Massive Purging
Today has been one of the most fucked up days I hope I'll ever have.
I stayed up until around five this morning to write an editorial paper on Milton's Paradise Lost and I was so tired, I was falling asleep well before I started my concluding paragraph and was half asleep all through the concluding paragraph. At 5am, I sent it to my professor and promptly went to sleep.
At about 11:00am, I am awakened with a phone call from spicketrot who tells me a friend of ours serving his second tour in Iraq might have died. There is too much hearsay of random people who don't really know him all that well. We both agree to keep our ears peeled.
Email: 11am: My professor's already graded my paper...A. Happy.
Instead of reading the play I'm supposed to for today, I try to research the recently deceased.
I decide to pull out my brother's army jacket. I wore it for such a long time while he was touring. It made me feel connected somehow. I wanted to feel connected now.
Class. It's blurry. I feel okay, but I hear little. An ache in my shoulder bothers me and I massage it during the whole class period. Afterwards, I chat with a friend, steal his food, and get a free massage out of it all. He thinks it's not the muscle, but a damaged ligament.
I get a call from angeldreams135. Have I heard anything? Yes, but not much. I calmly tell her there is nothing we can do until his name is released. We won't know for sure.
Later...talking to Spicketrot again while I am trying to dig up more information. All these people on Facebook have RIP messages in their statuses. It pisses me off. HOW THE FUCK DO THESE PEOPLE KNOW BEFORE WE DO?? The people who are expressing some form of sadness I wonder if they even give a shit about him because honestly, I can't remember an instance they did anything with him or a time he talked fondly of them. They were just...people...who happened to go to school with him at one point in his life. HOW FUCKING STUPID.
These messages are upsetting me. I'm just outraged. Then I see there is a Facebook group in his honor. "OUR HERO!!!" it says "THANK YOU FOR MAKING THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE." Whose fucking hero? I look at who is a member of the group and am just...enraged. People who couldn't give a fuck about him. People he hated for being so phony ALL THE TIME. People who jumped on him the instant he joined Facebook and professed to have thought of him and missed him all this time when in reality, he angrily wondered why the hell everyone was lying to him because there was a reason he never sought them out on Facebook...HE NEVER KNEW THEM AND THEY NEVER HIM.
I ask Spicketrot, "WHO THE FUCK IS E-----?????" ...some random fucking person who STARTED the group in his honor. What's her connection to him? How does she know before his name is even released? What's her connection to him?
I join in hopes that a group message will be sent out about what happened or about burial services.
I feel as though everyone is playing a joke on me.
Angeldreams again. She asks if we can go out for ice cream, she doesn't want to be locked up in the house with uncertainty. I say yeah. --one sec, Spicketrot's on the other line--
It's true.
It's...all true. It's not a joke. She just saw on his wife's myspace page information about his funeral.
I hang up in tears. I switch back over to Angeldreams. I don't know how to say it, but I blurt it out. Neither of us can speak and we both hang up.
And as I'm left by myself, I break down. I don't recognize myself. The tears come and I'm sobbing so loudly, I'm sure our neighbors can hear me. Soon, I find I can't breathe. I start hyperventilating through my tears and stuffing my face full of tissues and throwing my head between my knees doesn't work. I realize I sound like a lunatic because I can hear myself echoing off the walls and worry that the neighbors will call someone.
A half hour later...I'm deathly quiet. I'm calmly staring at my computer as one of my roommates comes home. She goes about her business as usual. About twenty minutes in, she realizes something is wrong. She asks if I have a bloody nose when she sees I'm holding a tissue to my nostrils. I shake my head no. She continues to stand there and she sees finally...when I turn my head...how red and puffy my eyes are.
She hugs me, but I don't want her touching me. I lose it again. I don't know how to get rid of her. I explain to her what's happened, but even after talking about it, she doesn't walk away. I wonder, WHY IS SHE STILL STANDING THERE??? DON'T YOU HAVE A LIFE TO GO BACK TO???
I'm angry...when he joined Facebook, he found me right away and immediately started posting his usual messages on my wall: CIN-GAY!!! HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN SEXY?? IT'S BEEN SO FUCKING LONG...
But because of his messy divorce proceedings (and maybe also partly his disgust with the phoniness of others), he deleted his Facebook and Myspace accounts...and with them...all of his messages to me...disappeared in the blip of an eye. In the end, I don't even get to keep his last words to me.
At the time, I was worried and had written a wall message to Angeldreams, who was in phone-contact with him, as to what had happened. Others saw my post and immediately began bombarding Angeldreams with phone calls as to his whereabouts--people who otherwise might not have noticed had I not said anything.
