HOLIDAY HEARTACHES: A (brief) HISTORY…part 1(of 2)

The HOLIDAYS–a time of gratuitous cheer, coerced altruism, and copious amounts of good old-fashioned self-loathing and regret–are without a doubt (but not it seems beyond a reasonable doubt) the greatest, most cherished, time of the year! So, in the spirit of fully, if not somewhat dubiously, embracing the holiday spirit, I have decided to relive (I will be pathetic, so you don’t have to–my gift to you, dear reader:) my worst romantic (read: sexual–because, come on, that’s what it’s in fact really about, am I right?) break-ups EVER!  The post is written in two parts, so that you will be compelled to continue reading my blog…or I will kill myself–just kidding–that’s just a bit of whimsical holiday humor…

Number 5:  Prison Break (up):  There is something just so unfair, so completely counter to the average person’s sense of compassion, almost amoral even, about turning the everyday experience of being arrested in a country run by an inhumane dictator and held for four days under the blaring light of a single bare bulb in a tiny cell with a non-working and completely exposed toilet with the other eleven members of your human rights delegation arrested for accidentally stepping foot (a tiny toe, actually) into rebel territory in the highlands of a certain Central American country before being unceremoniously forced to sign a non-mistreatment statement and hastily deported, into a barely digestible memory of deception.  I mean, really, a PETA activist????  You weren’t even a vegetarian!  The next time you take Ecstasy while your incarcerated lover is trying her best to NOT go to the bathroom for four full days and three (bladder) full sleepless nights, try to use that insuppressible burst of libido to, say, declare your undying lust to a horny local congressional representative who might have some sway over the notoriously nefarious police in said puppet run country in which he or she is—by extension, at least–at least one part puppeteer.  You know, just something to think about…

Number 4:  Camper Van Jam:  You know the perhaps overused and slightly cliched saying that life is like the Camper Van Beethoven song, Take the Skinheads Bowling?  Well, that saying just hit the nail on the head in terms of my break up with, well, let’s just call him THE ONE (or ONE, for short).  I met ONE about two days after I was released from prison–enough time for me to become less sleep deprived and more accepting of the, um, asshole who cheated on me (while I was in prison, that’s right, prison), but not enough time to lose my new super svelte look obtained from my 96 hours of enforced starvation–at an alternative (read: Socialist) book store in San Francisco.  I was speaking to a small group about my harrowing experience, which was most certainly part of a larger conspiracy propagated by the powers that be, to, you know, keep women thin–among other things, and…there he was…the coolest guy I had ever seen. He literally and figuratively (that’s right, both) took my breath away! I mean with his thick leather jacket, tight blue jeans, motorcycle helmet in hand, goatee on chin–he was the epitome of metrosexual, and that term hadn’t even been coined yet.  My friend, breathless herself, remarked, “he’s so cool, it’s like he isn’t even there.”  Right on, sister…So, realizing that this was most likely IT, that I would soon be zipping up and down the hills of San Fran on the back of his like-a-Harley-yet-a bit-smaller bike, Dramamine patch glued to my arm, I decided to make it my new religion (in addition, of course, to my strict adherence to the practice of cultural Judaism) to not screw this up (as I had with Number 5, by being unavailable because I was in a Central American jail cell, that’s right, asshole,  jail cell).  I knew from watching lots and lots– hundreds, actually–of after-school specials as a latch-key kid that the surefire way to get his attention was by completely and relentlessly ignoring him–and I took to that plan like–not to yet again speak in cliches–a skinhead takes to a bowling alley.  AND I could tell he was equally smitten because he completely and relentlessly ignored me as well!  Game on….

Truth be told, I am really just not sure how or why the whole thing ended so abruptly and with such finality.  Perhaps the reality of finally finding THE ONE on this crazy mixed up planet of ours (or, you know, in a sparsely populated progressive (read: Socialist) book store) was just too much for us…the obstacles just too great…the challenges, inherent in not knowing where each other lived or worked or hung out, were just things that we–in the end and at the end of the day (that’s right, both) proved too much to surmount.  But, I still dream of him and what might of been, and in these dreams I want to sleep next to plastic, I want to lick his knees.  I can only hope that ONE is having similar dreams about me, that of all the women he relentlessly and completely ignored, I am the one he thinks about every day when he gets up to pray to Jah

So, there you have it, my heart decimated on the page, the titillating first part of a tale that no one really ever wants to tell…

HAPPY HOLIDAYS:  may they be free of heartache, filled with eggnog, and sexually satisfying (or, you know, emotionally satisfying, if you are into that sort of thing)…

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