What happened to the Amor album?
Posted by: R | August 23, 2004 08:45 PM
dear "badger" or whomever the fuck you are,
i can't believe i have to even write this. i can't believe this has happened to me. i can't believe that you hate me this much.
i have suffered for WEEKS now, in silence mostly, b/c revealing what you are doing would just open me up to ridicule, b/c let's face it, no one would believe the story i am about to reluctantly tell. this is the sort of shit that occurs in soap operas, and not just any soap opera, this is like that surreal, "Passions" bullshit that leaves you derisively incredulous. i just write these little diary posts each day and i allude to "dissolving in saltwater" or being "upset". i never give a reason, and my dear, loyal friends don't ask, b/c they respect the famed "80/20" rule (80% of my life is private, 20% of my life gets blogged).
there isn't a cell in your cursed, hell-bound body that comprehends such a concept.
you didn't have to respect me.
you didn't have to respect my relationship.
you didn't even have to respect my ex-boyfriend, with whom you might just be psychotically besotted.
all i hoped for, before i knew what i needed to hope for, was that you would respect my privacy.
i am no angel. i want to declare that, emphatically, right now. i have done many things that i am utterly ashamed of, things which perplex me now. i have hurt people. i have pried. i have nonchalantly filtered through their private lives as if i were trying out for the CIA. i have even read someone's diary, b/c i couldn't resist it...
but i have NEVER,
taken the information i gleaned, and attempted to destroy someone with it.
you fucking whore. you psychopath. you misguided, meddling, succubus. you deserve the sort of torture that saddam hussein once condoned; they should coat your pus-oozing, fetid body with honey, or blood and let rabid rottweilers who have been starved expressly for this purpose have their way with you. they should mimic the worst scenes from american psycho. they should make your last moments on earth as hellacious as you have made my life these last two weeks.
i don't know who "they" are, but i wish they existed, and i wish "they" had you. you deserve no mercy.
the worst thing about you is that i somehow know you. i don't know who you are exactly, but i know you, that much is clear from the emails you are sending my S. i know you, and somehow, you slithered spasmodically in to my personal email account, an account that was conducive to storage b/c of its lovely one gig of space.
an account that was MINE.
you stole in, and then you read things that were never meant for your or any other eyes. i picture you laughing, as you gazed at your computer screen, formulating what words you would choose to destroy my dream.
you read my life, my doubts, my worries. the things you confide to your absolute closest friends. the things you bury deep within, but occasionally find the strenght to write about; the things you innocently email to yourself, so that you'll be able to access such work from anywhere, b/c you no longer have a laptop. the things your doctor emails you about. the things that were none of your fucking business.
i thought you would email other people the way you did S, that you would try and hurt me over and over again, by destroying other relationships, too. now, i don't think you are going to do that. you have tunnel-vision, and my jaan was in your crosshairs. you fucked up, worthless bitch.
i didn't put two and two together, at first. i was too flabbergasted, too emotionally winded. it couldn't be real...who would do such things? the two of you i confided in immediately, when the first email greeted S, when my life started to disintegrate just like it did two years ago, the two of you whom i run to when i am in need of sanctuary, the two of you whom i trust both said the same thing; "anna, even if people hate you, they won't go to this much effort. i mean, can you think of anyone who would? honestly?"
i agreed (who wouldn't?), but i wasn't thinking.
i didn't remember the comments, on this very blog that i had deleted. the words now rush back to me, "you're so lucky. you almost don't deserve him, haha. be careful, he's my type." and more on that theme. i blithely ignored these things, i ignored the emails, the comments left on fotolog. who wouldn't? who imagines that there are people who are capable of such shit? still, i had this sense of absolute foreboding about washington, dc. it was almost irrational. dc. where you were commenting and emailing from...
did i go to GW w/you? did i wrong you in some way? are you really this mentally ill, that you would resort to such junior high school games? the thing is, in seventh grade, you just think your heart is going to break and stay that way forever when you are betrayed by some bitch. you don't realise you'll be okay. you may not have a date for the dance, but whatever. well, this is not junior high. this is my fucking life. and i didn't lose a date for the dance, i lost someone whose family i met (did you vote on a sari for me to meet them in, and did you pick the ugliest one on purpose?), whose ring i would've accepted, whose children i would've had.
you read my entire inbox, and then you wrote the most important email i have ever read. and then my heart started to throb, and then it started to pound, and then it almost deafened me with the sounds of my life rushing about within. i had to lie down. i thought i was going crazy. i thought i was about to lose everything. i thought that my S had lost faith in me, b/c of your baseless lies.
you have no clue really do you
she likes _______ ...
figure it out, genius.
...who trusts his girlfriend too much. who is blind to the fact that she pines for another. piece it together. she's using you, abusing your trust, using you for now while she waits for him. i know.
