Thursday, February 14, 2008

Happy VDay, Alisk!

(This is my first real post on Alice the the tireless spirit of love, I felt she was best born on Valentine's Day)

     Necrophilia. It can leave a bad taste in your mouth. Let's talk
about it later.
    Actually, that's the great thing about necrophilia. You can
always put it off. It's not like your date has to go to work.
   We'll start with something much nicer: a big glass of icy cold
white wine, big enough for a whole kingdom of Sea Monkeys to live in
comfortably without ever running into their neighbors. That's me
holding the glass, about 5'4", tight dress, on the brink of a bender
that will make The Lost Weekend look like a Von Trapp Christmas. I'm
about to drink that house white at a chocolate-milk rate instead of an
unassming-little chardonnay rate, knowing that I'll get a hangover
that can pass for meningitis. I don't care. I'm that sad.

     I had known for awhile that a particular relationship I was in
was unsatisfying and no matter how hard I tried nothing would change.
The sadness came from suddenly accepting it.
     My subconscious knew it had been dead for a long time, had
hissed "Get out!" like the Amityville House. But fear and ego made me
deaf to intuition. This thing was a spiritual rice cake when I craved
fireworks, sunflowers and Handel's Messiah. Still, I caressed,
cajoled, sweet-talked, and danced; the relationship just sat there,
feeling more dormant than ever.
      Well, as Alvy Singer told Annie Hall "A like
a shark. it has to constantly move forward or it dies.. And I think what we’ve got on our a dead shark.”
     Necrophilia. It ain't for pussies. I finally realized that, no
matter how good my bait was, a floating fish couldn't take it. Then I
got good and smashed.

     I bring this up on Valentine's Day because it's a day that makes
people sad and envious, thinking others have something great that they
themselves don't have. And half the time what might be envying is a
dead shark. Or something just as fishy.
     So, singletons - fuck the pity parties. Don't feel sorry for
yourself - feel sorry for people who have reservations at a restaurant
but bigger reservations about who they're going with, who aren't
celebrating a night out so much as enduring it, or who are in
something, like I was, that looks great but feels desolate. And if
you're in a relationship, job or mindset like that, get out. Rigor
mortis is catching. Your reward could be the real thing.
      Happily ever after surely exists - but it's the exception.
Don't make yourself miserable by treating it like the rule.
     Now, let's drink to Valentines Day.  I'm sure you'll understand
if I go easy on the wine.


gogocat said...

Thanks for the perspective, Alice. Reality bites, but beats the stench of rotting corpses any day! And Popeye is overrated--who wants a guy who talks too fast and smells like spinach?

Jim said...

Thanks for the invite.

You rock and so do your views.

Jim said...

P.S. - LOST rocked tonight!