Telegram

One more mistake was made, stop, the one in which I let you know that I had made a mistake. Stop. If we could tarry in the underground and persue the equivocal decisions we made, stop, things would be different. Stop. But I don’t know if this can happen. Stop. I can blame it on whatever I want, stop, but at the end of the day, I’m not strong enough to grab your hand and, stop, at least lead you in the direction I’d like just to see you follow. Stop. Just to see. Stop. Just because this makes everything different. Stop.

Folie à Deux

“Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions.”

–Tony Kushner, Angels in America

Part Two, in Which Hot Scandal Feels More Like Regret

Nothing has changed, not a thing. But something is wrong. I finish a book and cry. I know something is wrong and I know I’ve repressed this for a few days with story-telling and liquor and denial. Because I make big mistakes. I’m not the first. But I have bad habits, and they mostly include the salacious patterns I trace.

This is not the first time I’ve crossed the line. And I’m not upset about him. He is secondary. He is just a detail that will be wiped away with time and more story-telling and liquor and denial. I’m angry that I keep stepping over this obvious fucking line and then redrawing it willy-nilly in the sand. Again and again. I’m a smart girl. Why can’t I draw my line, an acceptable line, and plant my feet behind it? I say I want to follow my own rules.

And, you know, I would say more. But people read this and rumors spread. There are already rumors. Nothing changes, you know. Not a goddamned thing. I don’t need to tell you that.