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| Self-critique of an email I wrote but never sent to my ex-fiance by Bill Dungsroman 07/21/2003, 4:19pm PDT | ||||
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| Recently I purchased a new PC, finally abandoning the notion that I would ever use my home PC for more than playing games and downloading porn. A few weeks ago I decided, in a fit of obsessive compulsion, to transfer all of my documents from my old PC to my new one. In searching through My Documents, I discovered that one of My Documents was a letter that I had written but never sent to my ex-fiancé. I had written it only a few months after our separation, so it’s brimming with pathos and groveling. I thought it would be fun to reprint it here, with some of my trademark self-humiliating commentary. First, the letter in its entirety:
Amy, First, I’m sorry this letter is typed. That may impart some kind of coldness, but you know how my handwriting is, so I apologize. Second, I’m sorry that this is a letter and not me speaking to you in person, or at least over the phone. But, I cannot help but feel that my inability to properly express my feelings when talking to you is at least part of why we are at where we are now. Every day I want to call you, or see you. I cannot help that. At the same time, though, I feel that it is not what you want, at least not right now. I imagine you would have made an effort to contact me if you had, but I can respect that either way. Currently I am living with my parents, as you might probably guess. They are helping me financially until June when I will start teaching six different Kaplan courses for the rest of the summer. I have my own phone, the number is 458-6927. I will probably live here until I graduate, and work on erasing my non-medical school debts and improve my horrible credit. I have a few of your things, some clothes and books, in the bag you lent me last spring break. I will drop it by your house after Kenny drives my car down this weekend (I couldn’t afford to get the car-trailer when I moved down), sometime while you are at work. I haven’t been up to much since I’ve been down here. Mostly it’s the fact that I have been studying for the boards, also that I don’t really feel like it. I have been spending quite a bit of time with Trevor, as he is due to move down to California to attend Optometry school there. I will probably help him move; his parents aren’t very helpful in that regard. I run into a lot of people who have one way or another heard about us. I just tell them that it is a long story and is mostly a product of our being apart for so long, and leave it at that. I have spoken a little more at length with my closer friends, but I have still respected your past wishes in that regard. There is no major point to this letter. It is, if anything, just a way of communicating with you a little bit. If our relationship is now just a painful thing for you to think of, it is not meant to dredge those feelings up again, nor some attempt to get the ‘last word’ in or anything. I doubt that is what you are thinking, anyway. Though I can’t help but wonder what you are thinking about now. I barely know what I am thinking, so I certainly don’t expect a detailed explanation of your thoughts, either. I guess I really only have a couple of things to say at this point: If you want to talk to me, or (e)mail me, I would be receptive to it, in every sense of the word. If you do not, now or ever, I understand and will respect that as well. All I really want to do is whatever will not hurt you anymore. Man, that was painful, wasn’t it? You have no idea, my friend. Let’s break this down: Amy, First, I’m sorry this letter is typed. That may impart some kind of coldness, but you know how my handwriting is, so I apologize. Second, I’m sorry that this is a letter and not me speaking to you in person, or at least over the phone. But, I cannot help but feel that my inability to properly express my feelings when talking to you is at least part of why we are at where we are now. Or rather, “I’m a fucking coward and the mere thought of speaking to you scares me silly.†Notice how I grovel immediately, with the third word of my letter being the word “sorry.†Oh look, I apologize again in the very next sentence. Yes, this is going to be long and painful journey. As for “where we [were],†she had told me over the phone to fuck off and I obliged in a last-ditch effort to not fail out of medical school. You see, our break-up had come one week before my second-year finals – the most difficult finals of all four years of medical school. I was up in Reno, she was down in Vegas, getting her degree in Hotel Management. I was also broke, as I had sent her all of my spare money to pay for our wedding, which was set for the next month. As a matter of fact, Amy broke it off with me on April 21st, and our wedding day was May 25th. Poor timing to be sure, but in a little bit we’ll get into just how conveniently poor that timing was. Onward: Every day I want to call you, or see you. I cannot help that. At the same time, though, I feel that it is not what you want, at least not right now. I imagine you would have made an effort to contact me if you had, but I can respect that either way. Yeah, yeah. I suppose my first hint was when she stopped returning my phone calls less than a week after we broke up, while I was still in Reno. I called her dad once (she lived with him). He treated me like Amy had recently confessed to him that I used to beat her on a regular basis. We were sort of close at one time – God knows what the fuck she told him. Currently I am living with my parents, as you might probably guess. They are helping me financially until June when I will start teaching six different Kaplan courses for the rest of the summer. Do you know why she could guess that? Because she knew I had no money. The plan was that I would move down, and we would move into an apartment together, one I had found (I spent my whole spring break doing that, while she worked – she had a full time job as a baker in a hotel). She would cover the bills, and we’d use my loan money (disbursed in August and January) to pay off our credit card debts and any big purchases. Thus, I was left hanging in Reno, with absolutely no money. Amy had kept all of the money for the wedding, and since I was a broke-dick defeated faggot, I let her. I borrowed some cash from my parents to move home with. I had to defer my car payment for a month, and blew off my credit card bills until August. I have my own phone, the number is xxx-xxxx. I will probably live here until I graduate, HAHAHA whoops on me. I withdrew halfway through the following year, since any desire I had to finish my