The Dark Side and Being "Abbie" Normal

Awoke this morning on the floor. I don't know how I got there, but outside of a few aches and pains, I'm delicious. Before I stood up and took a shower (at 7:05am), I noticed a fine patina of dust all over a treasured box of correspondance and writing (my own and my friends and comrades) that I keep under my bed. I don't mind revealing that, as it has no value to anyone but me. So I carefully dusted it while standing in my nightshirt on my back stoop, and then put it back under my bed. But before that, I cracked it open and took a peek.

I found a matchbook I got from Cafe Algiers about 10 years ago, whilst on a date. I sniffed it and smiled. I thought of witty conversation, apple tobacco, and hookahs. After that I moved on to a folder that contains "Last American on Earth" and "Two Hills." If you know me, you know that they are both pieces of fiction that I sometimes contribute to, but will never complete. I enjoy having them around. Both endeavors will meet the same fate as Sibelius' 8th symphony.

An obscure classical music reference proves I'm smart.

However, what really got my attention was a recent letter from a former friend, Abbie. Actually, it's an email I printed out and decided to save for some reason. It really freaked me out. I'm going to share it, but first a little background.

Abbie and I had a short, unpleasant relationship a long time ago. We both wanted sex, methinks, and then to get as far away from each other as possible. We were introduced by a mutual friend who now lives in London. At some point, Abbie decided to psychoanalyze me, as she does to herself and everyone else. Just so you know, not that you need to, but "Abbie" is not her real name. One must protect the innocent.

That said, I'm going to put some of her nasty "break-up" letter on here now. As I said, it bothered me a lot this morning, and I'm sort of looking for the comfortable commentary of my current friends, acquaintances and comrades. Oh, and one more thing, she knew at the time that I despise the nickname, "DW." She also "cc'd" this letter to 4 of her friends. Here goes:

DW,

Before we both go separate ways, I feel that I need to say a few things about you. At Commie's place last night you made quite an impression with my lady friends. For some reason, women like you, but I can't figure out why. It's not because you're a feminist or because of your nauseating testicle thing, or any of that shit, because most women I know hate men who are feminists. And they hate ball-less pussies even more. And we both know that you like to clash with other men, about politics and everything else. You're just a big ol' mess. But I think I have something pinned down, you fat pile of fuck.

People like to joke about being "crazy" and then laughing about it. Ha ha. Or about having a "dark side." DW my boy, that's what you have, a real dark side. You're no tourist over there, you're a regular. So and so said that you are kind of a pussy, with all this talk about feeling guilty and saying that you want "reason and compassion" to be your guide, I tended to agree. But there is a lot more going on. Your (sic) disturbed.

You wrote to me once about how when you were a kid you would have terrible nightmares about serial killers. That news reports about them made you vomit out of fear. But you weren't afraid of being killed by one, you were instead afraid of turning into one. "What if," you told me once, "you woke up tomorrow morning and had no conscience, or even got enjoyment out of killing and torturing? Turning into a psychopath is far more terrifying than being killed or tortured by one." Lovely pillow talk.

All this talk about the importance of compassion and understanding and helping each other through life. Are you trying to convince yourself of something, DW? See, I think you're a crazy mother fucker running from who you really are. Most people have a dark side, but they never really go there, they just sometimes visit it, like a tourist. But I think you live there, and you want out. Nobody can hate himself the way you do and be a well-adjusted human being. And all those cuts on your arms and legs, you make me sick.

You told so and so last night that the "universe is indifferent to suffering and pleasure." So the living must work to comfort the living, or some shit like that. I heard you. You were laying it on pretty thick. I know you're sincere, dahling, but you need to get help. You supposedly hate men because men are far more disposed to violence and cruelty than women, at least physically, and you even said once how 99% of psychopathic killers are men. "Pathologically unable to be trusted," you once said.

That's why you're so argumentative with men, and seek out women, whom you see as more compassionate, understanding, thoughtful, mature and intelligent. Ohhh, how charming. Besides so and so, who you never see, do you even have any male friends? And you're so protective of your precious Clare and Donna and Melanie and Anne. Most women mistake this as a good thing. Some feminist. But from whom are you protecting them? Hmmm.

Your (sic) a very intelligent guy, no doubt about it, Anne was right. And women do seem to like you a lot. But all your guilt and self-hatred is going to blow up in your face one day, and people will see your black soul. Until then, you have fun with your amigas. Maybe you'll get what you want one day and die nobly protecting one of them.

That's about all I really want to share, but it goes on from there into a festival of insults. Our mutual friend, Anne (her real name, used with permission...it's just a blog), has cut off contact with "Abbie" and told me that she got extremely jealous when I spoke with her friends at a get-together the night before she sent this email. Anne nor I know where Abbie is right now, and I had totally forgotten about this bizarre "Dear John" letter. Until this morning.

I'd like to say that finding it this morning and reading it didn't upset me a little, but I can't. I can't remember for the life of me what I did to inspire such hatred. I have a "black soul?" Jesus Christ. Yes, I have only two male friends, but so what? Anne told me once that Abbie hates women, and that that helped to explain why my having so many women friends bugged her so.

Anyway, do any of you, my readers (tee hee), have a "Dear John" or "Jane" letter you'd like to share? And for those of you who know me, is there any truth about me in this bizarre letter? It freaked me out, folks.

These days I travel with Linda, who has never accused me of being a psychopath. And my "black soul" has never made an appearance once. Last I heard it was backpacking through Finland.

On to something else.

I want to mention that I saw "Grindhouse" with my brother this past weekend. The second story, "Death Proof" is one of my favorite films. Hopefully, they'll be re-releasing it on it's own. If they do, go see it. Go see it, anway, everyone, just know that the first film, "Planet Terror" is absolutely disgusting. Amusing and fun, but really nasty.

But I digress. This morning, I drove to the post office and was listening to 90.3FM, WZBC, aka Boston College radio. They played "Hold Tight" by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Tich. Which is from Death Proof. Driving down Mass. Ave. with that blasting on the radio was a wild ride. If you've seen Death Proof, you know of what I speak. Just too cool.

More later, Beans!