There has been no assuaging my pain these past eight days. Few of my “friends” have tried offering my broken heart condolences, but mostly, they’ve not cared to hear me whine and complain which I totally understand, and therefore, recoiled into a numbed state of emotions; waiting for Time-my best Frienemy– to pass, marking each moment endured an achievement for all broken hearts, worldwide.
If you are not familiar with my story let me explain: I was gutted, drained, and stuffed by a taxidermist who specializes in human vertebrae, whom I mistook for somebody caring, over an intractable period of the last seven years. The only comparative physical description with which I can introduce to you my emotional pain is that you imagine Sherilyn Fenn in that perturbing movie, “Boxing Helena” only if in her paraplegic state she had been thrown into a large body of water. This fantastic scenario is all I can offer you in par with my emotional helplessness. But, there is a silver lining, which I’m getting to here-so don’t mouse-click away from my heart, just yet.
It was on the ninth day, yesterday, when my spirits lifted most unexpectedly. This day began as usual to the days prior: I awoke, again, feeling that gaping hole left in my heart, assuming I’d suffered a nightmare. A moment passed and cognitive reality re-instated how my suffering wasn’t misconstrued subconsciously, after all.
I moaned and rolled around for a few hours in bed. But then, suddenly, I experienced the wildest Starbucks’ coffee craving. Although, grateful I was to feel anything at all, I wasn’t too stoked about this particular sensation in knowing that meeting such a satisfaction meant commuting into Manhattan.
“Ah, well, it’ll kill some of this killing time”, I thought. I took the M train randomly to Chambers street. I envisaged the abandoned chambers of my heart and thus decided upon such a Starbucks destination. I sat at Starbucks for about five minutes watching robotic yuppie movements-in and out of the orgasmic corporate coffee fuck-hole. I then left Starbucks, a vagabond, aimlessly wandering into a discount store where I purchased a cookie sheet and tube of Maybelle liptick in a shade of “pink Lemonade”.
Yet somewhere in that time between such notable occurrences , I faced a refinement of my emotional void; a feeling as though God, himself, customized a goose-down comforter and placed such warmth upon my shivering, naked, body with ephemeral hands protruding from infinite skies. This, the comfort I found, was provided by the empathetic identification of my self to the surplus of inanimate objects which have all, like me, been yielded to the condition of inessential abandonment. I no longer felt so alone, in my pain, through comparative shopping of my self to the isles of discontinued merchandise providing supplementation to my depleted emotions. I shall now list off to you a few of my elaborate self-discoveries which outline my self-worth in monetary value:
I am a pair of Jordache Jeans; $5.99:
I used to be the most desirable jeans ever. You wanted nothing more than to slip into me. You even cheated on your Lee Riders hiding me in your closet. Then you wore me in good for years and I became extremely comfortable to you. Until, some girl named Michelle comes along like a fucking new pair of Levi’s.
I am miscellaneous titles of American Movie Classics; $3.99:
You’ve seen me a thousand times. You know how I climax. You know already how it all unfolds. I’m a reliable release of boredom nevertheless; this Michelle is a fucking action-packed, new-release.
I am Lynard Skynard’s Greatest Hits; $4.99:
OMG, how I just Fucking Suck! I should cease to exist. I’m a torture to endure. And, this fucking Michelle girl must be Led Zeppelin!
I am a 4-pack of 75 watt light-bulbs; 99 cents:
I am reliable and practical therefore, I am available to you in surplus amounts. I started out shining bright but after so much use I just faded-out. Regardless, I provided the light with which you’ve used to see some Bitch named Michelle.
I am overstock kitchen appliances; $8.99-$14.99:
I have only singular capabilities and therefore, conjunctively, I take up too much of your space. Michelle is new and advanced with multi-functionalities. Certainly, she won’t clutter your life the way I’ve done.
I am a bra, sized 46DD; $4.99:
I represent excessive bulk. I’m an embarrassment to wrap around you. I’m only available in a standard style. Michelle is a 32C and she comes in varieties of lace and silk.
I am a rotary phone; $9.99:
You were content with me until you were dazzled by something better. Now you find me stagnantly inconvenient. I tie you down and hold you back. Michelle is a cell phone available in a plan that suites your specific needs and desires.
My current market price tag : $39.93-$45.93
So, Damien, yeah, you began to think of me as cheap garbage at your disposal, but you know Michelle is expensive. And, you may realize, soon, all that she’s cost you. You may find out, I was the better deal after all; possibly even too good to be true. You might come back for me but you’ll not find me on that shelf where you stuffed me. I’m a bargain in this declining economic climate and you are just a poor Bastard who has given up all that you had.