I've had several weeks to contemplate the perils and pitfalls of Christmas shopping.
Thank goodness,Christmas shopping has but one day left. I have to say, I was wary and fearful of shopping before the day, but now I must admit, I am more freaked out at the prospect of hitting the stores once again for boxing day. This, the most wild day in the history of consumer spending. Gone are the days when one toy was enough for the kids, a piece of jewelry would do for the wife or a power tool would suffice for the man of the house. Indeed, anything now bearing the slightest taint of domesticity or practicality can provoke serious discord in a family. It is in fact now the norm to out do yourself every year and it seems that the safest gifts are ones that contain a TV screen the size of either a living-room wall, a tiny device to store hoards of music or most recently, the coveted X-Box 360. The turmoil that swirled in my brain over that terrible responsibility in what to buy for the limited amount of people that actually got on my list this year was as much as if I had to buy for my entire past graduating high school class. My total budget, in sweaty hands, was something in the order of two hundred dollars...Ok, maybe a little more. Perusing the wares of every local shop in my neighborhood, in desperate search of something that would meet my budget, I was met with rude and pushy sales people, angry customers and over priced nonsense. At last, in a sweet shop, I discovered the perfect gifts for the ladies that keep me looking presentable to the rest of the world. The gifts were lovely jewel encrusted ornaments: butterflies, angels and other winged creatures. The looks on their faces as they opened the beautifully wrapped packages. With the exception of purchasing gifts on my favorite famed streets, I had the ease and pleasure of ordering product online. Here I was, worrying that the shopping for 2005 would leave me in the cold. Fortunately, credit cards and the internet allow for a whole new shopping experience and an ease that is indescribable. The only worry I was now faced with was whether the goods would actually arrive on time. Most made it quite clear that they would honor all orders placed before the 20th and guarantee their deliveries to arrive before Christmas. They didn't lie! Aside from birthdays, Christmas is the only time of year when I am forced to shop. I've often heard that shopping makes for good therapy. Shopping under pressure however, does not apply to this past time. It is important to know the prices of things before going head first into any purchase (this is what caused most of my headaches this year). I checked and rechecked, which was a huge undertaking, the prices of things, all in the hopes of being a good consumer. I bought CD's for a friend, a travel case for another, at least 5 boxes of gourmet chocolates (ordered online) and gift certificates for the remaining people on the list. In the end, I had spent every last cent I had put away on gift wrap, but I was smart and went to the dollar store.
So, boxing day will arrive in a flash, list of must haves in hand and I will be ready. One of my good friends claims that wearing your cup is a must and playing defense will save you from any grievous bodily harm. We agree!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
Take me to the Pilate
After much hesitation, I finally gave in and saw Mel Gibsons, The Passion of the Christ. By now, everyone knows that this film has been the target of an extraordinary campaign of attempted censorship on the part of the Anti-Defamation League. I have to say, after watching this interpretation of possibly the most historical event ever known to man, I was not put off by it at all. I agree that it is quite an aggressively Christian movie, but that can't come as a surprise, as the director himself is just that, a devout Christian. There is nothing in The Passion regarding the Jewish leaders of the time and their treatment of Christ that does not come from the New Testament itself, which Christians regard as divinely inspired. (In fact, it has been verified and the key events are confirmed by the Jewish Talmud.) Gibson invents nothing, embellishes nothing, does nothing to suggest that all Jews rejected Christ or sought his death. The Passion limits the time frame to Jesus' last 18 hours of life, it doesn't take on the notion that the Jews didn't accept their Messiah (I think this would have changed a lot of peoples opinions of the film, if it had). It has always been suggested (even when I was in school) that Christians have sometimes been contorted to lay the responsibility for Jesus' execution at the feet of the Jewish people, a contortion that has long fueled the fires of anti-Semitism. The film Gibson has made, however, is reviving an ancient and divisive argument: who really killed Jesus? This set me wondering too, so I looked it up. As a matter of history, the Roman Empire did; as a matter of theology, the sins of the world drove Jesus to the cross, and the Catholic Church holds that Christians themselves bear "the gravest responsibility for the torments inflicted upon Jesus." Many Jewish leaders and theologians feared the film, with its portraits of the Jewish high priest Caiaphas leading an angry mob and of Pilate as a reluctant, sympathetic executioner,that it could reverse 40 years of work explaining the common bonds between Judaism and Christianity. Gibson has vehemently defended the film against charges of anti-Semitism, saying he does not believe in blood guilt and citing the church teaching that the transgressions and failings of all mankind led to the Passion, not just the sins of the Jewish people. "So it's not singling them out and saying, 'They did it.' That's not so," Gibson told the Global Catholic Network. "We're all culpable. I don't want to lynch any Jews...I love them. I pray for them." WWJD? indeed!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Melodies Rhapsodical
