From February 7:

I am close to getting M out of my system. Lest you get overly excited, let me remind you that "out of my system" is different than "out of my heart," and is in another universe entirely from "out of my mind."

So, what exactly is the significance, then, of "Out of my system?" you might ask.

To which I might reply, "Fuck off."

Let's just say that "out of my system" feels like progress.

And what REALLY feels like progress is the fact that I don't have M's phone number memorized, yet I STILL deleted it from my cell phone on Wednesday. Even better yet is the fact that The Moment of Deletion wasn't really that big of a deal. I didn't burn incense or read Audre Lorde poems or anything. I was just buzzed and standing in front of the Pottery Barn on Houston, and I turned to my best friend and whipped out my phone...

...and read her the numbers so she could program them into HER phone...

...and then deleted them from MY phone.

So maybe this moment didn't exactly have the total conviction of a Thelma-and-Louise drive over the cliff, but I am what I am.

POINT IS, I still look awesome in my new jeans. AND, I'm getting over him.

There are, however, little irksome tidbits and memories that keep skittering around in the corners. Bothersome, bothersome. They ruin my peace of mind and need to be dealt with. Herein lies the problem.

Since I have been A Number-One Superhero Genius and have not spoken to or contacted M since Halloween, and since M is A Sucky Coward, my guess is that I will never speak to him again. Which means, that, unless I find some way of getting all of these unspoken worries/madnesses/rantings/wishes out of my head they will remain there indefinitely, nibbling away at my sanity and causing me to end up like some tortured, lovelorn combination of Camille Claudel, Judy Garland and Eponine from Les Miserables.

Which, actually sounds terribly dramatic and painful in a glamorous "my-life-is-difficult-but-yet-still-chockful-of-a-ridiculous-number-of-extravagent-parties-and-lovely-designer-shoes" kind of way. Plus I get to die in the rain, singing in M's arms:

I cough. The gunshot wound from the battle on The Barricades is throbbing. "You've never looked so lovely," he says. I touch his face. People pass us. "Amazing shoes," one stranger says as he walks by. I smile, still gracious in my weakened state. "God you're so beautiful," M says, "You were always so beautiful. I cheated because I was afraid of your beauty. And your intelligence. And your deep and profound goodness." "Yes," I say softly, beatifically, "I know. *cough* It doesn't matter now." "It doesn't?" he asks, sobbing, "Then you forgive me?" "No," I smile, close to death now, "But the Angel that just came down to tell me it's time to die, also told me that your future wife is going to despise you, use you for your money and then leave you penniless and miserable after a horrible divorce." Then I bleed all over him, ruining his favorite U2 t-shirt, and am promptly whisked off to Heaven where I am reincarnated and returned to Earth as a Nobel-Prize winning supermodel.

Sigh.

ANYway, where was I?

Oh, yes. Bothersome. Needing to get some things off my chest.

But what to do.... What to do.