I've found that evisceration in words is one of the best ways to deal with disappointment, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart, no matter how superficially. With that, I give you the story of (s)*, a cautionary tale. In this, the reckless season of holidays when judgement takes leave and the compulsion to feel connected to whoever overrides my better sensibilities, I found myself uncharacteristically throwing caution to the wind and actually liking a feller more than I otherwise would. You see, in a way to transfer responsibility for my own damned actions, I'm saying that my sister planted a pestilent seed in my mind about a man who I had met at my local pub. He is an interesting and nice guy, but in the end, perhaps the hope of coming across someone who isn't a character cliché in the way that of many of the men I've crossed paths with in the past have been, I was hoping that he would assuage the disappointment that I was anticipating from men in general. Pity.
Anyhow, my sister had mentioned to me that in spite of my having a pre-existing crush on another feller who I’m over the moon about, she thought this guy was interested in me and that he was the one who I should pursue. Like the tool that I am, I thought she might be right. phft! So there I was, drinking at my local drinkery, with the sister no less, and who else but (s) was there drinking and flirting with me... not my sex-pot sister, mind you, but... me. Holy Toledo!! I was pumped and befuddled. Anyhow, the bar closed and we went outside for a smoke before stumbling home and (s) was still hanging around. Conversation carried on and what should come to pass, but he made a pass at me. As usual, it completely took me off guard because guys generally aren't interested in me what-so-ever!!! Or at least that is how my life experience has generally felt. So my sister (who happened to be inebriated beyond recognition) stumbled back to my house on her own while I started this bizarre interaction with (s) that involved kissing and light dirty talk including him reminding me over and over how, "we are so going to fuck" on that very evening.
To which I could only respond, "You are so going to break my heart on some level, and I forgive you... just so you know."
Now, to his credit, he was just as drunk as I was (which for the record was... quite) and likely more so. And I would have shagged the ever loving fuck out of him, except for the small issue of my drunk-ass sister at my house in... Lord knows what condition and all. So I put the kibosh on that and once again, but narrowly, kept my virtue intact. I know, I know, I'm a saint. It must be said that in spite of my intoxicated state, he is a divine kisser. And that happens to feed my smiter like crack cocaine. Therefore, after all was said and done or not done as the case happened to be, I have a bonafied crush worthy of mental distraction and idealization and the whole catastrophic bit.
Fast forward two days....
My dear dear friend came for a visit from California. My sister came out from her stick town in Western Massachusetts and we hit the town. After a hockey game, we got ourselves back to my local pub and sure enough, (s) was right outside smoking a cigarette. Filthy habit, but who am I to judge what gets someone through the night? I said hi and made the appropriate introductions because I am nothing if not utterly polite. Then when I had a moment I told (s) that when I went upstairs that fateful night, my sister was all akimbo and had been emptying the contents of her stomach from the top down. What did he do? WHAT DID HE FUCKING DO?!! He looked at me and blinked and said, "I don't know what you are talking about."
I was thinking fast at that stage of the game... my first thought was... blackout... perhaps he's that much of a loser... then my thoughts turned to... he was speaking too articulately that night to be blacked out... he's trying to make it all go away... so I tried to sleuth out the truth of what was going on and I say, "You know, after the band played the other night."
And do you know what mother fucker said? Some freaking thing like, "I don't remember. I was pretty fucked up that night. I drank a lot of bourbon."
And like a tool, I said, "Oh." And proceeded to be crestfallen because for all my faults and imperfections, I'm a fricken phenomenal kisser and I can't help but take it personally when someone doesn't remember me as on of the most mind-blowing kissers they have ever snogged. It's a good thing I didn't blow him because I don't think my self-esteem could survive that sort of snubbing.
Being a rational sort, I didn't let my emotions get the better of me and I did the mature thing and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the evening which didn't seem to bother him too much.
The next day I awoke feeling like reconstituted dog shit and did the best damage control that I could muster and ended up going to bed that night at 9 pm with a temperature of 101 degrees. The whole experience was nearly more than I could muster and my body went on full-tilt revolt.
Tonight, I landed once again at the local pub with my company in tow. Sure enough, (s) was there. Small talk, small talk and so on and so forth. We had all been drinking like it was our jobs and that included (s). Eventually I was able to get a few moments of his attention alone. My thoughts were that I'd let him off the hook because he's clearly a barfly in the most appealing pub in my town to hang out in so it would be best to let bygones be bygones and take the high road and so on, etc. So I once again asked him if he really didn't remember anything from the fateful night. Again he said that he didn't. So I thought what the fuck, I'll just start over with him and extended my arm and said, "Hi, I'm Teresa"**. He took my hand and shook it and introduced himself. Then I proceeded to explain to him that I thought we should start over because he didn't seem to remember the other night when he kissed me quite a few times and said dirty things and all and I didn't want things to be uncomfortable.
He seemed to be receptive and we were able to sit together and yammer on about innocuous things and it didn't really feel uncomfortable. So that's the best I've got when it comes to eviscerating someone in writing. At least it's the best I've got when I actually like someone. A little impotent, perhaps, but I pity the fool that seriously raises my ire. And like Mrs. Kennedy says, "Writing well is the best revenge." So I will continue to endeavor to that end and with any luck, one day the circumstances will align in a way that will allow me to wielda potent revenge on someone truly deserving. Until then, I will continue to pop off at the keyboard with the ranting of a mad woman.
That's all I've got for now, y'all.
Big pouty kisses for each and every one of you.
* Guess what… I changed the names of the not so innocent because I’m decent like that.
** And I’m sure you aren’t surprised, that I’m using a pseudonym so that I don’t divulge my true identity.