Sometimes little pieces of heaven fall upon your ears and there's nothing left to do but share the experience with those around you. This week I had the luxury of walking into a sale at my favorite cd shop and purchased a total of 12 cd's. Amongst these gems is a truly remarkable find: The Decemberists, Picaresque. This offering, headed by the outrageously talented singer/songwriter Colin Meloy, is both exciting and overwhelming. The opening track, the infanta, is a showcase for Meloy's astounding linguistic prowess as well as his ability to create vast imagery (which will undoubtedly remind you of Led Zepplin). Throughout the album, we are treated to epic story telling, matched brilliantly by an old English folk style, mixed with an unmistakable indie tone. The track the sporting life , which has been compared to Belle and Sebastian, is also heavily influenced by The Smiths, Placebo, as well as The House Martins. It's been said that Meloy has a pet obsession with historical romance and the sea (which immediately had me thinking back to Mike Scott from the Waterboys) and is most notably evident through the giant tale the mariner's revenge song. The track the bagmans gambit is wonderfully intriguing, as our orator sings to us about forbidden love mixed with espionage. I felt as though the lyrics were ripped straight out of a crime novel. Like so many voices and sounds in our new indie generation, they really defy description, as they swell and crash like storm-bred waves upon your ears...you just have to surrender and listen. I promise that this atmospheric cd will provide you with the right amount of escapism and will leave you feeling totally satisfied.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Metaphors from the ether
Parable of the Pencil
The pencil maker took the pencil aside just before putting him into the box.There are 5 things you need to know, he told the pencil before I end you out into the world. Always remember them and never forget and you will become the best pencil you can be.
One:
You will be able to do many great things , but only if you allow yourself to be held in someone's hand.
Two:
You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, but you will need it to become a better pencil.
Three:
You will be able to correct any mistakes you might make.
Four:
The most important part of you will always be what is inside.
Five:
On every surface you are used on , you must leave your mark. No matter what the condition , you must continue to write.
The pencil understood and promised to remember and went into the box with purpose in its heart.
The pencil maker took the pencil aside just before putting him into the box.There are 5 things you need to know, he told the pencil before I end you out into the world. Always remember them and never forget and you will become the best pencil you can be.
One:
You will be able to do many great things , but only if you allow yourself to be held in someone's hand.
Two:
You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, but you will need it to become a better pencil.
Three:
You will be able to correct any mistakes you might make.
Four:
The most important part of you will always be what is inside.
Five:
On every surface you are used on , you must leave your mark. No matter what the condition , you must continue to write.
The pencil understood and promised to remember and went into the box with purpose in its heart.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Nemesis at the gates
Having spent a lot of time this week with my special friend, I was once again forced to ponder things that until recently, had remained tucked away in the annals of my mind. Over lunch at our usual spot, we got to talking about World War II, Music, South Park, The Simpsons, Politics... but one subject that he brought up really sparked my interest: THE SMURFS. It's been well documented, both at University level and on the net (though distinguishing between the two these days is proving quite difficult) that the smurf society was really based on communism. I searched through many written theories on this subject and thought I might share just a few insights into their world: The Smurfs, though not drab by any means, had a pretty standard dress code. Each smurf wore minor accessories that differentiated them from each other. This systematic uniform is argued by some as a representation of the largely uniform style of attire dominant in several early periods of the Soviet Union and The People's Republic of China, including the "Mao suit". Even though the evil wizard Gargamel and his loyal feline worker, Azrael, are argued to represent an analogy of the forces of capitalism, it would be more correct to say that they represent the forces of reaction. In fact Gargamel desires to capture the smurfs in order to turn them into gold through a magical process of boiling (a clear indication of it's preference for rent over risk capital). His greed drives him to great lengths in what is said to be a parallel of the Cold War and its extreme struggle. The capitalistic forces want to devour socialism, as the West wanted to do to the USSR and its allies according to Cold War propaganda. Gargamel can be seen as a pure capitalist; he wishes to turn everything into a commodity, including the individuals of a living society. The smurfs live in an egalitarian utopia. Each smurf has a particular skill and each performs tasks for the benefit of the community. There is no system of monetary exchange or even barter in the Smurf village. The village is under a planned economy, under the leadership of Papa Smurf, and to some extent, Brainy Smurf. Each member of the community is a Smurf, and each has Smurf as a suffix to their own name; this can be seen as analogous to the use of "comrade". The Smurfs have a tendency to use the word 'smurf' as a prefix or suffix to many sentences. This could be seen as an identity to create a strong group identity or a way to eliminate influences from other cultures. This is similar to what was practiced under Soviet Russia. Ironically, as communism fell in Russia, it was around that time that The Smurfs were lost from tv syndication and comic publication.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Taciturnly better off
This is an article written by RAYA KUZYK, a journalist living in NYC.
