pantoum's Diaryland Diary

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R U OK?

Fuck! The Ginger just sent me an email:

I have been thinking about you and would like to know if you are okay. —G

Today is her mother's birthday.

Wish I could go out and visit where we spread her ashes.

It's so strange to lose an entire family.

Well, I could be a generous person and give her an in to start a conversation that is nine months overdue, or I could be an asshole and reply

Dear Asshole. I am just fucking dandy.—your noodle

So what the fuck am I supposed to write?

Well, G, I came as close to suicide as I've ever been—even closer than when I was getting the shit beat out of me on a regular basis—and wrote the letters just a couple of months ago, but now I only occasionally tear up when I think about you. And I can't say why, G, but I left you the watercolor of me that Filmgrrl painted—the one you loved so much. And I almost mailed the sex toys that you put in that fishnet stocking for me one Christmas—at least the ones you didn't take with you when you left . . . or did you had them at the lake house for your little weekend tryst with the intention of putting them back, only I discovered you and Dickboy before you could return them?

Yes, I almost mailed them to you before killing myself, but decided I'm not that big of an asshole. And I do hope that you are enjoying those dominatrix boots I saw there.

Please don't spend a single moment worrying your pretty little head about the fact that you forced me to either walk away from thousands of dollars or drain my savings and credit accounts for the closing either, you asshole, after you let me buy a house for us knowing that you'd been fucking Dickboy for months.

No I wouldn't want you to feel guilty about that—but you never did understand money enough for that to even register, did you, since Daddy or I just paid everything off when you went off on your spending sprees.

You asshole.

I do remember how much our last year together sucked though, and know that maybe she just wanted some joy.

I know I did . . . and still do.

All right. I gotta sit on this one for a while, figure out how to reply. But I'm sure I'll resist the urge to be an asshole.

Nice to vent in this anonymous space though.

Truthfully, I dunno how long I'll be at work because I had a fever of 102° when I woke up and feel really lousy. Had to come in to get some graphics files though.

Computergrrl is still sick as a dog and has used up her vacation and sick leave. She sounded so awful last night. Told her I was picking her up after work tonight and that we're grilling wienies—or frying them inside, probably, since it's been raining for two days—and that we can at least be sick together.

She said the worst part about being sick is not having anyone to hold her—I agree—so I plan to tell her that I'm not trying to seduce her, but that I want to hold her, offer some kind of comfort anyway.

SINGING IN SHOWER (with a husky, congested, my-eye-bones-hurt voice): You Can Have It by Mary Chapin Carpenter (You can have it. I don't want it. And when you have it, I'll be gone.) Put my Mellow Women and Their Music playlist on random play yesterday and teared up when that song came on. It made me think about the Ginger and me opening up all of our already-packed boxes and dividing things up through email exchanges.

10:03 a.m. - 2005-06-02

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