Last night I was thrilled to find poems and prose I’d forgotten about in my butterfly journal from 2010. I wrote the notes and beginning of my novel Bullshit Rodeo in there. I told my ex how good it felt to read stuff written when I was in a different head space. My head space lately has been so much YUCK. Breaks are nice. Reading old pieces and posting them here helped. Watching Greg Giraldo roast various celebrities at YouTube helped. Watching Richard Pryor at YouTube helped. Watching Sonny and Cher at YouTube did not help.
I still buy into the lies. Look good enough, put on a good enough show, audition your ass off and true love will fall all over you like snow from a benevolent Santa Claus sky. Hitler had true love. Gary Gilmore had true love. Jeffrey MacDonald has found true love in prison. He’s in there for butchering his pregnant wife and two little girls but he found a woman on the outside who believes in him and loves him so much that she fucking married him. So true love happens to all kinds of people. I can’t be bitter. It happened to me twice. I found true love with both of my husbands. There isn’t anything wrong with either man. There is everything wrong with me. Love leaves my mind and I don’t know how to bring it back. I’m a romantic. I’m a special kind of addict, a special kind of fucked up. There really is no fix for what I am. So I write and audition and I have no idea, finally, who I am writing and auditioning for.
All the affairs, all the misses…I’ve found fragments of what I idealize and romanticize in the opposite sex in various men. The one man who came closest to having everything I wanted in the opposite sex is my second ex-husband, the father of my son. We had a few months of magic in 2004. Best sex of my life but beyond that, we connected emotionally and we were best friends. I was damn sorry to see the magic dissipate. We moved around a lot and we were poor. That sure didn’t help. The death blow was when I got involved with the small press in 2005. At first it was phenomenal. For the first time in my life I felt like I had found my tribe. I belonged. I received snail mail from all these fuckers in California. I thought everyone was beautiful and holy. I thought I was beautiful and holy. My eyes were filled with stars and carnival lights. But then I started crushing on various writers, thought more about various writers than I thought about my husband. I know this is common and people find ways of dealing with it. Things didn’t really get bad until we moved to Texas. I didn’t have a job, was home all the time with our infant son, much too close for comfort to Christian family members (everyone in my family is a Christian except for me)…no social life, no money to go out to eat or go to the movies. I found my escape at MySpace and then Facebook. For me MySpace and Facebook are absolute poison. I fall in love with minds and there isn’t anything casual about it. And all the noise, all the back and forth, makes me crazier than I already am. I need quiet. And I kept finding myself in these weird triangle situations. Triangle isn’t even the right word. Quagmire of fuck is more accurate. Okay, he likes me, likes my poems, likes my pictures, but he sure seems interested in that chick’s blog and oh my god…look at the comments he’s made on her photographs. Fuck. I’m not so singular. I’m not so special, after all. I’m just another internet whore, trying to sell myself to men who aren’t buying. And I really fucking hate how people use Facebook to brag. “Look at my kids! Look at my house! Look at my car! I’m really fucking happy and successful.” Some people really are happy and successful. They’re the ones who don’t have time to upload endless pictures and post a status update every hour.
Goddamn right I’m bitter. My peace of mind was fucked with. I allowed it to be fucked with. I let the online affairs and the online bullshit fuck up my life. I’m very fortunate that my ex has been my loyal friend and ally through all the insanity. I respect him for many reasons, mostly because he’s too old school and too anti-bullshit to have a MySpace and Facebook profile. When we got together in March of 2004 we were too busy fucking each other’s brains out to get on a goddamn computer.
So if you’re doing all your fucking online just remember…there’s a better way. Buy a plane ticket. Make it happen. Or don’t. And if you’re married and you’re buying a plane ticket to see someone who has invaded your consciousness via fucking MySpace, Twitter or Facebook…fool, I hope it works for you. Write a novel about it, regardless. I did.