Henry’s Women (Part I in a Series of Really Long Posts)

So.  Henry has found a rebound girl.  

Henry?” My father scrunched his face in confusion when I first referred to my ex by that name in conversation.  Yes, I explained.  I’ve begun calling him Henry in commemoration of Henry VIII, because of the way in which his entire character so unmistakably, strikingly recalls that of the illustrious megalomaniac.  My father continued to scrunch his face as he considered.  Then his face screwed around differently in cynical amusement.  “You’re right.  They both fall passionately in love with someone, and then they want to kill her.”  Indeed, my ex shares everything with the infamous king from his power complex, to his grandiose, yet fragile self concept to his unchecked extravagance to his consecutive appropriation and then disposal of women like worn-out pantyhose with indefatigable efficiency.  Even the portraiture is echoed in the present most eerily, in the same wide-legged, imposing stance of a self proclaimed alpha male that you see in the still-relevant portrayal painted back in the 1500s:  The profile of a bloodthirsty narcissist evidently looks the same now the same as it did 500 years ago.  


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Henry’s Women (Preface To A Series Of Really Long Posts)

I am embarrassed to admit that I began this one more than a year ago.  Like most of the few posts that make it to press on my inactive blog, it started out as a journal entry, then somehow became a project of its own carried on by my rapturous research into some trivial self selected topic of fascination–in this case the life and wives of King Henry VIII of England during the Tutor Period.  (Alas, the compulsion to do research papers remains ingrained in my pathos despite the fact that I finished my last degree 5 years ago.)  The “narrative”–Oh, god, I can’t even call it a blog post, or an essay.  It’s more vaguely “a narrative”–became pages and pages, and pages long.  So, for the ease of all the potential readers who will never actually visit this blog, I decided to split up the wordy monstrosity into a serial.     Continue reading

An Open Letter To My Soon-To-Be Ex-Husband: Or, Another Rambling and Insipid Breakup Story

I’ve been spending the last several months becoming acquainted with the tangles and turns and trials of divorce, something that came wildly out of the blue when my kindred soul, my heart’s desire, my “soul mate,” as they’re called, had a seemingly spontaneous psychotic break or manic episode or cataclysmic panic attack, or some combination of all three.  Or perhaps he became possessed by a dybbuk, I don’t know.  It happened suddenly one night during the balmiest part of summer, as suddenly as we had originally met and fell smack on our faces in love the summer before.  He became enraged at something horrible and unforgivable I had done I couldn’t figure out what and lost his temper, his impulse control, his fundamental faculties for reason, and then finally lost any recognizable semblance or trait of who I’d always known him to be, his mind, whatever.  Then he threw me out of the house, 8 months after our wedding, ultimately believing me to have become a terrible evil wench or something.  Now there is a small town, a restraining order, and an indefinitely lasting injunction between us, as there has been for the last six months, which has been the same amount of time since I last saw him, raving as if he were rabidinous and foaming at the mouth, degenerated from a gentle, sensitive man so rapidly and inexplicably I wasn’t sure whether it was I who was losing it.    Continue reading

On Heartbreak and Soul Loss


Albrecht Dürer’s “Melancholia”

Perhaps, if you had been following along from the beginning, in the little house with the two cuddly cats (I still miss them terribly) in that quiet shaded neighborhood, you may already have predicted–or at the very least, not be surprised to learn–that I would be back again in my parents’ house, sitting at home with our beloved 15-year-old dog, broken again after more debacled essays at living; unemployed, single, hungry as a wild thing (At present, I can’t get the desire for all things chocolate out of my mind); and also hyperventilating mildly because of my antidepressant, which affects my breathing so that inhaling and exhaling and inhaling…etc. becomes a constant, conscious effort that I always balance in the background along with whatever else I try to do, however small it may be, throughout the day.  It’s uncomfortable when you always feel stifled of your breath, but grief-induced vegetative paralysis is much, much more difficult to manage, and this pill is the only one that keeps the ever present, insidious grief free-floating stealthily inside me from spreading all through my being and soul like an amoeba and swallowing my ability to thrive until I rot slowly, and then rapidly, from the inside out.     Continue reading

Christmas is Seriously Overrated: Notes from an Underwhelmed Christmas Newbie

Christmas Day Lassitude

Over the course of this past year, while I wasn’t bothering to write in my blog, I somehow managed to meet, fall in love with, and marry someone who is, incredulously, as reclusive and neurotic as me.  It’s been pure bliss.  As I grew up in a non-Christmas-celebrating household while he did, that meant our first Christmas together was also my first Christmas, with the family.  His family, but now my family too.  I would finally get to experience for myself the alluring secret I’ve always watched from afar since I was I kid: the glimmering lights, the rich scent  of fir needles hovering in front of your nose, the cookies, the tiny little gingerbread houses covered in icing, the benevolent angels.  The warm cheeriness and utter feeling of contentedness, that everything is beautiful and just right.

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The Circle of Nonconformist Bloggers

Manet, the notorious badass of the Salon des Refusés

Manet, the notorious badass of the Salon des Refusés.

After about 3 months of avoiding my blog, I finally decided, while avoiding my daily responsibilities, to just hold my breath and return to take a look at the neglected landscape.  When I signed in, I found the below pending comment on my dashboard:

I discovered your blog while googling about underachieving, and you have inspired me to go ahead with starting a blog. I didn’t think people actually blogged like regular literature authors and always felt I lacked in edgy hipness, but after reading all of your poetic posts, I feel like I may have fellow anti- conformist bloggers to relate to after all.  -Bessie Malt

I originally began writing a reply to your comment, Bessie, in the comment section where you’re supposed to write replies to comments.  But as is typical for me, my reply became longer and longer and I kept writing and couldn’t cut off the spigot and had no desire to anyway.  So I ultimately drafted a 683-word response and decided to post it as a blog entry in itself.   Continue reading

My Procrastination Jottings: Hunger Walks

Photo Courtesy of Me

I’ve done this so many times.  (Photo Courtesy of Me)

I am desperate again.  This time it’s because I’m hungry.  Terribly, ravenously hungry.  I’ve been hungry for days, there’s no end to it.  I can’t do anything except agonize in the clutches of the goddamn hunger.  I suppose this might be premenstrual hunger.  Who knows.  The gnawing makes me so bitter and forlorn that I’m not bulimic anymore and therefore can’t appease the hunger.  And that’s not good; it’s been so long since I’ve really, sincerely wished I could throw up.

I’ve been walking my ass off in an attempt both to stifle the hunger and to counter the effects of it, but I just can’t keep up.  This afternoon I desperately stormed out of the house in a ravenous frenzied fury, to try to escape the pain and panging and beating of the goddamn hunger against me.  I got in my car and drove to the bay, shaking, too hungry and anxious and tormented to really think about or realize the movements and turns I was making while buckling my seat belt, backing out of the driveway, driving across town and stepping out onto the sand.  I walked in the sun from the end of the beach over to the ferry, where I couldn’t walk any further because a fortress of rocks was piled up across the sand going out into the water, and everything past and around the fortress was roped off and there were signs posted in all directions that read, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.  NO TRESPASSING.  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.  Because I’m one of those lackluster, risk-averse people who never have the balls to cross No Trespassing signs, I turned around and plodded back disappointedly, in the sun, this time at the edge of the water so my feet could get wet and I could more easily take the blaring heat.   Continue reading