Anya February 2, 2004. 1:13a.m.
You're taking this to an extreme level it shouldn't go to. You are the one who has brilliantly described the exaltation of grief, sadness and misery that pervades human life. Don't canonize yourself in the Church of Anguish. St. Anya of Elyria, Patron of Unrequited Love, martyred herself, crucified upside down and beaten with palm leaves for Mr. Chris, a slave without a master. Weep for the dead. Or dance on their graves.
I'm not trying to tell you what to think or how to feel; I'm only letting you know what I think based on the long and important conversations we've had. A few truths have emerged, truths of which you are not unaware, only of which you are unwilling to be aware. Less pedantically, you're really fucking bullshitting yourself, here, man. I mean, don't feel guilty about it and don't see it as a sign of weakness or as a flaw. We're all swine whose capacity for self-deception cannot yet be fathomed. The minute you begin to think otherwise is the minute you enter the realms of Oriental Mysticism. About publishing: fuck 'em. God forbid these misfits are ever exposed to sunlight. If they're hurt, let them fill in the harmonies.
You have no friendship with Mr. Chris to jeopardize, at least not one that's worth a glass of ball sweat, so you may as well publish this thing and let the chips fall where they may. I don't think you'd be writing this if you two hadn't completely objectified one another and weren't locked in a sad power struggle and if you, Annie, were not cognizant of this. Could this be an attempt to break the stalemate? To gain the upper hand? You're too talented and this piece is too great for it to succumb to this lover's spat. Don't worry about his feelings. If it's published, I'm certain he'd be more worried how it might tarnish his image if he ever becomes a famous dj, writer, etc. than how he has hurt you. He'd be more worried (or he'd be utterly titillated) about being scandalized than about the actual content of this story and of your relationship.
How can you become friends with someone who have only "known" in the Biblical sense? The answer becomes clear if the question is made rhetorical. Objects in a power struggle, mindlessly toiling away. It doesn't matter who you plug into the variables in the equations of your neurosis. Basically, its a house built on a flaming hot pile of bullshit and if any trace of humanity was introduced it would collapse and you both would recoil in horror, too mortified at your crimes to even be able to look one another in the eye.
The real problem is the sad operetta of your (and everyone else's) existence. Walk-on roles like Mr. Chris, or Brando, or Bobber Knob are pretty irrelevant. Set fire to the theatre and the ashes drift into oblivion. Fuck writing. Tell his ass you're pregnant.
Your pal,
Tonio
P.S.- Could you take out that part about The Granola Eater? If she reads this story and realizes it’s her, she might not be willing to slob my knob when she gets back from her Puerto Rican gangbang.
