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March 27, 2007

So things with the G have ended acrimoniously. I was incredibly pissed off for a while, but then after that I just got over it. Very Katharine McPhee. It’s funny how I have a habit of moving on – at the point of rejection I feel like a complete failure, then barely a day later I feel normal again. As I grow older I fear that I will grow up to be like Edna St. Vincent Millay:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

That feeling of utter dejection – remembering lost loves, even the briefest encounters, illuminating them with my imagination (the lives we could have shared, the loves we could have assured) – leaves me breathless and for a moment it feels as if I’m going to die: that air steward who lives in Edinburgh, what’s his name? who wanted to fuck, but I couldn’t because I was afraid of pain then. That filmmaker, the first one who fucked me (what was his name? Daniel? Dan? Danny?), what’s happened to him? And the countless Jewish guys I’ve dated – once, twice, three time’s an alarming record – whatever happened to them? So many questions, so many alternate existences, only one life I have. Sometimes I wish I could retrack my steps, like deliberately not saving when you’re playing Pokemon so you can go back to that crucial moment before killing the Mewtwo. (I mix my metaphors liberally.)

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