Though the idea of breaking up with someone in power point form is very modern, it's also, given the outcome, a really bad idea...you be the judge:
Point 1: We Had Fun. Point 2: It's Over. Point 3: Get Lost.
LAST spring I broke up with someone perfect. Perfectly, that is. Last spring I broke up with someone perfectly. I set out exactly which aspects of our relationship were lacking and why, meticulously charted our decline, and pared months of frustration and disillusionment to a succinct set of woes, all without uttering a word.
It was the most orderly way I'd ever ended a relationship and the first time I'd walked away from a breakup feeling richer for it. All told, it was a source of great personal satisfaction and accomplishment, until the moment it dawned on me that I hadn't managed to pull it off.
Like most people, I don't end relationships gracefully. In trying to make the final exchange sound less like a crushing blow and more like, oh, just another glitch in our madcap dating adventure, I end up expressing myself in the most blasé terms, with an overreliance on words like "nice," "fine" and "good." Of course my own head has been on the chopping block often enough, and when it's happening to me, I always think, I would never do this to anyone, not like this.
Yet when it's my turn to do the deed, some of what comes out of my mouth sounds, even to my ears, staggeringly unkind.
So when my last relationship started going bad, I decided I would come better prepared to the breakup by working out my delivery in advance. I began by jotting my relationship-related grievances onto a legal pad. Because this turned into an exercise of procrastination, months flew by until suddenly I had a new problem.
Though I had postponed the inevitable long enough to be certain that I was doing the right thing, I had also drawn it out to the point where human decency (and dating etiquette) called for a sensitively handled breakup. A breakup of a higher standard than the one to which I would have been held had I ended our relationship when I first realized we had no future.
Technically that would have been from the get-go: Nick was engaged to another woman. But after two and a half years of engagement he showed no signs of intending to marry. His prospective in-laws were growing impatient; his fiancée was becoming unnaturally preoccupied with china; and still, every Sunday, I would find him sprawled on my living room floor scanning the real estate ads for the ultimate bachelor pad.
When I would raise the issue, he would agree he wasn't being fair to her, then whistle at the cost of some West Village walk-up. It was unsettling for me to realize that by putting off the inevitable with his fiancée, Nick was doing the exact thing I was with him (but at least I was taking notes).
My notes began as sad, whimsical musings, graduated to heated accusations and then spread from there. Whenever I would home in on a particular problem, a hundred others would sprout up that demanded contextualizing.
I started having to rely on mathematical symbols and contrived a Pantone color chart system that reflected the range of my moods in his company. (To convey the magnitude of the project, lilac and heliotrope were two colors on which I commonly relied.) Soon I had filled my entire legal pad and turned to using scraps of paper I found around the apartment.
Every time Nick would leave the dinner table to answer his cellphone or disengage himself from a conversation to send an e-mail message on his BlackBerry, I would tear a sheet of paper from my appointment book or swoop in on a napkin and write down something new.
Finally, to contain the mess of notes I had scribbled, I stapled them to the sheets of my legal pad until I was left with a fat fan of mismatched papers: a rounded, tattered orb.