Still in denial, I change my Facebook status to: Leila is convinced that it is all a big conspiracy that she is not in on and that J---- is actually alive and well and bragging that his boner is bigger than yours.
Indeed, a little saying he had about himself: STICKING OUT LIKE A BONER IN SWEATPANTS!!
That is what I remember best about him. Always announcing his boners.
I will never forget the time he asked me why I didn't have a boyfriend. "To be honest, I don't think there are that many guys at our school that can handle me," I told him. He looked at me very frankly and said, "I think I could handle you." ^___^ Oh, J----, you fucking crazy motherfucker.
Later that day, my brother threatened to kill him if he touched me (a totally spontaneous moment! My brother had just walked in to see him putting on his shoes). J---- ran from the house in terror.
...or the time I wanted to show him how my arm muscles bulged when I stretched a certain way and he asked me to show him again because he wasn't paying attention (he was staring at my boobs).
...or the time I came to school in semi-drag (like a male biker who'd just had a one-night stand--complete with lipstick on the collar)...and he told me he thought it was really sexy.
...or the time he dry-humped me on camera as a joke which was later shown TO OUR ENTIRE GRADUATING CLASS on the senior slide show...
...or the time he took the time to explain to me that my breasts, though small, were the perfect size for my body because everything about me was proportional. On anyone else my breasts would look too small, but on me, they looked just right.
Goddammit. Why did it have to be you?
Email: (I read it through tears) The monologues I submitted for the creative CD have been accepted and they want me to come in to record them, however, they need me last minute and request that I come in tomorrow. They also state that they might possibly allow Saturday.
Happiness? I write them stating that I've just heard of a death and I will not be ready to record (lest I burst into tears mid-session), if at all possible, I'd like to do it Saturday.
I dread the idea of rehearsing my pieces. I just want to curl up into a ball and lay there until the weekend comes.
Dinner with BH is on for tomorrow...and I am happy to be able to spend time with someone important to me, but I don't want to be the one to just bring everything down.
I contact an old teacher of mine. I remember that four years ago, he took a picture of me, Spicketrot, and J--- together. We were trying to get into the yearbook as a "best three-some couple." I wanted to get that photograph if at all possible.
He contacted me back and said he specifically remembered that photo. He was going to look for it. He also told me that he was also J---'s teacher in middle school and was very proud of him when he graduated. The connections in this life are broad and amazing.
Email: My favorite author whose books I have obsessed over for the entirety of my college career has been replying to comments I've made in her blog...supreme happiness that she's taken the time to talk to me individually...but also a little frustrated that I don't know how to reconcile the opposing emotions of loss and gain.
I find myself angry. FUCK YOU J--- FOR DYING. You were invincible. You kicked so many people's asses. You threatened to kick so many people's asses because they threatened those that you cared for.
You fucked so many girls. But I never heard anyone complain. And you did the best O-- E--- impression I've ever heard: "STATE CHAMP!!!" "AY GIRL!!! WHATCHOUR NUMBER?" It always had me rolling on the floor with laughter every time.
But FUCK YOU. You promised you were going to come back from Iraq and fuck so-and-so's brains out and love your daughter to bits, you fucker, how could you do this to us??
No one will ever call me Cin-gay as a term of endearment ever again in my life. I just know it. That name belongs to you.
There is one secret I kept from you...that I am ashamed to admit even now...because I know at the time you were very hurt. The power I held in high school was too great. My influence too wide. When you promised to take my BFF to Prom for months and then backed out at the last minute in order to take your too-young GF, I was the one that made sure your GF wasn't allowed to go to Prom, thereby indirectly making you miss your Senior Prom. It wasn't exactly intentional, but the teacher who pointed out that your GF was younger than school policy allowed was fighting only because I had mentioned to him how upset my BFF was about the situation. And if you're really where you're supposed to be (but god knows why...you had the worst potty mouth and quite the way with women), you probably already know all of this. I'm really sorry, man. It comforts me that I know you now think your ex-GF a complete skanky-ass bitch, but you didn't think that at the time...so...sorry.
...please do not take this as a sign to hit REPLY or COMMENT. I really don't want to hear from you if all you have to say is something like "feel better" because FUCK YOU, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR SHIT. The only reason I am keeping the comment feature open is in the very unlikely event that someone reading this knows who I am talking about and is looking to contact me about him (but aren't internet savvy enough to know how to get my email). Also, please refrain from using any identifying names as the death hasn't been officially announced yet and this is a public blog entry.
