But, question, should I spend any more time with [redacted]? At this ridiculous distance, there is really no hope, but, hell, I can’t let go. I am compsing an e-mail in my mind as [I write this]. I will feel so lost if I just let go like that.
I can only survive in between. I tell you, it’ll be a miracle if I wake up happy tomorrow morning. I really don’t want to deal with this shit right now, but I made a promise, and I don’t want to try to force myself to go to sleep.
Where do we start?
I came up with an alternate plan yesterday—I can’t stand this feeling that I’m being jerked around on strings. I wish I could just say fuck it, but it’s always the money thing. No it’s not really the money thing, it’s the goddman utang na loob (Sisyphus’ stone?) The debt that cannot be repaid, the stone that cannot be rolled to the top. Frankly, it’s making me crazy—but back to the plan—throw it all away, start from scratch. See, that’s the shit that I need.
Excursus: the fading sunlight shimmering on the I-10/I-110 interchange, skyline in the background, blue and smoky. [A] small moment of happiness.)
Ah, this necessarily selective memory—what will keep me sane?
The plan: move to New York. [I don’t know where I’m gonna get the money but] it’s all about the credit cards, I suppose. Sell the car. I’ll need Bram’s help. Maybe he can get me a job. I can’t fucking stand it!!!
But otherwise, I’m stuck here. [I seriously have a] death wish. I can’t escape.
Problem is, I need to ride this shit out… but goddamn it, I’m tired of this feeling of being owned.
What will it take? Isn’t there a third option?
See, males are not strictly required for the propagation of life. Human life, perhaps, but in time, the human male may… become anachronistic.
Nature basically created [males] as a snk for cosmic rays and other mutagenic agents. The generation of males maximizes the number of viable females, who are absolutely necessary for [the propagation of] life. In essence, Nature can afford for [males] to take the hit.
[Human] history [also] seems to illustrate this principle as well. After all, who gets destroyed in wars first? It’s no accident that entire generations of men have [ended up being] cannon fodder….
Self-improvement is masturbation. Now, self-destruction….
So where does that leave me [and my Y chromosome]? Waiting for the final exit, I’m afraid. But then again, this means any act of creation from a man is some sort of miracle. I don’t know. It seems to me that impending tragedy is a great catalyst for the generation of incredible beauty….