At a loss at what to do next, I called my sister, Tamara.
"That's great that you're putting so much thought into it," she said.
"Only I'm having trouble quantifying things," I confessed. "I've got more charts and graphs than I do complete sentences."
"Well, it's still helped you put things in perspective, hasn't it?"
A thought struck me then. "You know, I'm really tempted to just PowerPoint the whole thing."
I was half-joking. But in the silence that followed I thought: Why not? What could possibly show more serious consideration of the matter, more meticulousness, more care? Besides, I remembered distastefully, Nick was such a technophile. And that's when the feelings of resentment that had flowed so freely from my pen crept back into my head, and I sensed myself growing dangerous. After all the time he had decided to spend with his gadgets (not to mention his fiancée) instead of with me, it would be perfect. I wouldn't just be giving him a standard-issue breakup, I'd be upgrading us to the 2006 version.
In converting the contents of my paper orb to PowerPoint, I broke down my message into two parts. In Part 1, I mapped our relationship into four stages - "All Day in Bed," "Oh. You're Engaged?," "Avoiding the Obvious" and "No Substance" - each of which was broken down into substages (e.g., "We Start Sleeping Together," "So What if We Have No Future?," "Is This Another One of Your Things at My Apartment?," "It's Just Taking Too Much Energy" and so on).
An x-y graph conjectured how invested each of us was in our relationship throughout the aforementioned four major stages.
Part 2 meanwhile focused on our ups and downs and speculated as to why we even bothered. This I conveyed through a montage of photographs that blew up to reveal the gradual tightening of our expressions through time; the emergence of new lines; how much, essentially, our misery had aged us.
I designed the presentation to be narrated by subtitles that streamed across the screen at a pace just slow enough for Nick to read before they faded to black (which, incidentally, was another grievance of mine: the man was no speed-reader).
It took me several hours. Not long after I finished, Nick called to remind me we had dinner reservations for that same night. I hadn't forgotten.
We met at the restaurant bar, saddled up and ordered our drinks. After my third scotch and soda I said it: "Let's end things now, tonight, while we're a little buzzed and in good moods."
He paled, straightened, slumped. "Why?"
I reached into my bag and, nodding somberly, pulled out my laptop, resting it on the bar in front of us.
For the next 20 minutes Nick sat lighted by the screen's glow. Because I wasn't responsible for voicing the presentation myself, I started freely on my fourth drink while using my other hand to prompt each slide.
I am so right on about some of this stuff, I thought as the slides advanced. I watched his face for any change of expression, any dawning of understanding, any silent accord, but his features stayed exactly put. Either he was captivated, or, I more strongly suspected, this was again an issue of his reading pace.
When the presentation ended (with a bulleted list enumerating the many good times we had had, to end on an up note), I snapped my laptop shut and turned to face him. "Well?"
He ordered another drink, and we sat in complete silence for as long as it took him to finish it. I slipped my laptop back into my bag, paid the tab and hailed myself a cab.
My ride home was invigorating. Was it really going to be that easy? I replayed the night's events in my head in slo-mo. Then I re-replayed them, this time from Nick's perspective, imagining what he must have been thinking at the sight of that final slide and decided that, ultimately, not only had I done the most gratifying thing but by far the kindest.
Though, granted, my purity of intent and the manner of my delivery were questionable, the message was tame: there was a big difference between what I had angrily put to paper and what I had ended up using in the presentation. Because I had chosen my words more carefully in the latter, I had succeeded - or so I thought -in not just getting the job done but leaving him with a little something to consider.
ON entering my apartment and catching sight of the answering machine, I suddenly felt less sure of myself. The machine, indicating seven new messages by way of a furiously blinking red light, did not divine warm tidings.
I set my laptop down, walked over and hit "play." For a few seconds I heard Nick's breathing. Then, "You're sick." And again, "Sick." I slumped onto the couch and took in the next five messages, which, with varying degrees of tastefulness, communicated the same sentiment.
It hurt him more than I thought it would. I had started out honestly convinced that altruism had motivated me, that I had wanted to end our relationship precisely and painlessly and that this was the best way to do it. Then it got ugly; I got ugly.
