I am gritting my teeth oh so very politely.
Tony dearest, how dare you ask anything of me?
I have to admit, I laughed when I came home to the frosted dawn, and saw yet another impersonally comical e-mail from you.
"Apparently my name has been mentioned in your story page thing" or something fairly close, at any rate.
"It can't be that hard" he said.
The first time, I laughed, and bit my tongue, and said nothing bitter.
The second time, I laughed, and willed myself not to write him back in vitriol and sarcasm and promise to wipe his name entirely out of my life history, provided he make good on at least one of his million empty promises and terrifying lies.
Hey Tony, there's a $600 bill with your name on it, still sitting on my desk, the one you promised to take care of, remember?
Marc would love to have a crack at you, his Shining Knight complex in full, glorious gear whenever someone mentions your name.
It doesn't really matter.
Have fun, Tony. It's all I can wish for you, without starting in on rude words and rotten memories of lies and spoiled parenting.
I'm sorry I pushed you too hard, I'm sorry I nagged you and failed you, I'm sorry I accepted your Undying Love of me, even though I knew it was simply because I was your first.
But I'm not sorry that I still live and breathe and dream and write, and you're just going to have to live with it, the way you're doing such a great job living with yourself.
I'm impressed.
And still biting my tongue.
And in better news... Have I mentioned lately what a sincerely wonderful DJ Ollie is?
He's awesome.
And to coin his myriad of groupies (of which I am the huggiest), he's so intense!
An old flame and I got together and headed out to Nexus to cheer Ollie on.
He played the sort of music that had my shoulders thrumming with fierce memories. He played songs that I couldn't sit and listen to, no matter how delightful the warmth and wit of the company.
I had the dance floor to myself, all mine, all mine... All three or four square meters of it.
There were a handful of beautiful children from Winnipeg there, who'd followed Ollie to New York when he spun there, and wound up here last night and they cut up the floor with such awkward grace that I forgave them only dancing to Cure songs.
The ladies were beautiful, as were the boys, but Steve and I had this plan where he'd beat the tar out of the scrawny manlings so we could sweep the girls home with us.
Then we couldn't agree over who got the curvacious beauty, and who got stuck with the redhead.
The curvaceous beauty with the skin that moved like milk along T.S. Elliot style arms, with the hips that controlled the space about her, with the round cheeks that pushed up her eyes and made her look like she was always smiling.
Not the sort of babe you find on St-Laurent street these days, but it just makes her all the more reminiscent of a dream.
I dreamed last night, on the dancefloor, in Steve's "charismatic" car, when we visitied his office (he'd been freelancing and has now started up his own company) and I caught a toolbox out of place from the corner of my eye, and discovered that it was filled with embarassing photos.
It's a great office.
I left a great lovenote on his accountant's desk.
I went home with the promise of sex on acid sometime soon (fuck it's been years) and a cheesily signed photo of Stevie when he was a teenage guitar idol. Well, wannabe idol.
It says "keep on rockin'", and somehow I like that so terribly much better than
"stop writing about me, it's not that hard".
heh.
Bitter? Me? No, but I'm thinking a helluva lot nastier right now than I'm letting on.
Which suggests dishonesty and a breach in my frankness, but really it's a question of willing myself not to be angry.
There's no point, and I'm stronger than petty annoyances.
:)