The Comment that Makes me not want to Post Anymore

"To those I admire In this great big statistically-(no offense) unlikely divine hell, what are the odds, I mean, they must be astronomical, to say the least, of logging into her blog? And yet, (a figure of time) there it was, on the very big www,… she as brave and blunt as my Adrienne and I felt like that Alice, oversized and plodding, trying to squeeze through a small door never meant for my huge, greedy appetite. Like a bulimic in a bakery, wolfing down a bottomless cake, (hearing that voice of J. Alfred running endless, cynical, drunken commentary on everything I do.) And right there, in plain text, she was outing herself. And me in my grey box, confessing metaphors to her like I had broken some techno-modern commandment…(booming voice) thou shalt not read the intimate details of thy ex’s ex’s blog.)Like stepping foot in Xanadu, or eating a peach, or like having sex with your mother Ginsburg would say… not meant for my eyes (forgive me). But why not my eyes? Whose then?How could I resist the all too intimate references to his oh-so bigger-than-life need for obliqueness in a dismal world of DNA repetition? A cat named HomeboyA preference for Wagner (very Freudian)A predilection for betraying highly intellectual, somewhat rubenesque, mildy-sardonic, bluntly comedic, overly-sensitive, somewhat histrionic, (he never forgave me either), well, you get the point. Indulging my pain at her expense or my expense and her pain…E=mc2. (My tendency to disassociate not to be mistaken for indifference). And I wondered if she would be insulted (or could forgive me) for the implication of there being an “us” now - being in that sacred club of self-appointed martyrs whom he had the pleasure of spiritually bankrupting. (Did I ever forgive him?). Some ill-defined chosen-people club of gullible romanticists with concentrated fantasies of being in love. (verb or noun, it’s just like those evasive little electron-buggers). (Eliot knows, I don’t always carry around this much baggage.)And it wasn’t the subconscious attraction to narcissistic father-figures, or the autonomic addiction to over stimulating under-achieving synaptical-firings, or the avoidance of intimacy through a vengeful cloaking-device of food, although God knows I tried,But rather, those obscure, seemingly-insignificant, idiosyncractic synchronicities that bonded me to her in a way I had never before felt so close to anyone else; These things cannot be measured: (so said Jung)(Plagiarism as a form of honor) Poetry, food, Joplin, Oz, Homicide, the repetition of sex, words, quantum laws, cheese. I love cheese for Christ’s sake. Who would have thought that cheese could be such a binding factor? (the metaphors are getting silly now). (And there’s something about sex that is always funny). And maybe in time, (time as a metaphor) she could come to a place, where the need to feel loved again exceeded the need to be damaged. (my therapist said blaming myself is power). To be hurt and cheated on and betrayed and lied to in the exact same way is what Adrienne would call repetition as a form of death. (My father’s gift as well). like the hot house figs or the urn that holds the ashes or the sign on the bus…just minor props… just an understudy…(she throws off her apron and quits). And I forgave myself almost immediately for being jealous that your poetry was better than mine. But I could have predicted that with a little quantum theory and a bottle of Red Clarinet."