Torch Post

On the radio and among friends there is talk of the Big Game while outside the courtyard is mostly baby shit brown from frozen, thawed and re-frozen grass, weeds, bushes and leaves. Everything looks as dead as Marcel Marceau's great grandmother. Above is a gray sky and the sun seems to be ready to shine, shine, shine. But the most you'll see is a halo of light around a shining disk that simply must be hiding just behind the clouds.

Today is February 7, 2010 and I find myself writing the eulogy for yet another relationship. Although this one truly did look special. She seemed to love me so damn much. And I just wanted to grow old with her. This one is going to hurt, and the way she talks to me now is sad. Clearly, her opinion of me has changed.

This is one of those things that you just have to lump. Like it or lump it. Consider it lumped, world, consider it lumped. Regardless of my pain, I'm not mad at Lin. Some things you just have to do. Unfortunately, she just had to get the fuck away from me, and tout de suite. I'm a wreck, but I hope she finds what I didn't have.

And all this right before Valentine's Day. I've always hated that rotten holiday. It makes me wonder how any couple can make it work. Linda and I were totally and madly in love, inseparable, for 5 years. Now boop! it's all over. The search for the right partner and lover is demeaning and emotionally withering.

Now at this point, I have two choices...two wide choices. The first is to go absolutely bat guano and end up in a locked psychiatric ward where my only joy in life comes from graham crackers, ginger ale, and midnight masturbation sessions kept quiet as to avoid waking the roommates. The other option is to employ dialectical methodology and take a chill pill, if possible. So far, the former is working well. We'll see.

A cold wind is cutting between the red brick buildings and rendering a busy neighborhood quiet and as peaceful as the surface of the moon. My eyes are welling up. I miss you, Linda.