And another thing…

Dear Mother and Daughter,

I’ve been having a lovely time flirting for the past few months.  But now you think he might do nicely for me.

Cheers.  He’s lost all his appeal now.

Melograna

(daughter and mother)

Addendum to Fuckwits for Dingbats

Dear Dingbats,

Where did I go wrong?  Having eradicated you from my life, what possessed me to get involved with men who are addicted to dingbats and TELL ME ABOUT THE FUCKING DINGBATS ALL THE FUCKING TIME?

It’s not easy being the only sane one, you know.  I have to keep capslocking all over the place to keep dingbat-fever at bay.  It’s very wearing.

Yours sincerely and sanely,

Melograna

Scuro, Scuro, Always Scuro

It occurred to me recently that the arbitrarily chosen categories here at Complicity (Chiaro, Scuro, Chiaroscuro) may in fact be encouraging me in rather a bad habit. The lovely and brilliant Melograna suggested these categories (she’s such a smartypants), and I thought they were a great idea — after all, they really do describe all of the types of writing we are likely to do: Chiaro (light / clear), Scuro (dark), or Chiaroscuro, that art term which describes a combination or, more accurately, contrast of the two. I wish sometimes that there was more of a sliding scale to describe feeling really fairly down, but not really suicidal. Or generally cheerful, but don’t indulge in any false hopes of getting away with anything. So, they are a great theory, all inclusive, pretty much comprehensive, as categories go. And of course, we also have a category called War, because sometimes we are just pissed off.

Anyhow, this very clearly delineated method of categorizing writing moods serves as a great temptation to me. Each time I am grumpy about something or someone, I think to myself… Ah, Boh (doesn’t everyone refer to themselves by their blog nickname?), you could just write that out of your system, and slap it up on Complicity under the pretentious but accurate Scuro designation. Then I go ahead and vent. When I’m done, sometimes I place it under Chiaroscuro, to give the illusion that I’m not really as morbid as I … well, as I really am.

Over the long term, however, this leads to a string of posts where I criticize and complain about pretty much every aspect of my life. He was mean to me. She is annoying. I’m tired. I’m bored. My head hurts. They make me work too hard. Wah, wah, wah. Pity me. Tell me I’m always right. Say you love it when I download on you.

So, what happens when I have particularly Chiaro moments that I want to write about? Ah. Really, I should have another blog just for that. It wouldn’t have a category called “Please Whine Here”, so I would be less tempted.

Since I don’t in fact have a blog named “All Chiaro, All the Time”, I resolve to try to balance my perspective a bit when I write here. I shall, in fact, continue to write snarly little allegorical tales about people who have offended me, and scathing but superficially amusing indictments of perceived slights against me. I shall also, however, return to over-analyzing the more positive and delicious bits of lint in my navel as well. After all, my navel is pretty gorgeous, and worth the time spent gazing at it.

Mea Culpa

To whom it may concern (if it does not concern you, then you need go no further — a lack of concern would only distress us both):

There’s something I need to tell you… a confession, if you will. In fact, I think of you as my virtual confessor. That makes sense, since everything we do together is virtual — confession, sex, gossip, fight. It’s all virtual. You’re virtual. But anyhow, dearest virtual one, here is my confession. I believe the world is ending. This may disturb you… either the fact that I believe this to be the case, or the fact of the ending itself. Either way, my confession has achieved its purpose. I may now pass my sense of responsibility on to you. You may choose to make me feel better about the ending of the world, or you may choose to prevent such an ending. Either way. Your problem now.

Oh, there’s more. I have another confession. I have deceived you with another (virtual) woman. Well, I assume she is a woman. She types as I imagine a woman would type. During our impassioned session of virtual lovemaking, she keyed in the appropriate sounds and reactions, so I can only assume that I have, in fact, deceived you. My previous declarations of undying virtual love are now to be considered null and void. Please tear up the contract. Then, please forgive me.

You have forgiven me? Then, I have another confession to make.  I am not who you believe me to be. I do not ride stallions majestically across the white sands. I will not, cannot, never intended to sweep you into my strong, sculpted, hirsute arms (sorry — I found the picture that I sent you on an anonymous blog about arm fetishes) and rescue you from the drudgery that is your so-called real life. There is very little in what I emailed you that is fact. I am really 14 years old, live in my parents’ basement, and masturbate nightly to that slightly blurry photo you sent me of you in that diaphanous white gown and silver stiletto heels.

Oh. Not really you? I am deceived. I am destroyed. I am devastated.

You are forgiven.