Regardless of whether or not I was aware of it, I had a point I wanted to make before saying goodbye to this man. And now, having made it, there was no comfort in knowing I had proven myself to be exactly the type of woman he had always accused me of being and I had always secretly hoped I wasn't: emotionless and inconsiderate. I wondered what Tamara would say if I told her I had actually gone through with it.
In Nick's final message, by which time, thankfully, he seemed to be losing momentum, I thought I could hear the faint sound of his fiancée's voice asking if he had managed to call the florist, and I felt momentarily heartened. Everyone, I decided, has his own sick way of sending a message, and if mine hadn't worked, his certainly hadn't either.
Though the idea of breaking up with someone in power point form is very modern, it's also, given the outcome, a really bad idea...you be the judge:
Point 1: We Had Fun. Point 2: It's Over. Point 3: Get Lost.
LAST spring I broke up with someone perfect. Perfectly, that is. Last spring I broke up with someone perfectly. I set out exactly which aspects of our relationship were lacking and why, meticulously charted our decline, and pared months of frustration and disillusionment to a succinct set of woes, all without uttering a word.
It was the most orderly way I'd ever ended a relationship and the first time I'd walked away from a breakup feeling richer for it. All told, it was a source of great personal satisfaction and accomplishment, until the moment it dawned on me that I hadn't managed to pull it off.
Like most people, I don't end relationships gracefully. In trying to make the final exchange sound less like a crushing blow and more like, oh, just another glitch in our madcap dating adventure, I end up expressing myself in the most blasé terms, with an overreliance on words like "nice," "fine" and "good." Of course my own head has been on the chopping block often enough, and when it's happening to me, I always think, I would never do this to anyone, not like this.
Yet when it's my turn to do the deed, some of what comes out of my mouth sounds, even to my ears, staggeringly unkind.
So when my last relationship started going bad, I decided I would come better prepared to the breakup by working out my delivery in advance. I began by jotting my relationship-related grievances onto a legal pad. Because this turned into an exercise of procrastination, months flew by until suddenly I had a new problem.
Though I had postponed the inevitable long enough to be certain that I was doing the right thing, I had also drawn it out to the point where human decency (and dating etiquette) called for a sensitively handled breakup. A breakup of a higher standard than the one to which I would have been held had I ended our relationship when I first realized we had no future.
Technically that would have been from the get-go: Nick was engaged to another woman. But after two and a half years of engagement he showed no signs of intending to marry. His prospective in-laws were growing impatient; his fiancée was becoming unnaturally preoccupied with china; and still, every Sunday, I would find him sprawled on my living room floor scanning the real estate ads for the ultimate bachelor pad.
When I would raise the issue, he would agree he wasn't being fair to her, then whistle at the cost of some West Village walk-up. It was unsettling for me to realize that by putting off the inevitable with his fiancée, Nick was doing the exact thing I was with him (but at least I was taking notes).
My notes began as sad, whimsical musings, graduated to heated accusations and then spread from there. Whenever I would home in on a particular problem, a hundred others would sprout up that demanded contextualizing.
I started having to rely on mathematical symbols and contrived a Pantone color chart system that reflected the range of my moods in his company. (To convey the magnitude of the project, lilac and heliotrope were two colors on which I commonly relied.) Soon I had filled my entire legal pad and turned to using scraps of paper I found around the apartment.
Every time Nick would leave the dinner table to answer his cellphone or disengage himself from a conversation to send an e-mail message on his BlackBerry, I would tear a sheet of paper from my appointment book or swoop in on a napkin and write down something new.
Finally, to contain the mess of notes I had scribbled, I stapled them to the sheets of my legal pad until I was left with a fat fan of mismatched papers: a rounded, tattered orb.
At a loss at what to do next, I called my sister, Tamara.
"That's great that you're putting so much thought into it," she said.
"Only I'm having trouble quantifying things," I confessed. "I've got more charts and graphs than I do complete sentences."
"Well, it's still helped you put things in perspective, hasn't it?"
A thought struck me then. "You know, I'm really tempted to just PowerPoint the whole thing."
I was half-joking. But in the silence that followed I thought: Why not? What could possibly show more serious consideration of the matter, more meticulousness, more care? Besides, I remembered distastefully, Nick was such a technophile. And that's when the feelings of resentment that had flowed so freely from my pen crept back into my head, and I sensed myself growing dangerous. After all the time he had decided to spend with his gadgets (not to mention his fiancée) instead of with me, it would be perfect. I wouldn't just be giving him a standard-issue breakup, I'd be upgrading us to the 2006 version.
