At Least They're Committed

Marly was a year ahead of me in high school and sat across from me in my media class. He was exotic and had dark, curly hair, big green eyes, an aloof demeanor and a wonderful way of rocking back in his chair. Marly was my fantasy and should he have ever passed a glance my way I would have blushed; intimidated and shy.

Fast forward. When I was about 22 I hooked up with Marly. We ran into each other at the bar, ended up making out and eventually having a, uh, much deeper and longer and harder, faster relationship . . . meaning of course it was only for that one night. It meant nothing to him, but it was everything to me and I was a lovesick, naive Catholic girl. 

No surprise, Marly blew me off at the bar the next week. Also no surprise, I sobbed, flailed and made a complete ass of myself; me inasmuch as chasing after him; my friend having to nearly carry me out of the pub. “You (cry) don’t care (sniff) about me!!!? It (whimper) meant (sob) sooooo (snort)  much to me!!!!”

(My friend subsequently took me to a hotel with her to see her boyfriend and, lo, his big brother, Jace, was there, too, in another room and I’d been in love with Jace my whole high school career . . . guess it was Unrequited Love Night in Tripping Raul Land. I spilled my guts to Jace while we watched some old black and white movie about oil rigs and he was very sweet and just said things like, ‘Huh, weird’ and ‘Marly? Why Marly?’ and ‘You’re Catholic? Really?’)

Back to Marly. I was depressed to the point where it hurt to breathe. My shoulders sagged, my feathered hair went flat, my very soul was flayed. I called and confessed to my friend Jennifer and she was only mildly sympathetic — also being a good Catholic and knowing full well I shouldn’t have been boffing Marly. She said, rather curtly, ‘Well, you’re a writer. Write down your feelings and maybe you’ll feel better.’

Woefully, I set myself up in the dark basement by a dimly lit bulb and started to write, thinking I’d have a mournful cry along the way. Yet, the most amazing thing happened. I wrote down my feelings, not like some dramatic romance novel, but what I was ACTUALLY thinking and feeling as the night had unfolded. Things such as, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Can’t he finish this without me?” and “Men are so sad when they beg!” and “Ew! Is that a zit on his back or some sort of cancerous growth?” You get the picture.

And I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed! I laughed so hard I cried, so yeah, I guess I got it out.

Fast forward. I just screwed up again. Not with sex! No! Sheesh. With a now-former friend, misinterpretations, hurt feelings and all that nasty emotional business. I’m in pain, I said I was sorry and I AM sorry and was basically told to f*&ck off. But, lucky me, I’ve learned. I’m not going to go running after ‘Marly’ no matter how much I’d like to clarify; nor will I cry nor whimper nor snort nor ask ‘why?’ it turned out badly. I’ll just write, and maybe I’ll laugh.

Oh, I guess I just did. 😉