15 January 2003

Break, broke, broken

In the end, I’ll have been non-single just long enough to go through a real breakup. Couldn’t just stop returning calls. Fortunately, it went fine, with dignity and all.

I’m not going to get into the details because, as reluctant as I may be when it comes to writing about my private life, it’s even less conceivable for me to start telling other people’s lives. But there’s just one thing I’d like to know. When the guy you dump says You could have told me over the phone, he doesn’t mean it, does he? Well, he means it, but it’s wrong, and he would have said just the opposite (and with more indignation in his voice) if you had actually done that, wouldn’t he? You agree that he would? Good. I just needed to be sure.

Yesterday, I couldn’t help wondering if it was an omen when a friend of mine talked to me about crabs. But if it’s a sign, what does it mean? That I’m going back to a life of debauchery? I can’t affort debauchery, you have to go to clubs, bathouses and crusing bars, and all of that is too costly and I just spent all my money on some clothes to make me look good. That I’ll just have crabs? Oh well, why not, that won’t kill me. They’ll keep me company on long winter nights. Oh, come on, will the two virgins in the back of the room stop acting disgusted? It’s just nature, nothing wrong.