the diary of antoine roquentin

I feel lost in a maze of status, consumer goods, PR, drugs, and desire. I don’t want to wake up alone tonight. But I fear I will. They’re playing Le Tigre at Mondo.

That was the beginning of a draft I wrote two weeks ago on my phone. I didn’t end up posting it. But sometimes, waking up with someone can feel even more lonely than waking up alone.

For your consideration: Reduce Your Emotional Involvement.

We’re not breaking up. Well, I suppose in a way we are. It’s just that at this point, you know, I’m really getting to know San Francisco well, you know?

Like—you know a good restaurant in every neighborhood?

It’s kind of like that—I mean—I’ve only lived here a year, you know, I want to be exploring the city and stuff and do it on my own.

So we’re not going to have sex any more?

Yes, we’ll still have sex, and do this, but just with less emotional involvement.

So you want me to…reduce my emotional involvement level?

I guess. That sounds so clinical.

Well, you are a geneticist.

Okay, fuck it. I’m done with this shit. It’s like I’m writing a detailed description of an emotional car-crash.

I thought that I would be okay with a relationship where we weren’t exclusive. I thought that I could be in a relationship where we could see other people if we wanted.

But now

We’ve gone to a FUCKING BRAVE NEW WORLD OF INSENSITIVE BULLSHIT

We’re going to continue to fuck, to hang out, to do everything, but we’re not—dating—any more.

No, no, it’s not just a matter of semantics. We’ll just be friends.

Friends? Really. Friends.

I can see “let’s not say we’re dating, let’s say we’re seeing each other, we’re involved, we’re going out, we’re romantically linked.”

But no. It’s just nothing. It’s an unseen ghost of a phenomenon. And the major reason it’s not seen? It’s because you’re the only one fucking seeing it. There is no relationship. If you can’t even fucking pretend that we’re going to still be seeing each other next month, what’s the fucking point?

WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?

And then that’s the perfect time to be thinking behind the carefully calculated mask of my smile “I think I’m in love with you.”

BECAUSE NO. BECAUSE THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING SUPPOSED TO BE THINKING GOD DAMN IT

What does that even mean? I don’t know what it means, but it means more than I’d rather not see you get hit by a bus. Maybe it means that I care what happens to you and I like spending time with you and I wish we could spend more time together

and maybe form some kind of important emotional bond

to grow together, to recognize what we love and hate about each other

but there’s that same old word

Far be it from me to be a closet romantic

BUT FUCK FUCK MOTHER FUCK I AM SICK OF THIS MOTHERFUCKING POMO BULLSHIT

JUST FUCKING SAY IT.

IF YOU’RE DEAD INSIDE AND THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO GIVE, JUST FUCKING OWN IT

IF YOU’RE AFRAID OF GETTING YOUR HEART BROKEN YOU’RE IN THE WRONG FUCKING BUSINESS

BECAUSE DATING FUCKS YOU UP.

It took me three years to get over Andrew. Did I ever really get over him? Hell fucking no. I’ll always be in love with Andrew, and that pain doesn’t get less over time, it gets bearable, more tolerable, like a backpack that’s so heavy when you put it on but after a few minutes you don’t even notice it.

But what does that make me think about him? That relationships are like a festively colored kite, that once you’re done just let slip slip of the finger and there it goes

I can barely see it up there

Like a cormorant, far far away—swallowed in the interstellar void

Never to return again.

But that’s not how human beings feel.

Note that last word? F-E-E-L.

It’s a fire that’s ignited in you that never goes out, it seethes and boils in zero-gravity and rolls all over everything.

I don’t know what love is, but I want someone that cares for me. Someone that I can count on. Someone who has a vested interest in the choices I make. Someone that I can know will be there.

Not this time-card-punching easy-come-easy-go kind of shit. I can see why Craigslist is so popular. It’s the be-all end-all of instant gratification.

Cock.

Suck.

Now.

42.

Daly City.

And you’re fucking there, your tongue roving around his disgusting asshole, and you’re wondering why you’re doing this. You’re wondering when he’s going to cum. You’re wondering why the fuck you’re here in the first place? And then you hear the Academy. The applause drifts on waves of lube-scented air as you plow your cock into him. You’re the best the world has ever seen. “Oh yeah. You want that cock don’t you. Oh yeah, oh fuck, I’m going to CUUUUUUUUUUUM” An elaborately-dressed woman from the third row throws a long-stemmed rose at you, Beyonce waves from the balcony.

A fantastic performance, Minnie Driver yells, uncomfortably close to you now. No one could have done it better.

You take your shower, you get it out of your head, and you go on.