I stayed up until around five this morning to write an editorial paper on Milton's Paradise Lost and I was so tired, I was falling asleep well before I started my concluding paragraph and was half asleep all through the concluding paragraph. At 5am, I sent it to my professor and promptly went to sleep.
At about 11:00am, I am awakened with a phone call from spicketrot who tells me a friend of ours serving his second tour in Iraq might have died. There is too much hearsay of random people who don't really know him all that well. We both agree to keep our ears peeled.
Email: 11am: My professor's already graded my paper...A. Happy.
Instead of reading the play I'm supposed to for today, I try to research the recently deceased.
I decide to pull out my brother's army jacket. I wore it for such a long time while he was touring. It made me feel connected somehow. I wanted to feel connected now.
Class. It's blurry. I feel okay, but I hear little. An ache in my shoulder bothers me and I massage it during the whole class period. Afterwards, I chat with a friend, steal his food, and get a free massage out of it all. He thinks it's not the muscle, but a damaged ligament.
I get a call from angeldreams135. Have I heard anything? Yes, but not much. I calmly tell her there is nothing we can do until his name is released. We won't know for sure.
Later...talking to Spicketrot again while I am trying to dig up more information. All these people on Facebook have RIP messages in their statuses. It pisses me off. HOW THE FUCK DO THESE PEOPLE KNOW BEFORE WE DO?? The people who are expressing some form of sadness I wonder if they even give a shit about him because honestly, I can't remember an instance they did anything with him or a time he talked fondly of them. They were just...people...who happened to go to school with him at one point in his life. HOW FUCKING STUPID.
These messages are upsetting me. I'm just outraged. Then I see there is a Facebook group in his honor. "OUR HERO!!!" it says "THANK YOU FOR MAKING THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE." Whose fucking hero? I look at who is a member of the group and am just...enraged. People who couldn't give a fuck about him. People he hated for being so phony ALL THE TIME. People who jumped on him the instant he joined Facebook and professed to have thought of him and missed him all this time when in reality, he angrily wondered why the hell everyone was lying to him because there was a reason he never sought them out on Facebook...HE NEVER KNEW THEM AND THEY NEVER HIM.
I ask Spicketrot, "WHO THE FUCK IS E-----?????" ...some random fucking person who STARTED the group in his honor. What's her connection to him? How does she know before his name is even released? What's her connection to him?
I join in hopes that a group message will be sent out about what happened or about burial services.
I feel as though everyone is playing a joke on me.
Angeldreams again. She asks if we can go out for ice cream, she doesn't want to be locked up in the house with uncertainty. I say yeah. --one sec, Spicketrot's on the other line--
It's true.
It's...all true. It's not a joke. She just saw on his wife's myspace page information about his funeral.
I hang up in tears. I switch back over to Angeldreams. I don't know how to say it, but I blurt it out. Neither of us can speak and we both hang up.
And as I'm left by myself, I break down. I don't recognize myself. The tears come and I'm sobbing so loudly, I'm sure our neighbors can hear me. Soon, I find I can't breathe. I start hyperventilating through my tears and stuffing my face full of tissues and throwing my head between my knees doesn't work. I realize I sound like a lunatic because I can hear myself echoing off the walls and worry that the neighbors will call someone.
A half hour later...I'm deathly quiet. I'm calmly staring at my computer as one of my roommates comes home. She goes about her business as usual. About twenty minutes in, she realizes something is wrong. She asks if I have a bloody nose when she sees I'm holding a tissue to my nostrils. I shake my head no. She continues to stand there and she sees finally...when I turn my head...how red and puffy my eyes are.
She hugs me, but I don't want her touching me. I lose it again. I don't know how to get rid of her. I explain to her what's happened, but even after talking about it, she doesn't walk away. I wonder, WHY IS SHE STILL STANDING THERE??? DON'T YOU HAVE A LIFE TO GO BACK TO???
I'm angry...when he joined Facebook, he found me right away and immediately started posting his usual messages on my wall: CIN-GAY!!! HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN SEXY?? IT'S BEEN SO FUCKING LONG...
But because of his messy divorce proceedings (and maybe also partly his disgust with the phoniness of others), he deleted his Facebook and Myspace accounts...and with them...all of his messages to me...disappeared in the blip of an eye. In the end, I don't even get to keep his last words to me.
At the time, I was worried and had written a wall message to Angeldreams, who was in phone-contact with him, as to what had happened. Others saw my post and immediately began bombarding Angeldreams with phone calls as to his whereabouts--people who otherwise might not have noticed had I not said anything.
