Saint Love-Hate/Coming Back

"And at that moment, I realized, I wasn't telling the joke. I was the joke." - Chuck Palahniuk

Saint Love-Hate

                Before we start this story, let’s make it into a drinking game. Every time you feel that what you did was your fault, take a shot.

You don’t need to ask her, you’re smart enough to know it. The funny thing is, when we’re in love, we’re convinced that this time, she’s different. She’s not the same as the old one, she’s not going to hurt you the way the previous lines of Michelles, Janelles, Lanas, or the occasional Amorganda had hurt you. When you meet her, you think, “Oh she’s different, I’m smarter now, I’ve learned from my mistakes.” But the problem is, in our own minds, we think we’re right. We’re so sure that this one’s no equal to the others that we become prejudiced against reality. You see, it’s easier to live in a happy delusion, rather than accept sad reality. We want happiness in our lives, and when it interferes with reality, we choose our fantasies because in our minds, we are kings. It’s funny, you are the strongest sperm cell of your father, outclassing millions and millions of others trying to get in that little egg cell of your mother. As if that wasn’t enough, you survived nine months in a dark prison, airless, cramped, with chances of death at any minute, being fed through a tube. But that wasn’t the worst. Escaping it was harder. Tearing apart the very walls of your prison so that you would escape, and when they hold you, the first thing they do was slap your ass, and you would cry. You survived that, too. But the pain didn’t stop there. You survived what, decades and decades of watching your parents fight, getting scars from playing outside, countless tears, endless fevers, headaches, nightmares, even that horror book your older cousin read that made you sleepless when you read it, and even made you vomit, you survived that too. You survived that elementary school bully that kept you on a chokehold every time you met him. Take the day you were conceived, until this day. And count the days. That’s how long you’ve survived the evils of this world. The hatred, the misery, the lies, the pain, the tears. You even survived high school.

                But even surviving that wasn’t enough. You still were weak. You’ve been through heartbreak, but not this caliber. You had a girlfriend but you half-assed it so much she chased other men. I don’t blame her. You were a prick. You were an asshole. You weren’t ready to handle someone else in your life, but you were too much of a pussy to break her feelings, and when she became your girlfriend, you didn’t know how to make it work, and then some upper-class athlete Jock came to her rescue. Her knight in shining armor. In their story you were the dragon that had her trapped in the tower. And you didn’t fight back. Not because you were a pussy, but because what chance did you have, a lonely, fat piece of shit? But you only realized this three years after, because you always thought you were right. But hey, you’re still alive and kicking.

                Then there was college. Oh boy, freshman year! New people, new story. No one knew your past; no one had prior history to judge you. Every three months it was always a set of new classmates. No one knows who you are, no one knows who you were. Then, you bedazzle people with your personality. You’re funny, you’re smart, you’re nice, and most of all, you were the king of the used. Not because you were the user, but rather you were used the most. Every single waking moment of your life you had a former classmate from a previous class asking you to answer their EWA, asking for load, money, answers. Fuck your feelings, I want my grades. Fuck your sleep, I want to pass. Fuck your health, I need answers. And you didn’t refuse them because they promised to help you with Amorganda.

                Oh Amorganda, you went all-out on that one. She was a stone-cold sexy fox. She was also smart, also rich. I mean, what poor white trash girl takes summer trips to Sweden? She was interested in you, she laughed at your jokes, she gave you her best Close Up kiss-my-lips seductive kind of smile. She ate you up like an M&M, and you were too much of a romantic to see it. You convinced herself she was the one. Again. For the 100^th time. Like a forced sequel. Some part of you knew this, but you shut that part up by saying that it won’t happen again, nth time’s the charm. I mean, come on, what girl wouldn’t fall for you because she saw you play the guitar? What girl wasn’t into you when she asked you to drop her at that underpass near your school? What girl wasn’t into you when she looked at you with that innocent look when you introduced yourself at her debut? Sure, you didn’t know how to dance, but she just let you on either way. But then, you got too fast. You made plans too soon, she cancelled, you overreacted, and you wound up talking to her boyfriend. You always knew she had one. I mean were you blind when you were at her prom? Were you deaf when your blockmates all talked about it to you? No. The problem was, you were right. You always thought you were right. You got slumped into depression, again. For the 100^th time. Like a forced sequel. But you figured you won’t let your optimism get the best of you.

                That’s when you fell for Saint Love-Hate. Oh boy, she was the star that took the show. She was the shining light at the end of your tunnel. And for the 101^st time, you thought you were right, again. Like a forced sequel. Just for the record, you met her before you fell for Amorganda. You’re a piece of work. You are a scavenger, you can scour for sparks at the slightest display at it. You are some electrical engineer. You powered your broken life with slight sparks you weren’t even sure were there.

                She was a theater performer, a singer, an architect, just like Amorganda. But you didn’t care. All you thought was that you loved her more than anyone could ever love her. And you were right. You gave everything you could ever give her. Your time, your money, your smile, your words, yourself. You completely submitted yourself to her. You even wrote the best confession anyone will ever see. You were even willing to take her out to the best restaurants because you wanted the best for her. You wanted to show her that you could give your best, just for her. You didn’t do this with Amorganda, you didn’t do this with the hundred others behind her. Yet, when you gave it your all, that’s when she dropped it. She didn’t love you back, and the world you built for her came crashing down. On you. For the 101^st time. Like a forced sequel. Now, you’re in a depressive state, you can’t move yourself out of it.

                You realize that because you’re always right, you always hurt yourself. It’s not their fault, it’s yours. You went in to these kinds of things knowing fully that you were going to be hurt. You knew, but you decided to ignore it. You piece of work. How many more times will you fail? How many more times will you repeat the vicious cycle? You fucked up with the last one, she was willing to remain friends, but instead you sent her too much shit about the way she let you down that she’s no longer willing to talk to you. You fucked it up. For the 101^st time. Like a forced sequel. Then you start resenting her, like all the others. You start resenting the world. You start resenting people. Then eventually, you’ll find another one to redeem you from that resent. And after that you realize, she wasn’t Saint Love-Hate, you were.  Saint Love-Hate, the patron saint of post-rejection resentment. King of the used, King of the Rejects, and Righteous among the hated.

Now that’s over, what are you going to do?

                Let’s up the game. Check your twitter feed. Every time you see a tweet you made about her, take a shot.

If you’re not unintelligible, passed-out in front of your computer with empty bottles of whiskey and  empty shot-glasses, with permanent liver damage and Korsakoff’s Syndrome, you aren’t paying attention.

I'm back! Sorry I had posted so little overtime, I was finding ideas for a short story. Now here it is! I drew inspiration from Chuck Palahniuk novels, "Diary" and "Haunted". Real great stuff.

"Every masterpiece is just dirt and ash put together in some perfect way." - Chuck Palahniuk