It’s what people do when they break up. They revise. They edit. They excise. They embellish. They reconstruct their personal perception of history to validate their choices.

Naturally, it’s what I *haven’t* done this time around. For me, the whole thing still starts with a slow dance and ends with an acrimonious goodbye at parking slot 68. I’ve allowed everything that happened in between to remain either cherished or forgiven.

I need to do the rewrite. Clearly, there are some memories I should treasure less and others I should resent more.

\*    \*    \*

Sorry about all the melodrama.

The antibiotic seems to be helping. I could actually take deep breaths today.

\*    \*    \*

#####Purgation lyric of the day:

I hope you got fat.

     — Violent Femmes, “Fat”, 1988

3 Responses to “Roshomonics”

  1. adam Says:

    Oh, yes. Bitterest revenge song ever, except that that first line is all that’s ever quoted. The whole dealie is that fat girls is alright and come back to me cos I still want you. Long line of misquoted misappropriated lyrics, I spose…

  2. Steve Gerber Says:

    No, I knew I was quoting out of context. The entirety of the lyric is very funny and very sad.

  3. Richard Bensam Says:

    Editing and rewriting history is a normal response to pain…but sometimes NOT doing that revision is a bargain we make with our conscience. My own experience with breakups has been the other party very quickly excising the awkward or inconvenient parts to construct a narrative in which I was entirely to blame for any failings, and any good parts of our relationship were just, um, some kind of temporary insanity. I know it’s my vanity, but my response is the desire to be “better” than that. I spend way too much time rehashing the past and burrowing through my own memories to sustain a really good counter-narrative for very long.

    My deal with my conscience is that I’ll try to remember the good and the bad as accurately and unsparingly as possible — including the good in the other party, and the horrible mistakes I made — and in return, Jiminy Cricket won’t bust me in the kneecaps, knee me in the groin, and finally bash me over the head with a broken bottle.

    Obligatory comics reference: I learned what it meant to be someone who lives mostly inside his own head from a couple of folks named James-Michael Starling and Howard the Duck, so I have to assume their creator might know a little something about that experience as well.