not aMUSEd

I was at a party recently, and a female friend of mine was trying to get the dish on why her guy-friend broke it off with her girl-friend after they had dated for a little while. His response was simply: “She’s a great girl, sometimes these things just don’t work out.”

(Lesbian gasps!!!!) No dyke has ever responded with such simplicity when posed such a question. I should know, I’m the queen of complication.

I have a great memory. This comes in handy when the sun is shining, the roses are in bloom, and love is at its finest. However, when one finds oneself (hypothetically speaking of course) a few paces away from love’s warm glow, the mental file-folder full of fun-facts about an ex becomes burdensome and bemusing. Why on earth would John Frieda’s beach-blonde line of products inspire anger and frustration? Why do Dots candy, hard-boiled eggs, overfilled ash-trays, and reruns of Rosanne all make me want to cry? …Because that same gift that once made me caring, conscientious, & kind now makes me madder than a hatter—and sometimes angry to boot! But before I get wrapped up in this outerwear of emotion, allow me to turn back the clock (thanks to gmail, I still have messages I sent over 3 years ago):

8/18/05 …also, I sort of accidentally made out with [CENSORED] at my birthday party...whammy. I don’t think that's going to be anything. She's totally straight. I'm not into straight girls. I'm not THAT masochistic. Oh, and I've been writing a lot of comedy recently. I really should start rehearsing so that when someone does give me a stage, I'll be prepared.

While I wish I could have pushed my younger self to start performing sooner, my 22 year-old self would punch me in the neck for staying hung up on something I knew wasn’t going anywhere THREE YEARS AGO.

What happened over those three years? I’ll tell you. I became a comedian; and she became my muse.

I listened to everything she said. I took mental notes of the things she liked. I always showed up with diet cokes & packs of smokes. And in return, she supplied me with the most brilliant lines, the quickest retorts, and looks that split me in half. Like Mickey to my Rocky, she trained me well.

Me: (Some amazing show of memory, dates, times, what she was wearing, saying etc.)

Her: You needn't try to impress me, I've seen you color in between those lines before.

Me: My apologies, dear girl. Perhaps I underestimate your memory.

Her: If this were a movie, I'd say: 'or perhaps you overestimate your own' and now you say: 'but isn't it?' This writer thing is fun.
…
Me: Y'know you always accuse me of delivering punch lines, but we both know who's pulling the strings here.

Her: I'm merely an ordinary civilian, I don't think in terms of 'punch lines.'

Me: Oh my dear girl, if you're going to lie to me, tell me you love me.
…
Her: Okay that was good. You're very funny.

Me: Thank God, it takes forever to get you off…my back.

Her: Funny, it's so easy to get you on…YOUR back.

But, to steal the old coach's line "Women weaken legs." So even as she sharpened my wit, inspired me to write comedy, and encouraged me to try it out, my strength was ultimately diminished, and by the end, I could hardly stand up for myself. Naturally, this disgusted her. Which of course brought on harsher comments, challenged me further in my abilities to roll with punches, to survive the fights, to persevere. I acquired this sort-of "Yes Dear" attitude. I loved the domestic bliss of bickering and buying toiletries, fighting and then going home to do chores together. I always brought over light bulbs when one of hers burned out. And then one day, I did.

They say you're entitled to mourn in direct proportion to the love that was lost. I think I did that after the third or fourth time we parted "for good." I think I realized, maybe when I was still in my EARLY twenties, that she was never going to be able to give me the love I needed, and that I wasn't going to be able to pretend I could do without it. But now, in my mid twenties, I'm mourning the loss of her friendship: she knows me very well, certainly cared about me, inspired me; she pushed me to be quicker, smarter, funnier, better. And the ironic part is, what I'll miss most is not the battle of wits. What I'll miss most is just her presence, her essence, her spunk. She's a great girl, sometimes these things just don't work out.

To avoid being redundant and/or boring, I shall dwell on this no more! I shan't let it monopolize my psyche, nor my blog! In fact, this shall be the last blog in which we speaketh of this ex-beloved, recently revisited, but finally finished relationship.