Letters From Indiana 2 (non fiction) Whining

Do you have the time to listen to me whine?  I hope so.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015 will be the first annual Plymouth Rock Day.  Do you get the allusion?  It’s from Malcom X, who said, “We didn’t land on Plymouth Rock; Plymouth Rock landed on us.”  A year ago that day my wife told me she wanted a divorce.  A day that really will live in infamy because of that Hochverratur.

We all have our calendar of holy days, and we are all Marxists in the sense that we constantly rewrite our own histories.  The day when we were baptized and joined the church is replaced by the first time we got laid in the back seat of a car as the defining moment in our lives.

There is a dreadful moral/existential problem with this divorce. When it comes to marriage I am very conservative, almost Catholic.  Not quite, but almost.  And even though we are legally divorced, as far as I am concerned we’re still married and the divorce is bogus.  That means I couldn’t have a gf even if I wanted one because that would make me an adulterer, and adultery is a game I don’t play, not ever.  This is a Gordian knot that I cant untie.

I have only loved two women my whole life.  Dotty, my ex is one.  Sherry is the other.  I will always love these till I am dead.  I cant help it.  I guess Dotty knows this because she suggested I try to find Sherry on Google.  I told Dotty this action had two possible outcomes.  One bad, one worse.  But I did try unsuccessfully to find her.  She could be dead.  If she were here i’d have a new nickname for her.  I’d call her One Per Cent, even though I don’t think she was ever that rich.  She may even be dead.

Women who really like me want to mother me and give me things.  This isn’t what I want from them but hey.  I’ll take it.  Maybe I can see one reason it happens just by looking at my profile pic.  I look like a lost little ten year old boy who has grown up and is just as lost.

Dotty’s sister tried to fix her up with this guy.  He’s 70 fuckin years old.  This is an insult but it’s so much like Mabel that it was actually unremarkable.  Mabel’s younger than Dotty but her guy is pushing seventy and is a white supremacist.  Whenever anything goes wrong it’s always the Jews’ fault, or the niggers’ fault, and so on.

A year ago I estimated I would probably still be alive a year later.  When I look much past the end of the second year the odds of survival become nonzero.  Personally I don’t think i’ll live out the summer.  There are just too many things wrong.  Maybe i’ll be here the first week in September when along with many others I will say, Thank God for the NFL.

Philip Roth said that when a man is dying he wants his mother but if she is not around any woman will do.

Anyway, think of me Tuesday if you remember.  I will probably fast and meditate all day.  And i’m starting to bore even myself so i’ll stop.  A tout a leur.


6 thoughts on “Letters From Indiana 2 (non fiction) Whining

  1. You best work on improving those odds, my friend. I’m not ready to be down another friend, I don’t have many left to lose. I know that’s selfish of me, but I won’t apologize for it either.

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