January 21st, Year of the Corpse

As I slept, my head filled with images of uncontrollable fires. Ruey was there, and at some point, merged with my being. The ocean surrounded us, and perhaps, off in the distance, there was a selkie male. Because I would not shed a tear for him, he vanished.

There were many trails, but only a few leading to safety. Unable to make a decision in time, the flames consumed everything. And, of course I know what this means. My dreams are kind enough to form themselves into simple math.

The unofficial leader of the Order of the Frustrated Cunts has written me a lengthy letter, thanking me for my attendance over the past few months, but that I am no longer welcome at their gatherings. They feel that I am too loyal to my Catholic faith, too private, too arrogant, too judgmental. I nod in agreement as I read these lines, and smile to no one at all.

Jennifer has also been asked to forget about the existence of the coven. The reasons given were different. They feel she engages in morally reprehensible behavior, and that she is a toxic element. She has told too many of the married men in her life.

It must all be taken in stride. Always consider the source. Promiscuous alcoholics say the oddest things, never of any importance, and strictly designed to make themselves feel better. The real tragedy is that I never learned how to talk to a cat, or fly on a broom.

Finally, Robert has written me. The moon is inspiring everyone to author novellas, and send them to me. The following is, word for word, complete with a title, what my ex-lover sent me:

The Neurotic Muse

When I drive up the red and green waterfalls, I think of you. Only you and the life we could have had together, if things were completely different from the only way reality would let it be. As I drink this brandy that my good friend was kind enough to leave behind for me, I toast to the envelopes of cigarettes, love letters, hate letters, and letters that didn’t make any sense to me whatsoever. I toast to the overcooked spinach croissants, and late night episodes of Roseanne and Mama’s Family. I also toast to the disagreements that neither of us understood, the arguments that both of us knew were ridiculous and cruel, the hilarious agreement we made to never call the police on each other, and I toast to the kids: Mulligan, Abelard, Fukuku, the rest of the Walton siblings, and so on.

I was a dreamer before I met you. I very much appreciated little things, like the colors of the leaves during an overcast day, or the way it smelled at night after the first rain. And also, before I met you, I stopped dreaming. I don’t know why. Perhaps, it was just that the world became too difficult a place to have the time to dream. I could not have cared less about the way lights reflected off the water on the street.

After I met you, I dreamt again. Once again, mystery, fantasy, romance, and beauty allowed itself to exist. But we took it too far. We took it to the edge of the deep, green sea, but we didn’t have it in us to row anymore. We were in denial. I stopped dreaming again, but we were in love. Home was in your arms. I can smell your perfume and smoke, when I open the box you gave me. I did end up lighting the candle inside, but was too afraid to come home to you.

I still remember how your lips feel, and what you taste like. I remember what it felt like to fuck you, the dirty things you whispered in my ear, and the sounds you made as you were cumming.

You are so beautiful. You were like a sad angel seeking revenge for something bigger than anyone could imagine. But you made me want to kill myself. I could never do it, though. I couldn’t do it to my mother, but never in my life have I felt so worthless, and never in my life have I needed someone as much as I needed you. It was pathetic, but I loved you, and somehow I know that I always will.

I toast to these things, because I no longer regret the way it is. If I could do it over again, I would definitely do it differently, but I do not regret the way it happened anymore. I am still your Twilight Villager. You inspire me more than anything else ever has, and probably ever will.

I know this is what you wanted, because you told me a short while after I left her that it was. You warned me, but I didn’t listen. The neurotic muse. I no longer think of you as the enemy. I dream again. There is art and beauty in my life again. It goes away because I am easily distracted, but when I think of you, somehow the things I love about the world come back to me. So this is me, gracefully bowing out.

January 21st, Year of the Corpse

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