Still in denial, I change my Facebook status to: Leila is convinced that it is all a big conspiracy that she is not in on and that J---- is actually alive and well and bragging that his boner is bigger than yours.
Indeed, a little saying he had about himself: STICKING OUT LIKE A BONER IN SWEATPANTS!!
That is what I remember best about him. Always announcing his boners.
I will never forget the time he asked me why I didn't have a boyfriend. "To be honest, I don't think there are that many guys at our school that can handle me," I told him. He looked at me very frankly and said, "I think I could handle you." ^___^ Oh, J----, you fucking crazy motherfucker.
Later that day, my brother threatened to kill him if he touched me (a totally spontaneous moment! My brother had just walked in to see him putting on his shoes). J---- ran from the house in terror.
...or the time I wanted to show him how my arm muscles bulged when I stretched a certain way and he asked me to show him again because he wasn't paying attention (he was staring at my boobs).
...or the time I came to school in semi-drag (like a male biker who'd just had a one-night stand--complete with lipstick on the collar)...and he told me he thought it was really sexy.
...or the time he dry-humped me on camera as a joke which was later shown TO OUR ENTIRE GRADUATING CLASS on the senior slide show...
...or the time he took the time to explain to me that my breasts, though small, were the perfect size for my body because everything about me was proportional. On anyone else my breasts would look too small, but on me, they looked just right.
Goddammit. Why did it have to be you?
Email: (I read it through tears) The monologues I submitted for the creative CD have been accepted and they want me to come in to record them, however, they need me last minute and request that I come in tomorrow. They also state that they might possibly allow Saturday.
Happiness? I write them stating that I've just heard of a death and I will not be ready to record (lest I burst into tears mid-session), if at all possible, I'd like to do it Saturday.
I dread the idea of rehearsing my pieces. I just want to curl up into a ball and lay there until the weekend comes.
Dinner with BH is on for tomorrow...and I am happy to be able to spend time with someone important to me, but I don't want to be the one to just bring everything down.
I contact an old teacher of mine. I remember that four years ago, he took a picture of me, Spicketrot, and J--- together. We were trying to get into the yearbook as a "best three-some couple." I wanted to get that photograph if at all possible.
He contacted me back and said he specifically remembered that photo. He was going to look for it. He also told me that he was also J---'s teacher in middle school and was very proud of him when he graduated. The connections in this life are broad and amazing.
Email: My favorite author whose books I have obsessed over for the entirety of my college career has been replying to comments I've made in her blog...supreme happiness that she's taken the time to talk to me individually...but also a little frustrated that I don't know how to reconcile the opposing emotions of loss and gain.
I find myself angry. FUCK YOU J--- FOR DYING. You were invincible. You kicked so many people's asses. You threatened to kick so many people's asses because they threatened those that you cared for.
You fucked so many girls. But I never heard anyone complain. And you did the best O-- E--- impression I've ever heard: "STATE CHAMP!!!" "AY GIRL!!! WHATCHOUR NUMBER?" It always had me rolling on the floor with laughter every time.
But FUCK YOU. You promised you were going to come back from Iraq and fuck so-and-so's brains out and love your daughter to bits, you fucker, how could you do this to us??
No one will ever call me Cin-gay as a term of endearment ever again in my life. I just know it. That name belongs to you.
There is one secret I kept from you...that I am ashamed to admit even now...because I know at the time you were very hurt. The power I held in high school was too great. My influence too wide. When you promised to take my BFF to Prom for months and then backed out at the last minute in order to take your too-young GF, I was the one that made sure your GF wasn't allowed to go to Prom, thereby indirectly making you miss your Senior Prom. It wasn't exactly intentional, but the teacher who pointed out that your GF was younger than school policy allowed was fighting only because I had mentioned to him how upset my BFF was about the situation. And if you're really where you're supposed to be (but god knows why...you had the worst potty mouth and quite the way with women), you probably already know all of this. I'm really sorry, man. It comforts me that I know you now think your ex-GF a complete skanky-ass bitch, but you didn't think that at the time...so...sorry.
...please do not take this as a sign to hit REPLY or COMMENT. I really don't want to hear from you if all you have to say is something like "feel better" because FUCK YOU, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR SHIT. The only reason I am keeping the comment feature open is in the very unlikely event that someone reading this knows who I am talking about and is looking to contact me about him (but aren't internet savvy enough to know how to get my email). Also, please refrain from using any identifying names as the death hasn't been officially announced yet and this is a public blog entry.