Friday, February 21, 2014

Experimental

Let me see if I can tell you the story as I heard it. It goes a bit funny in the middle, but it's my memory. I recall it starts somewhere in the wrong place.

So she is sitting there telling me that I hadn't told her the story I just told her, because she is blitzed on her boring novel and distracting anxiety. I told her the squirrel wrangler will only come out for no less than $700, cash. I'm sorry, but I forgot to capitalize the name for that price, so please just remind yourself when you remember this story to capitalize it, thanks.

She has this way of forgetting how much she forgets. You ever talk with someone like that? You aren't just trying to convince someone they are wrong in a debate where you both know it's on. You're trying to convince them they are losing a game they didn't even know was in the last round. There's no easy way of telling her she's not just blanking because it didn't happen but because she's lovably human. I suspect she'll see what it looks like when I am the same way and remember to remind herself then that she was open to being wrong. It's this way of forgetting that makes her my true love, since she's the only person I ever knew who forgave me and really did forget.

She turns back to her book and begins reading the same new boring distraction. Well, to be honest, she's only pretending to be reading, because she already knows it's shit, haha she just flipped the book upside down omg, so she's trying to avoid looking like she's wanting to know what I'm writing over here, while jumping around the book trying to find the hooks, tendrils, and toes into this one. I love her, because she is so open and vulnerable to me, more than anyone who could ever trust me the more they learn about what I am, and she lets me see how so very far and very advanced a model version she is. I shit you not: whereas I am a seventeen, she is a goddamn model 25. I shit you not.

But the Good Lord in His Infinite Wisdom, or Perpetual Indignance, chose to afflict her with a fatal condition technology only modulates. She is a chronic believer, one who believes at the very edge of sanity and daily reminding of how thin that veil really is. So she spends a huge amount of her time resolving, analyzing, prognosing, tamping her sicknesses down. She suffers this life, and she does it so well and so dignified, so very Irish and earthy, that no one who doesn't know her will ever see the slightest hint of her effort. I gladly say of her, She is my superior in every way.

The story went something like this, but it gets harder and harder to tell every year. There are so many different versions of the story, and you ask some of the really spiteful lovers I've had or the truly exploitative ones, and you will no doubt find artifice and malice where gross incompetence and foolishness better do. I trust you'll make the right kind of decision about how to tell it. Just remember to punctuate and, for your own sake, fix the tense to past.

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Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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