July 2003 Archives

Today I was shown the sort of kindness that few have ever really experienced. Certainly I haven't experienced such kindness, not to this degree.

I think that tears can be used to show great respect to someone, and to let them know that you are deeply moved by their actions. That's how I would like to use them sometimes. I want to someone to see just how much they mean to me. But I have trouble crying. I just can't do it, the tears don't come. And as silly as it sounds, I worry that I have not honoured that person the way they deserve.

There is something that will always get the tears flowing, though. The "Finale On The Steps" scene in the third Godfather movie. It gets me every time.

It's always the same: the shots ring out, I quickly suck in a breath of suspense; the victim is revealed, my eyes narrow thinking about the incompetent casting in the movie and the sickening nepotism involved with the Coppola family; the crowd gathers, the victim dies and everyone freaks out while my heart grows cold and unfeeling; Michael Corleone screams his silent scream, I look in his eyes and know the purest, soul-rending anguish of a father losing a child to his own evil, I am crumbling; the scream continues and I look into the eyes of everyone else there: the ex-wife, the aunt, they both look at the father as if finally knowing that the time had come; finally, the scream is no longer silent, but rather a heart-twisting, primal, cry of pain, guilt and...understanding? And I am gone. I begin to shake, and can only look at it through my hands that are covering my face. It's hard to take. But that's just me. I don't think many people really thought too much of that scene, what with the other problems in the movie.

It was an odd way to show my respect and appreciation, I know, but it was heartfelt. Truly. You are one of a kind.

Welcome to the "Women Suck" club!

It's strange, but in a totally simultaneous but independent stroke of luck, Saab broke up with Nenette today. She, like every other woman alive today, has "self-esteem" problems, but hers are more severe. She is constantly down on herself, and she said that she was worthless (in almost those words) one too many times.

Saab bought her a replacement bike last week. He didn't eactly buy it, but he said that she could pay him back whenever. He gets more generous the less money he has, and she really needed the bike. Today she said that she couldn't handle having him give her such a gift, that she wasn't worthy, blah, blah, fucking blah. He basically agreed and will pick up the bike tomorrow. They are done.

I am so fucking sick of this constant self-esteem garbage. Too fat, too skinny, too poor, too rich, too smart, too stupid, too blonde, too white, too black. Too fucking bad.

I can't handle this shit anymore. I have my own shit to deal with. Everyone does. Get the fuck over it, or get out of my life. Don't lie to yourself and to me and tell me that your head is screwed on straight. Don't fucking bother. Cat is mired in it. Nenette is buried in it. That apartment is a den of inadequacy.

There are positive outcomes for me, at least. It's better that I find out now that Cat doesn't have her head on straight rather than a year from now. By the way, I am not saying that she doesn't have her head on straight because she dumped me. It's because her self-image issues are clouding her judgement and she is utterly confused about what path to take and how to take it, even though she has made a decision about things. She doesn't really know what she is doing in any aspect of her life.

This also gives me the chance to work on finding women that don't have a history of mental illness, who actually is confident, may have issues but doesn't let them rule her, that sort of thing. I can start to get over saving damsels and start being someone worhty of being with on my own merits.

I have to hand it to her ex, though. He had been trying for the better part of six months to get her back, and he did. She didn't make it easy on him, so I believe that he may have changed. Good for him. I have respect for what he has done. At this point, if this experiment with her ex doesn't work out I couldn't accept her back even if I asked me. How can I believe that she's together and that it was really over with her ex? She told me that once already, and it clearly wasn't true.

In 1996, I think, Helen Fielding coined the term "emotional fuckwit" to describe pretty much all men. Millions of women cheered, as though the fuckwittage is coming from us and only us. The nerve. The fucking gall! Who's the emotional fuckwit, now?

This summer I have lost my job, lost a good friend (S) and lost my girlfriend, yet I still am having the best summer I've had in years. Conclusion: Jobs are bad.