September
1998 bumping uglies by Todd Levin |
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This was a good thing. This was a necessary thing. I am going to keep
repeating the message, reordering it like the Goldberg variations or
something else you might reorder -- your collection of human teeth,
for example. I don't know what I will do on my own -- I have been known
as one of those people who nests, moving very slowly and fluidly from
one intense, long-term relationship to the next. This is a lifestyle
pattern enjoyed exclusively by sentimental types and volatile career
criminals. But this time is different. I swear.
I need this for the sake of my own clarity. I have been neglecting
-- yes, neglecting -- other untapped passions in my life. Do you even
know of my love for the popular board game, "Scattegories"? Or how I
was forced to voluntarily withdraw myself from the English-Speaking
Inter-Gender Scattegories Division II Touring League, simply because
my commitment to you is prohibitive to a genuine LOVE for the
kind of competition which often requires long stretches of Trans-Atlantic
travel cramped in close quarters with Scottish parcel workers? No, you
never did ask, did you? I left that life a long time ago, just as I
must now leave this life and establish a New World Order in my head.
(sadly, my withdrawal from the ESIGSD2TL was regarded by some of the
more jaded officiates as a snubbing and I have subsequently been black-balled
from all future "$3 million purse and over" competitions -- but love
is about sacrifice, isn't it?)
And I do love you. Nothing will change that (outside of you being
horribly scarred in an auto fire or contracting genital warts). Oh,
the things we've shared -- inappropriate language, my necessary "alone-time"
at the hair salon, the spankings, my fleeting obsession with Slavic
subculture, and my recent depression and detachment which threatened
to poison this relationship, not unlike the way I threatened to poison
the water supply of Nyack, New York when I was informed their McDonald's
was no longer offering the McLean Deluxe.
I know what you're saying: You think I'll be back. Give me a couple of
months and I'll be asking those questions we've both grown so accustomed to
in this relationship -- questions like, "Should I be concerned about the
quality of service I am receiving from a sex professional if she charges me
sales tax?" and "Why does this strap-on hurt so much when I sit down?"
Maybe that's true but you've got to follow your gut even if it is the same
gut that made you eat those three dented cans of potted meat.
The 13th century poet, Jacopone Da Todi, wrote, "Just as every cowboy
sings a sad, sad song -- every rose has its thorn." I think I know what
he meant now. What we've had in these last 21 months has been truly
inspiring and if I could, through some sort of highly advanced and illegal
medical procedure, laser-cut small sections of my beating heart and
wrap them up with this letter in a (non-human) heart-shaped box as if
they were sweet little bloody, fibrous chocolates for you to enjoy,
and still remain a normal living, fully-functioning organism, I assure
you that I would. But I can't do that -- not even in Mexico. I priced
it out. So, in lieu of that, I think it's best that we just part amicably.
With the love intact. Before I say something that displeases even you
and you decide use one of those rosy thorns to dig my eyes out and feed
them to your mongoloid dog. I need those eyes to see the beautiful day
and read the serving size information on boxes of Fiddle Faddle (with
almonds).
I will miss you, Bumping Uglies, but I'm breaking up with you. Let's still
be friends, though. Okay?
back to the junk drawer
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