of Elvis. Not that I know or like Elvis' music better, nor do I deny that the Beatles were more influential. But Elvis was offensive and excessive and glorious all to himself, where the Beatles were socially-conscious and self-consciously artistic. To me, it's obvious which of these has defined rock n roll more.

This discussion, actually, reminds me of a lot of the stuff I've heard about Arthur Miller today, God rest his soul. He and the other major 20th century American playwright (the love of my life) Tennessee Williams represent the two different ways of approaching art. Miller believed that a work of art should be socially responsive and critical, and Williams was far more concerned with representing and constructing the internal psychic reality. Again, correspondence vs. coherence. I guess I can't defend my preference on any philosophical grounds, but I've always had a special place in my heart for subjectivities - and fantasies that are viable.

Nevermind, Found My Energy

WHOOOOOOOOOHOO! I got into UCLA! This means I can stay close to my family and see my dog more. That I can continue surfing. That I can live in a big city. That if some obscure has-been rock band that I love does a tour with two cities, I can be sure that MY city will be one of them! That there will be Korean food. That I can do what I want to do without exiling myself from all things pleasant...

On the other hand, I'm still waiting to hear from seven more schools. But I remember, five years ago, that nothing can quite match that exhilaration of the first admit. It's a high.

I Don't Have the Energy Anymore

Things have been an emotional roller coaster for me lately. Some of these things you've heard about, others you haven't. But believe me when I say my road has been peppered with some pretty affecting bumps, and at the end of the week, all I can say is I no longer have the energy to react, for better or for worse. The volume in my head has been turned way down. I say, "Oh." And that's that.

I guess pneumonia does that to you. It's hard to give things the attention they deserve when you've got no lung capacity. I can't laugh or gasp or yawn, so there goes some of the major response mechanisms.

I'm also bored, like in a serious and very desolate way. I thought I'd get over it once I got out of bed and back to class and interacting with people again, but something important in me hasn't recuperated yet. How do I know this? Because I find it difficult to empathize with friends and all the stupid drama in their lives; because I can't listen to the radio in my car (music, NPR), whereas silence used to make me giddy; because my schoolwork suddenly seems so inconsequential; because I have two major exams coming up this quarter, and I'm too distracted to study for them. Just a week ago, I was avid about all these things. Sure, I still wasn't studying for those exams, but it wasn't because I couldn't focus.

I remember thinking last Saturday, in those hours when I was lying there by myself in the ER, that I was glad I was sick. For one thing, it seemed the most poetic way to crown that week's debilitating emotional trials: throw in a debilitating breathing condition. But more importantly, I knew with my illness that I had reached rock bottom. From there things could only get better - and that was a liberating idea. I could start over. I have a vivid memory of replaying that old favorite line from Seinfeld in my head: "I feel reborn! Like a phoenix...rising out of Arizona!"

But instead, I find myself tripped up by this boredom. It makes me feel lonely. It's different from depression - and I have to admit, much better. Everything is just a little muted.

Last night I went on eBay and found this beautiful, colossal b/w poster of Lux Interior and Poison Ivy from the Cramps. It was unusual, inexpensive, and almost through its auction time with no bids. As much as my limited emotional reserves allowed, I wanted it badly. But wouldn't you know, someone sniped it away from me. Of course! Not that it's a big deal; these past 48 hours or so have brought both good news and bad news of far greater magnitude. Even if I had a choice in karmic affairs, I wouldn't have wanted to waste any of my good-luck points on winning that poster. But it was something small and unique and delightful, and it might have made me feel excited.

Because Lux Interior's crooning vocals is one of the few things that makes me smile and think that life still holds something happy and sexy for me.

I Need to Leave the House

I found myself thinking of a little ditty today, one that I've never even heard:

"Well, here's another clue for you all, the Walrus was Paul."

In Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Ferris says, "I quote John Lennon, 'I don't believe in Beatles... I just believe in me.' A good point there. After all, he was the walrus."

Ah-ha! Not that I'm the first to notice. But I remember that I did notice it all on my own.

So here I am, replaying songs I've never heard and John Hughes bloopers in my head, thinking about the Walrus as a death symbol and the 1967 hoax that Paul McCartney was dead, and how did such a hoax even come about, who thought of it and WHY, and how did it anticipate so accurately the sentiment that was to occur with the real deaths of icons, years later (Elvis, Tupac)? All these questions decisively point to the fact that I am deprived of human conversation and company and and I need to leave my room, soon.

