so please, please please
let me, let me, let me
let me get what I want, this time
The funny thing about infidelity, because of course it is all funny, is that it rarely starts out as infidelity. It doesn't, generally, start out with a hotel room and work backwards. It starts out with a pen. A receipt. A line. A bus stop. Maybe it starts out with a bit of unexpected free time and a common direction, an umbrella. And now we go on from here.
I like infidelity. I think it is fantastic. I like it in the way that I like the atom bomb. Or the ebola virus. Something so small, so, so small, capable of such amazing destruction. I have to almost respect anything that powerful. How can you take a paperclip and use it to destroy the world? Here's how, it will be fun. And not just the people around you right now, but the people that they will meet and the people that those people will meet, and on and on, around and around until you forget where it all started, with a fucking paperclip.
They don't mean to do it, see. They rarely mean to do it. That is not enough. You have to mean not to do it. Actively pursue the not doing of it. Flee from doing it. Not just it, but things leading up to it. You should not have been in that kitchen in the first place, and you know it. You should not have been in that car, you should not have been on that couch, you should not have been in that fucking hot tub what did you think was going to happen? What did you think was going to happen? And where was your wife, your girlfriend, your children your fucking dog, where were the people that you are sworn to protect? Why were they not there, somewhere, in your head, stopping you? Where was your ring? My name is tattooed on your arm, how could you forget me? But you didn't mean to do it. I do not think that is true. I think that at a certain point, even if someone took you by the arm and said Hey, before you do this, know that it will rip to bits everything that you love and everything that loves you and you will lose everything you know and you will be something that you aren't yet, something that you could stop, you could stop right now and none of that would happen just stop right now, I think that you would have done it anyway. At which point yes, you meant to do it. Because you knew those things. Everyone knows those things. You do not get to be an adult, or an adolescent, or a fucking monk without knowing those things. You mean to do it. Even if I am not there stopping you, that knowledge is there stopping you. You are there, stopping you.
But it does not stop. And it does not stop there. It's like a drop in a lake, you see? Like a butterfly's wings. Small and delicate. Doubt. Wispy, wonderful worry. Because everybody knows. Everybody knows. We know, we just don't want to believe and can't prove it, so we worry. We worry when you are late. Why are you late, is there someone else? We worry when you are on time. Why are you on time, is it because you don't want me to know there is someone else? We worry when you do something less than fabulous. Why did you kick that flat tire, is it because now you are going to be late to someone else? We worry when you do something good. Why did you give me that, is it because you feel guilty because there is someone else? Worry. All the time. And it eats at you, it eats at your guts and it eats at your brain and it eats at your confidence and your self esteem until you are no longer yourself, you are this fragile, keening thing and it's no wonder he flees from you, you are nothing, nothing. Nothing. Because of this thing. Because of a paperclip.
And it does not get better. You can't fix it. It will not. Go. Away. It will never go away. It is always there, somewhere, talking to you and telling you that things aren't what they seem or even more fun, that they are exactly what they seem. Nevermind that this one is good. Nevermind that he would sooner put his own eyes out than do that to me, or anyone. Nevermind that, brain, talk to me. Rip me up, and in so doing rip him up, because it will. It will snake into his brain just like mine, because he will be the one to suffer for it. Just like me. It will be a team effort and it will be fun. It will be fucking fun, won't it? Let's see how long I can go without getting that desperate look and let's see how long you can go before you figure it out and last one in's a rotten egg. All because of you, and your fucking paperclip. All because of you, and your fucking selfish stupidity. All because of you and your not getting hit by a train when you should have, because this, this is a thousand times worse. This is infectious. This is oily. Widows have grief, I have disease. And you are still out there, still out there. You don't have the generosity to just fucking die.