How do i know this? Why am I saying this? because. i know, i know the people involved. YOu, her, this guy. I know the conversations that carry in the middle of the night while you sleep. why do this ? because. I must. You deserve more than her. still dont believe me? send back an email...and i'll send you proof.
i thought this was all some sick, sad joke at first. i remember that my first rxn was, "what a shitty writer". i shake my head at this now. i would've been able to dismiss this email from hell entirely if it weren't for the part that i redacted; a part that you don't need to see, a part that lays out details about S that no one else knew, except me. that's what made my spine feel like it had just been inserted in my body after storage in a freezer. how could they know that?
my day was pure hell. you almost took him away from me-- almost. but i fought for him, for his trust, and i got it back.
for a week.
you never let up, did you. you attacked again and again, exploiting weakness w/your lies. what chance did i have? you know all of my struggles, all of the factors that were in play, all of the reasons why S and i shouldn't work. you read it all, didn't you. you knew that a long-distance relationship that was already being tested in the most severe ways was just ripe for the manipulation you had in mind. and armed with knowledge that you stole from me, you had no need for other weapons of mass destruction.
you acted, but i acted as well. this time i lost.
you know so much about me, but do you know what i lost? do you even care? does the shriveled, black, cancer-ridden piece of meat that may or may not pump in the middle of your chest have any good in it, at all? i'm convinced that it doesn't, after what you have done (and done again, and again...)
i have a REAL diary, for the words that live in the "80". this is what i lost:
S and i are REALLY in love. we discuss what neighbourhoods are best, when i will move in, what car S is buying next. he's so funny, he keeps mentioning volvo, and i kept screeching about how that would guarantee an unplanned pregnancy, b/c single, unmarried couples DON'T drive volvos. it is my sincere contention that volvos are fertile enough to provoke immaculate conceptions.
"would that be so bad?" he always replies playfully..."our daughter would be a supermodel. we'd retire in less than fifteen years and live off of her good looks."
this has become the sweetest routine. i scoff at this and then he insists that there is no way our offspring could be shorter than 5'8...and that is taller than kate moss. done. supermodel it is. :) we do this daily.
i always listen to him w/a bit of awe. i'm the one who loves babies. i've never dated someone who is more excited about them than me. i always tease him about his niece, about how he wants a clone of her, the gorgeous baby who favours her uncle above all others, the baby who inherited the sphinx-like smile of her late grandmother, the only woman S ever really loved. "you want another ____! one you don't have to return!" he always patiently declines. "do you have any idea how difficult babies are? have you NOT been reading the dooce forwards i send you?! who's going to wake up for that punk-ass future covergirl? not ME."
"i promise i'll always get up in the middle of the night, even if i have to work the next day, if it means that you get to sleep. b/c you love sleep. and i love to watch you. you have no idea how beautiful you are when you are dreaming. that and fire alarms can't wake you, so the kid would starve if i don't tend to her! it's useless to try and wake you! you'll be the only mother in the world who doesn't wake immediately at first squall."
"that started off so sweet, and ended so shitty. well done!"
"you want sweet? you require eight hours of sleep. i require four. this means that i spend four hours holding you, playing with your hair, looking at what i get to spend forever with."
does this all make you sick w/its sucrose-laden perfection? good, b/c i'm sick with my loss of it. i got to be in love twice in my G-d-forsaken fucking life. twice. the first time, it was snatched away by fate, and i barely survived. when i got a second chance, i remember screaming my gratitude up at the stars, for their intervention, for their justice. i was going to be one of *those* stories. was.
but then YOU snatched it away. all of it. boy, perfection, volvo, dream, model-perfect baby, future, love, inside jokes, ice cream, photographs, joy, neighbourhood, trust, firsts, life. all of it.
may you live in interesting times. may you never know the love that i have known...twice. may you suffer and shudder and gnash your teeth until they are rotting nubs. may you cry until your water drowns you. may you know what you have wrought and receive retribution ten-fold. may you think of me the moment before you die, your last breath a spasm that echoes my name as you picture me saying, "welcome to hell." in short, may you get all that you deserve.
happy now? you know everything! i am broken. i am sick. i am imperfect. i have secrets. i am alone. i suffer. i ache. i weep. i pine. i am human and i need to be loved, just like everybody else does. i will now prove to those who hate that i am indeed crazy. after all, a tale like this (a tale i have been loathe to write) is surely fable. i fucking wish.
i thought that S and i were unbreakable. i thought we could survive it all. but he is human. and you are persistent. and skilled with twisting my words out of context. you don't have to contact him daily, it's over. at least let this post accomplish that. leave him in peace. you've done enough to harm him. to harm us. to kill the trust that is necessary for two to become one.
you are successful. and though the accusation will be lobbed at me publicly vs you, you are sick.
enjoy your "success". you'll need something to focus on when hell's flames devour your stinking flesh for an entire eternity. know that you are fucked in the head, that NO ONE acts like this. NO ONE should.
me? i am not afraid of orange heat licking my body; yes, my virtue was called in to question, my king doubted my devotion b/c i am exiled far away...i would walk through fire for him, to prove myself, but i won't give you the pleasure of seeing me burn.
where is amor? indeed, where is it? it certainly isn't here.