In converting the contents of my paper orb to PowerPoint, I broke down my message into two parts. In Part 1, I mapped our relationship into four stages - "All Day in Bed," "Oh. You're Engaged?," "Avoiding the Obvious" and "No Substance" - each of which was broken down into substages (e.g., "We Start Sleeping Together," "So What if We Have No Future?," "Is This Another One of Your Things at My Apartment?," "It's Just Taking Too Much Energy" and so on).
An x-y graph conjectured how invested each of us was in our relationship throughout the aforementioned four major stages.
Part 2 meanwhile focused on our ups and downs and speculated as to why we even bothered. This I conveyed through a montage of photographs that blew up to reveal the gradual tightening of our expressions through time; the emergence of new lines; how much, essentially, our misery had aged us.
I designed the presentation to be narrated by subtitles that streamed across the screen at a pace just slow enough for Nick to read before they faded to black (which, incidentally, was another grievance of mine: the man was no speed-reader).
It took me several hours. Not long after I finished, Nick called to remind me we had dinner reservations for that same night. I hadn't forgotten.
We met at the restaurant bar, saddled up and ordered our drinks. After my third scotch and soda I said it: "Let's end things now, tonight, while we're a little buzzed and in good moods."
He paled, straightened, slumped. "Why?"
I reached into my bag and, nodding somberly, pulled out my laptop, resting it on the bar in front of us.
For the next 20 minutes Nick sat lighted by the screen's glow. Because I wasn't responsible for voicing the presentation myself, I started freely on my fourth drink while using my other hand to prompt each slide.
I am so right on about some of this stuff, I thought as the slides advanced. I watched his face for any change of expression, any dawning of understanding, any silent accord, but his features stayed exactly put. Either he was captivated, or, I more strongly suspected, this was again an issue of his reading pace.
When the presentation ended (with a bulleted list enumerating the many good times we had had, to end on an up note), I snapped my laptop shut and turned to face him. "Well?"
He ordered another drink, and we sat in complete silence for as long as it took him to finish it. I slipped my laptop back into my bag, paid the tab and hailed myself a cab.
My ride home was invigorating. Was it really going to be that easy? I replayed the night's events in my head in slo-mo. Then I re-replayed them, this time from Nick's perspective, imagining what he must have been thinking at the sight of that final slide and decided that, ultimately, not only had I done the most gratifying thing but by far the kindest.
Though, granted, my purity of intent and the manner of my delivery were questionable, the message was tame: there was a big difference between what I had angrily put to paper and what I had ended up using in the presentation. Because I had chosen my words more carefully in the latter, I had succeeded - or so I thought -in not just getting the job done but leaving him with a little something to consider.
ON entering my apartment and catching sight of the answering machine, I suddenly felt less sure of myself. The machine, indicating seven new messages by way of a furiously blinking red light, did not divine warm tidings.
I set my laptop down, walked over and hit "play." For a few seconds I heard Nick's breathing. Then, "You're sick." And again, "Sick." I slumped onto the couch and took in the next five messages, which, with varying degrees of tastefulness, communicated the same sentiment.
It hurt him more than I thought it would. I had started out honestly convinced that altruism had motivated me, that I had wanted to end our relationship precisely and painlessly and that this was the best way to do it. Then it got ugly; I got ugly.
Regardless of whether or not I was aware of it, I had a point I wanted to make before saying goodbye to this man. And now, having made it, there was no comfort in knowing I had proven myself to be exactly the type of woman he had always accused me of being and I had always secretly hoped I wasn't: emotionless and inconsiderate. I wondered what Tamara would say if I told her I had actually gone through with it.
In Nick's final message, by which time, thankfully, he seemed to be losing momentum, I thought I could hear the faint sound of his fiancée's voice asking if he had managed to call the florist, and I felt momentarily heartened. Everyone, I decided, has his own sick way of sending a message, and if mine hadn't worked, his certainly hadn't either.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Diatribes from the edge
Apparently this is going around NYC at the moment. (His response, one word: OUCH!)
1st is a girl's apology email for cheating.
