Subject:      Bastard
From:         ace <>
Date:         1997/02/04
Message-Id:   <5d8a80$961$>
Newsgroups:   talk.bizarre

Is there a limit to how much of a bastard you can be?  I feel so stupid.
I thought I was over it, closed that chapter, I thought I had started to
move on.  And I didn't feel anything, at the time, never really cried
much, then.  I just thought it was better this way -- me better off
without her, and she better off without me.

I just couldn't be the person she deserved -- she was so .. alive,
sociable, smart -- she loved going out, having long, deep conversations.
And there I was, perfectly happy spending days on end playing on the
computer, reading books; doing nothing, in her eyes.  Any hour spent on
that computer was an hour stolen from her -- she hated it. And still,
that was at least something I was good at.

In the end I didn't even want to come home to her.  I felt as if all her
life was centered around me -- and I could never be someone's sole
purpose in life.  Sure, that appartment we shared was far too small for
two people, but even more so since she was always there, I could never
be alone.  We really started to get on each other's nerves.

And then she began to ask what was bothering me.  I just couldn't answer
that.  How could I tell her that sometimes I just didn't want to see
her, didn't even want to make love to her.  I just wanted to be alone,
and be depressed.  But she wouldn't let me.  She'd keep on asking what
was wrong, and why couldn't I tell her?  Did I not trust her?  Didn't
she deserve to be trusted?

How could she understand that I just couldn't talk?  I was never brought
up that way -- that's the benefits of a good traditional British
education for you...  "Let the problems sort themselves out -- better
not stir things up".  And what good would it have done, really, if I had
told her that I was good for nothing?  That all I was really good at was
computers -- something she hated?  That wasn't something she could do
anything about, that was something I had to solve.

And so we broke up.  Or rather: I broke up, and told her to go live
somewhere else, with other students.  She never called it "break up",
and she never really let me go.  She would keep on seeing me, keep on
trying to understand what was wrong.  Even when I moved 500 kilometers
away, and got a job in the computer business, she would still come down
to see me.  Because it had been so good, she said, and we were meant for
each other.

And it had been good, once, it must have been.  I remember telling her
that I had a picture in my mind of her holding a baby, sucking her
breast, and that it was mine. I remember, from the very beginning, that
one day I drove all the way down from Frankfurt just to deliver a
letter, and call her from a phone boot to make her come outside so that
I could surprise her.  I remember it brought tears to my eyes when I saw
her back, that time after we had been split for three months, and all I
had from her was the perfume on her letters.  Every morning I would walk
to the post office for mail, and then I would keep those letters for
ages.  It was good then.  We had so much fun, and the things I wouldn't
do for her.  God, it is funny how you forget.

I honestly had forgotten all about this, in the end I only thought of
her as nagging, trying to get me back.  For a year she kept on trying to
get us back together, a whole year.  And I behaved more and more like an
asshole.  Didn't answer her phonecalls, didn't even open her letters, in
the end.  And then, finally, that last time, when she called and again
insisted that I would come down and celebrate Christmas with her, I got
fed up with it, and just put the receiver down.

My life was empty then.  All work.  Getting up, enduring the traffic
jams, working, chatting with my colleagues, playing DOOM until late,
going home, ordering a pizza, going to sleep -- that was all I did.
Didn't go out, was never even remotely tempted to date anyone, didn't
write any letters to anyone, just proved to myself that I was good in
what I did.  And I was. I got this great job now, but what good is it?
I haven't even got anyone to share the good news with.

Or the bad news, for that matter.  She sent me an E-mail saying that she
believed in love again, and that she was all happy again.  Not much
mistaking possible there, is there?  I cannot even blame her.  But god,
it hurts.

I have to talk to her, I just have to.  Tell her what a bastard I have
been, and how stupid I feel.  There is so much I need to tell her.

If only it is not too late.

(  )~ __________________________________________ (c) ace <>