Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Broken record

*UPDATE*
He wrote back: "Okay. Whatever."

Did he get it? I think he did. I should be raving with joy right now, but it seemed a little too easy. But Sexy Spinster summed it up best: "[His letter] was mean towards you - taking punches wherever possible. It was very, 'I'm better than you. You have problems. You live a sad life. Follow my example. You're spoiled.' So if easy was a process that took over 18 months then OK."

Amen.

***

Hi [M. Biologique,]

You're right, you do live a good life. And I won't get there until you're out of it completely.

Have a great summer. Hope I don't see you next year.

Sincerely,

Lily


I wrote this in response to what he sent me yesterday. Frankly, I didn't even read his long-ass missive: I told Sexy Spinster to summarize it for me ("There is something seriously wrong with him"). It was apparently about how blah blah blah, he's in a "loving relationship" right now, how blah blah blah, I need to put my "overflowing issues" behind me, but how nevertheless, he wants to continue seeing me anyway (for my sake, I'm sure. He's thoughtful like that).

I had already found traces of contempt and bitterness in his voice over the receiver on Monday when I had last spoke to him. "What's new in your life?" he asked without much enthusiasm. I cheerfully listed off a thing or two, including my recent award in the mix; he put me down flat: "It's about time you wrote some useful shit."

"So what else is new, Lily?" he repeated.

I told him about my job in the CCTV foreign news department. He was audibly annoyed: "In Beijing?! Humph. Journalists don't know anything; all they do is tell lies."

Correcting him, I giggled: "We're propagating information so people like you can make a change. Can you say pro-pa-ga-tin'? It's a 4-syllable word."

I tried to maintain composure as he hemmed and hawed about the hollowness of my life, ladling on the sunny remarks even when he was saying the most ridiculous and obscene things: "Look at you, buying shit all the time. You're such a materialist. Did you go and buy another 50 pairs of shoes? That's stupid. And you wear too much makeup."

I laughed; he sounded like a raging alcoholic: "That's because I'm an old woman, you see, and I know you like your women young."

He chuckled, nervously changing the subject.

"So what are you doing for the rest of the day?" I politely interjected.

"Why? So I can come play with you? You never do anything productive."

"Well, let's do something productive then. What do you suggest?" I proposed. "Go diving into dumpsters in search of unexpired milk to drink?"

This man is utterly, utterly consumed by his elephantine resentment. He's apparently going to northern Quebec this summer to learn about sustainable growth so "we don't have to fucking send fucking tree planters to do shit anymore."

Oh Lord, unrepentable, absolutely unrepentable. Like Peter Pan without a Spielberg deal, a latter-day American hippie jihadist. He's constantly acting out like a child and - surprise of all surprises - cannot subsequently maintain any sort of working relationship with anyone for any measurable amount of time. (And that's assuming fucking isn't considered a chore.)

I might sometimes be blind, deaf, and dumb, but when life moves on, it does one hell of a spring cleaning.

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