2nd is his reply which was forwarded to his entire address book.
Brad,
It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all or anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn't crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can't listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I don't know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn't. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can't imagine my days without you. It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn't reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not. I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it. I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won't. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can't even focus or work today, I can't eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don't cut me off, I really don't think I can handle that.
I am so sorry.
Elizabeth
RESPONSE:
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about".
You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "Stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't F**k him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she's seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand job in the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
PS. I forwarded about 100 people on this email.
Talk to you never,
Brad
1st is a girl's apology email for cheating.
2nd is his reply which was forwarded to his entire address book.
Brad,
It would be difficult for me to be any more miserable right now, I feel like the worst person ever. First, let me start by saying that I am truly truly sorry, and I hate myself for hurting you. Of all the people in the whole entire world, you were honestly the last person that I would ever want to wrong in any way. There is no excuse at all or anything that happened, so I won't even try other than to say all of us had WAY too much to drink, and I did a stupid thing. I can handle you being pissed at me, I absolutely deserve it, I can even handle the ugly words that were exchanged between us, what I can't handle is thinking that you see me as a different person. It is weird, I feel like I just went through a horrible break up or something. The world looked funny yesterday, I couldn't crack a smile if you paid me, there are songs I can't listen to, and I just feel beyond crushed. I don't know if you meant everything you said to me, and I am hoping that you didn't. I know that I was wrong on many levels, but I am also hoping that this is something that we can deal with. I know it sounds totally crazy and stupid, but you have come to play such a significant role in my life, I can't imagine my days without you. It is totally strange and weird to say that, and you could say that my behavior didn't reflect that, and you would be correct. I hate feeling like you hate me, and I hate feeling like all of your friends think I am a terrible person, because I am not. I know there is nothing I can say or do to take back what happened, but I just want you to know that fighting with you was just about the worst thing I could have ever imagined. It was right up there with one of the ugliest nights of my life, and I would give anything in the world to rewind and fix it. I am not sure if you will respond to this, part of me thinks that you won't. If not today, then maybe some other time. Also, thanks for getting my stuff together, although I think my sunglasses are still at your house, if you could keep your eyes peeled for them that would be great. I can't even focus or work today, I can't eat, I seriously feel like it was an ugly break up, and I am hoping against hopes that it was not that and you are not done with me. Please don't cut me off, I really don't think I can handle that.
I am so sorry.
Elizabeth
RESPONSE:
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to file it away under "L" for "Long-winded diatribes from drunken whores I couldn't care less about".
You did a stupid thing huh? No...doing long division and forgetting to carry the one is "a stupid thing"; Mixing in a red sock with a load of whites is "a stupid thing"; Blowing some guy in a bathroom for 45minutes while I sit at the bar wondering if you're taking so long because you ate too much bran that morning isn't as much a "Stupid thing" as it is grounds for permanent removal from my social calendar.
To be honest, I'm not sure if it was more amusing that you went and degraded yourself in a public toilet not once but twice in a 2 hour span, or that you seemed to think that by saying "Well, I didn't F**k him" somehow gave you a clean slate. So forgive me if I couldn't care less if the world "looked funny" to you yesterday. Since your world revolves around blow dryers, golden retrievers, Prada Bags and Jelly Beans, I'm sure it must have been most unsettling to actually have to consider someone else's feelings for 24 hours straight. The good news for you is that my friends don't think you're a terrible person, they just think you're the average run of the mill cum-guzzling blond who commands about as much respect as your average child porn collector. I could be wrong but, it's pretty hard to respect some B&T chick who comes out to spend the night at my place even though she's seeing someone else in New jersey and winds up tongue-bathing the taint of anyone who decides 30 minutes of droning commentary on Colin Farrell's new haircut is worth putting up with for a hand job in the men's room. The good thing about being a guy is that when I eventually bump into the young lad who finger-blasted you on top of a towel dispenser last Saturday, we'll have a shot and laugh our heads off about the time it happened.
By the way, for the amount of time you claim to spend in spin class you really must be doing something wrong to sport the thunder thighs you do. Watching you parade around my bedroom in a thong was a little like watching sea lions mate. Thought you might like to know.
PS. I forwarded about 100 people on this email.
Talk to you never,
Brad
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