Augustine and Axl

St. Augustine says that God listens to our prayers when we are at our most abject. Is that comforting, or just perverse?

Yesterday was Axl Rose's birthday, I think. There's a star that both he and I thought would go on shining forever! Now he's 43, and where has all the time gone? He's waiting for a train that'll never come. Before you know it, he'll be 90, and a cicada, and no one will remember him but me - the crazy septigenarian who loved him when she was 9.

Deep Quotes

If everyone else in the world jumped off a bridge, I'd get in line with them. So, in blog fashion: song lyrics.

What color panties are you wearing?
What color panties are you wearing?
What color panties are you wearing?
And how long have you been wearing them?

Ah, me. The essence of the human condition.

More seriously, though:

She said, my breasts they will always be open
Baby, you can rest your weary head right on me
And there will always be a space in my parking lot
When you need a little coke and sympathy

It sounds wonderful, doesn't it? And wouldn't you know, I was craving some Coca-Cola and sympathy just yesterday, while I was looking for a parking space...

...until my mom and dad drove up here to take care of me, in my stricken state. Then, I felt better. I know, I have the nicest parents.

Pneumonia

is what I got. It's a motherfucker.

Rape and Plunder

My Vergil class today had a discussion about the destruction ("rape and plunder") of Carthage in 146 BCE. It reminded me of a joke that has fallen out of my reperatoire a bit, so I thought I'd bust it out here before I forget about it all together. It's Scandanavian.

A long time ago, the Vikings used to sail all around the north Atlantic lands, raiding the coastal cities. They would disembark chanting, "Rape and plunder, rape and plunder." When they got to England, they chanted, "Plunder, plunder, plunder, plunder."

God Provides In Mysterious Ways

I remember this is what Scarlett O'Hara thought when she murdered the Yankee who intruded into Tara and discovered that his pockets were full of money and booty.

Who would have thought that a horrible, crippling travesty from the past would be healed by yet another horrible, crippling travesty in the present? I was so angry - it didn't seem fair - that I was on my way to being a victim a second time. But now I kind of see the cosmic logic. One of the things that kept me from moving on is that I never got a chance to see what it would have been like to have done things differently. Even a very thoughtful relationship couldn't make me forget. Perversely enough, it was better for me to relive those howling fantods (DFW).

This time, I didn't take the high road, and walk away; I bit into the enemy and demanded revenge. On the one hand it was satisfying in it's own right - especially since I dragged it out until I knew I'd exacted enough revenge for two assholes. On the other hand, it allowed me to see how frustrating it would have been to go further down that road. It's impossible to argue with an immoral person, because he has no sense of accountability, and once the pressure starts cooking, he'll declare that he doesn't give a shit about anything.

I also get the feeling that an immoral person, or maybe even a moral person, will never admit wrongdoing in an agonistic setting. Self-justification - and self-preservation - will overpower any sense of acknowledged guilt, until even the asshole begins to believe his own lies.

And yet, the interesting thing is that I actually do believe they were sorry, beneath the sarcasm and insults. I got a little glimpse of it in a calmer moment. But finding that apology is like hunting for diamond mines, and God help me if I ever get a straight account of their motivations. But like my mom said, I can't expect everyone to think like me - so I should just stop trying to understand bastardly thought processes.

Injury To Insult

To top off my fantastic day, I think I'm coming down with the flu.

Clearly, I Don't Know Shit

Last November, I was asking people out on dates and feeling good about myself. I thought, How nice it is to take initiative, instead of waiting around for Chance to make things happen for me. Maybe God identified with Chance, because He seems to have taken it personally.

I feel like I am nothing but wretchedness. I've screwed up before with people's feelings, and when I did, I used to feel an active dread, beyond guilt, knowing that karma was going to come back and get me. Sure enough, it did; about a year ago, I fell head over heels for a boy who didn't want me.

So last November, I had this brilliant flash: I should set things right as much as it is within my power. I called up an old flame whom I thought I didn't give a fair chance to the first time around. He neglected me, so I broke up with him (again). When my friends expressed their sympathy, I laughed. "After what I went through last year, it's water off a duck's back. I'd tell him to come back when he had something really hurtful for me."

Why didn't I just shut my big flapping hole instead of putting ideas into the divinity's humor-loving head? I get a call today and find out that I had been the Other Woman for the two months I was dating this Jackass.

When I refuse to feel wretched myself, I make other people wretched. I just don't know how I'm supposed to make things better.