a ghost at the wedding banquet
It seems that Blogger is protecting me from expressing my basest, pettiest nature. This is the second time I've ripped out some truly intense thing that would not reflect well on my ten years of quasi-Zen aikido practice, and Blogger has managed to lose it somewhere between post and publish.
Not that I honestly mind, now that've cooled off slightly, although I did have an image I loved... I'll try to recreate it... but there's no need to reprint a segment of the email that set me off.
Suffice it to say that Slice, with his usual lack of care, put me on the mass email list of people who had expressed curiosity about whether he and Bride Of Slice had a wedding registry anywhere. I learned from the email that "[MY] PRESENCE IS THE GREATEST GIFT!" and that contributions towards the purchase of a "FAMILY car" (emphasis theirs) would be appreciated.
Need I remind the careful reader that I am most distinctly not invited to the wedding? My ABSENCE is the greatest gift, as far as I can tell, and there is no way in hell I am contributing towards the FAMILY car for the FAMILY he's going to have with her that he couldn't envision having with me.
I'm not being fair to him, I know. As loving as he is, I never knew him to be particularly sensitive to undercurrents or delicacies; in many ways he is a bull in a china shop. He's also getting married in a week, and is freshly returned from a long dreamt-of Balinese sojourn. He is big and round and ripe with love and anticipation and thoughts of a rosy future with wife and spawn in a house full of Mexican and Balinese trinkets, and the handmade arty things they're asking people to craft as a sign of love and support in lieu of purchased material objects. Meanwhile I am the troll under the bridge, dark, haggard, and emaciated; my long filthy claws and teeth dripping venom, my scabs oozing, my fur matted (that last image is not such an exaggeration--someone needs to tweeze her eyebrows), the bones of young innocents sucked dry and scattered about me. Halitotic and farting.
Isn't this fun, once I get started?
Writing the word "farting" makes a big difference, actually. It's just funny enough to make me stop while I'm ahead. I think I'll go read Gregory Corso's fabulous poem Marriage again, and get ready for work. In the original lost post I went on for a bit about fear of abandonment in light of men telling me that we will continue to be friends and then it not happening, but I won't go there again today. Better that I take up the tweezers, and the wine key, and go make some money to pay for my fabulous single girl lifestyle, and all the freezer burritoes I can stand.
Pengiun dust! Bring me penguin dust!