Oh Hello, Hello, Hello. Are We Recording?

Did I expect it to last? Did I expect to be making him pancakes ten years down the line? Whatever I expected or wanted has been slushed down the drain. The unmentionable has happened. That damn talk has gotten me in trouble. He doesn’t want to speak a different language anymore. The translations are getting tedious and often cruel, he says. All I ever wanted was for my devotion to be reciprocated, but, dammit, devotion and [    ] have done nothing to insulate me from his fear of the ogre of me. Shit, I forgot that the mushy stuff has to work both ways. Am I an ogre? Perhaps, but I’m a lovable ogre.

My friends tell me to let him go, that he was an arsehole to begin with. [   ] offers to run him over with a truck. My friends are protective, they tell me I deserve better, which is the most horrible thing to say to someone who has just been through a break-up instigated by the other. Anyone in similar circumstances would be ready to downgrade, to shop at the K Mart of Lovers, the factory outlet of desire.

I have chosen to pine. I want him back. I am not beyond grovelling. My friends shake their heads with pity. I sometimes think I should know better too. Instead I’m flinging my heart around on the windy moors like Catherine, desperately pining for my love, only to die of consumption. Yes, in France, I would be known as le jeune pathetique. As I’d wander the boulevards, I’d be ridiculed with a venom reserved only for American stand-up comedians.