“Dating is a game,” the cunt was saying. “You’ve got to play.”
She took the cigarette out of my hand and sucked on it the bitch.
“So how do you win? And who are the losers? Where are they tonight? Who are they with?”
She, as you can tell, was thee absolute fucking worst. Last I saw, she traded in her minivan for an Acura, got back with her baby daddy and continues to walk around like her shit don’t stink. Also, she’s been one of the biggest motivators for me to quit drinking and get my shit together. I was in love with her, or getting close, but I guess I lost the game of dating. I really don’t mind losing but ultimately I’d rather not play-especially if winning means kissing the ass of a phony cunt who sells medical supplies for a living.
We’ve all got our row to hoe. It betrays my Buddhist leanings to hate anyone, let alone this much and for this long. It’s been a long time that I should be far from here. I’m kicking in my stall, digging up corpses from the past for another round of abuse. The only reconciliation I can come up with between hating her and having compassion for all things is that after all this time maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about her, let alone rueing how awful she is. My hatred is distracting me, desire is the root of all suffering, but she is still thee absolute fucking worst.
I’ve met many lovely ladies over the last 5 years living here, and most of them were the same: self serving and narcissistic, coupled with a diabolical need for constant validation. I should’ve known better than to try and love any of those broken birds. The Buddhist angle on it is loving them would be hating me. Ultimately hating them would also be hating me but not so fast, Mr. Bond, and don’t too wise. Forgiveness of that scope may have to wait for the next leap of evolution-and hatred will have to end here, with me, the last Trainer.
The truth is I don’t mind burning bridges as much as I don’t mind losing the game of dating. My only regret about burning the bridge is I can’t ever go back and burn it all down. That doesn’t sound very Buddhist, does it? I’m a writer, not an arsonist-but if I can’t come up with at least 600 words every week then I might as well set myself on fire.
I’m nothing if not a hard worker but my inspirations are hardly pure. Another week has come and gone. I’ve managed to dodge the bullet and stay the avalanche of self hatred that’s always waiting should I fail this quest and not live up to who I chose to be. Self hatred is fine fuel, it’s worked for me, though it used to be hatred for: him and her, my Mother and Father and them and that town. Now it’s only me and this mountain, 600 words high. Some weeks I ride the tiger, the words come pouring out and the world, having written, is a better place. Others I overly personalize, I take you into the inner chamber or I dig up corpses of former adversaries and hang ’em from the poles while we ride silently together down the charred avenues of memory lane. This post is obviously one of those. We both know I can do better.
She’s still thee absolute fucking worst.
Ab irato,
Trainer
Going for the Throat 