education drained away during my recovery from our breakup. Emotional spillover, if you will. Collateral damage. Now, remember the bolded bits for later: and work on erasing my non-medical school debts and improve my horrible credit. I have a few of your things, some clothes and books, in the bag you lent me last spring break. I will drop it by your house after Jimmy drives my car down this weekend (I couldn’t afford to get the car-trailer when I moved down), HMMM WONDER WHY? Oh yes – BECAUSE YOU KEPT ALL THE WEDDING MONEY. And the ring. Because, as it was put to me during our break-up, it was all my fault. See, the girl gets to keep all the loot if it’s the guy’s fault. It’s always the guy’s fault, too, see? “Funny†side note: Jimmy was a friend of mine in school. He was up until the point I heard that he beat the shit out of his girlfriend, Jenny, a classmate and friend of mine as well. Jimmy had been a wrestler in high school and college, and he never met an anabolic steroid that he didn’t like. His temper reflected that, it seemed. I went to my class’ graduation ceremony (in a thrilling act of self-immolation, although it actually turned out quit well) and caught up with Jenny, and she divulged a rather disturbing history with Jimmy during their relationship. As a side note to the side note, I dated Jenny as a result of seeing her at graduation. That was a stupid fucking idea, as it turned out. sometime while you are at work. I am a coward, obviously. Actually, there was a very good reason for my dodginess, as ludicrous as it was. Picture this: the actual weekend of my wedding (Memorial Day weekend), my family members who were coming in for the ceremony decided to come in anyway (since it was in Las Vegas, and only the flimsiest of reasons are ever needed for a visit to Vegas). So, we all decided to go out to dinner Friday night. We went to a Mexican restaurant, in a hotel where my brother and uncle worked (so it was free – I mean, comp’ed, as they say in Vegas). I’m sitting there eating, I casually glance over to the right – and who’s there? Who else? She’s there with…somebody, I don’t know who. Here’s the thing, see, it’s not even that she happens to be in the same restaurant in the same time period on the same night (the night before our aborted wedding), it’s that she’s with someone, and I can’t see who it is. You see, the wall bends around, and I can only see her half of the booth. Our eyes meet. She glances back at her dinner companion, and vaguely points in my direction with an odd half-smile on her face. HALF-SMILE!?!? What happens? I get up, walk over to her, glance coldly at the man she’s sitting with, look her square in her beady little eye, and tell her to I hope she told her man there that she’s got a screaming case of Herpes. Then I slap her. Actually, I don’t. My eyes well up with tears and I stumble out the front door of the restaurant and fucking leave. I never see or hear from her again. I haven’t been up to much since I’ve been down here. Mostly it’s the fact that I have been studying for the boards, also that I don’t really feel like it. I have been spending quite a bit of time with Lance, as he is due to move down to California to attend Optometry school there. Lance was great to pal around with during that time of my life. He was always glum and defeatist. One weekend in February, we cobbled together some cash and went up to Squaw Valley Ski Resort at Lake Tahoe for this three day, two night package. It was Valentine’s Day, and we went and ate at this Mexican restaurant that had bottomless margaritas. I usually don’t drink queer alcoholic beverages such as that, but the Dos Equis were four bucks a bottle and I was on a budget. So me and Lance sat there, with his frosted spikey hair and me with my Clooney-cut, sipping peach margaritas on Valentine’s Day. What do you know: I did something even gayer than #1 on my Top Ten Sex list. I will probably help him move; his parents aren’t very helpful in that regard. I run into a lot of people who have one way or another heard about us. I just tell them that it is a long story and is mostly a product of our being apart for so long, and leave it at that. “Yeah, so I heard about you and Amy.†Man, I grew to fucking dread and hate that sentence. I would have cringed less if someone said “We’ll have to increase the pressure on your urethral air hose.†The worst was earlier on, though, of course. You see, I had invited half of my class to my wedding (really, more than that, but at least half had RSVP’ed already). Well, my ex had gone down our invite list and prepared nice little letters announcing the cancellation of our wedding. I read one of the notes, it said, in essence, that the wedding of such and such has been CANCELLED, that last word all-caps, double-underlined, and in red. Her stepmother thrived on misery and drama, I’m positive she put that fucker together and mailed it out. What could make this worse? The letters were mailed out five days before I knew the wedding was cancelled. She had decided on this, ignored my calls for a week, and then finally called me to drop the hammer. The hammer fell on a Thursday (Thursdays are bad). I didn’t go to class Friday, but I had to go on Monday. Now, what this means is that all of my family and friends outside of medical school called me all weekend. It also meant I had to walk into class on Monday and have everyone fucking stare at me. I couldn’t email my class members and ask them to not say anything to me, because I couldn’t remember who I invited and who I didn’t. I could have mass emailed my class (we had one address for that), but then people I hadn’t invited would get it, and so would the fucking dean. Fuck that. Everyone looked at me like someone had died. Maybe someone had. I have spoken a little more at length with my closer friends, but I have still respected your past wishes in that regard. There is no major point to this letter. It is, if anything, just a way of communicating with you a little bit. If our relationship is now just a painful thing for you to think of, it is not meant to dredge those feelings up again, nor some attempt to get the ‘last word’ in or anything. I doubt that is what you are thinking, anyway. Though I can’t help but wonder what you are thinking about now. I barely know what I am thinking, so I certainly don’t expect a detailed explanation of your thoughts, either. I guess I really only have a couple of things to say at this point: If you want to talk to me, or (e)mail me, I would be receptive to it, in every sense of the word. If you do not, now or ever, I understand and will respect that as well. All I really want to do is whatever will not hurt you anymore. Faggot. |
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