I am not going to fuck this up. I am not going to do it. I am actively, actually not going to do it. Because this, this is what I want. I know better than to wish for it or hope for it or even look directly at it, but what I will do is not let you near it, with your sticky hands and your tendrils that come from nowhere. This is not the same. Not the same.
let me get what I want, this time
The funny thing about infidelity, because of course it is all funny, is that it rarely starts out as infidelity. It doesn't, generally, start out with a hotel room and work backwards. It starts out with a pen. A receipt. A line. A bus stop. Maybe it starts out with a bit of unexpected free time and a common direction, an umbrella. And now we go on from here.
I like infidelity. I think it is fantastic. I like it in the way that I like the atom bomb. Or the ebola virus. Something so small, so, so small, capable of such amazing destruction. I have to almost respect anything that powerful. How can you take a paperclip and use it to destroy the world? Here's how, it will be fun. And not just the people around you right now, but the people that they will meet and the people that those people will meet, and on and on, around and around until you forget where it all started, with a fucking paperclip.
They don't mean to do it, see. They rarely mean to do it. That is not enough. You have to mean not to do it. Actively pursue the not doing of it. Flee from doing it. Not just it, but things leading up to it. You should not have been in that kitchen in the first place, and you know it. You should not have been in that car, you should not have been on that couch, you should not have been in that fucking hot tub what did you think was going to happen? What did you think was going to happen? And where was your wife, your girlfriend, your children your fucking dog, where were the people that you are sworn to protect? Why were they not there, somewhere, in your head, stopping you? Where was your ring? My name is tattooed on your arm, how could you forget me? But you didn't mean to do it. I do not think that is true. I think that at a certain point, even if someone took you by the arm and said Hey, before you do this, know that it will rip to bits everything that you love and everything that loves you and you will lose everything you know and you will be something that you aren't yet, something that you could stop, you could stop right now and none of that would happen just stop right now, I think that you would have done it anyway. At which point yes, you meant to do it. Because you knew those things. Everyone knows those things. You do not get to be an adult, or an adolescent, or a fucking monk without knowing those things. You mean to do it. Even if I am not there stopping you, that knowledge is there stopping you. You are there, stopping you.
But it does not stop. And it does not stop there. It's like a drop in a lake, you see? Like a butterfly's wings. Small and delicate. Doubt. Wispy, wonderful worry. Because everybody knows. Everybody knows. We know, we just don't want to believe and can't prove it, so we worry. We worry when you are late. Why are you late, is there someone else? We worry when you are on time. Why are you on time, is it because you don't want me to know there is someone else? We worry when you do something less than fabulous. Why did you kick that flat tire, is it because now you are going to be late to someone else? We worry when you do something good. Why did you give me that, is it because you feel guilty because there is someone else? Worry. All the time. And it eats at you, it eats at your guts and it eats at your brain and it eats at your confidence and your self esteem until you are no longer yourself, you are this fragile, keening thing and it's no wonder he flees from you, you are nothing, nothing. Nothing. Because of this thing. Because of a paperclip.
And it does not get better. You can't fix it. It will not. Go. Away. It will never go away. It is always there, somewhere, talking to you and telling you that things aren't what they seem or even more fun, that they are exactly what they seem. Nevermind that this one is good. Nevermind that he would sooner put his own eyes out than do that to me, or anyone. Nevermind that, brain, talk to me. Rip me up, and in so doing rip him up, because it will. It will snake into his brain just like mine, because he will be the one to suffer for it. Just like me. It will be a team effort and it will be fun. It will be fucking fun, won't it? Let's see how long I can go without getting that desperate look and let's see how long you can go before you figure it out and last one in's a rotten egg. All because of you, and your fucking paperclip. All because of you, and your fucking selfish stupidity. All because of you and your not getting hit by a train when you should have, because this, this is a thousand times worse. This is infectious. This is oily. Widows have grief, I have disease. And you are still out there, still out there. You don't have the generosity to just fucking die.
I am not going to fuck this up. I am not going to do it. I am actively, actually not going to do it. Because this, this is what I want. I know better than to wish for it or hope for it or even look directly at it, but what I will do is not let you near it, with your sticky hands and your tendrils that come from nowhere. This is not the same. Not the same.
posted by machine central at 11:43 AM
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