Writefromtheheart gets outed ... sort of

So a funny thing happened at the end of December. And by funny, I don't mean funny haha, I mean funny in a raised eyebrow sort of way: writefromtheheart's identity was accidentally uncovered.

Well I should think it was rather deliberate on the part of the person doing the uncovering, but accidental on my part for being so stupid. It all started because of an old Craigslist post that had been lingering on the internet ....

In a half-hearted act of quiet loneliness and desperation, I re-posted a version of the ad Berlin had responded to. To be honest, I never really had much intent of responding to anybody unless of course something amazing fell into my inbox. Surprise, surprise, nothing did. But I admit, when you are bored, depressed and single, it can temporarily make you feel better to have interested suitors sending you email, even if they are nobody you'd ever go out with in a million years. At the very least it's somewhat entertaining. However, long after the emails stopped coming, the post was still there and one day somebody found it and did something I never imagined.... he googled it. And guess what came up? That's right folks, this very blog, with the matching parts of the original Berlin Craigslist posting.

So you may be wondering, so what? Now Mr. stalker here has an anonymous Craigslist post and an anonymous blog. Big deal! Well as it turns out I had mentioned on this blog that I had a profile on a certain internet dating website, and based on a few bits of coincidental information included herein, he matched it to my internet dating profile, and then used additional more revealing information in my profile to google me and figure out my real name. And then he sent me an email.

Subject: You were too articulate to be fake, but I had to check
To: pers-950910314@craigslist.org
Date: Thursday, December 25, 2008, 9:37 PM

Dear Writesfromtheheart (with or without the s),

Of course your ad is striking, unique, bla bla bla - I'm sure you've heard that over and over. In the spirit of "trust but verify", I decided to Google some of your phrases. At first, I felt a deep sinking feeling when I found a hit, thinking that I had fallen for a standard cut and paste job. But as quickly as it appeared, the disappointment turned to shock and anticipation as I found that you probably are who you say you are, and that all your writing is as articulate as your posting. Either that or you're one serious psycho, so nuts that you put a ton ........

I've managed to lose the rest of the email ...but needless to say he confesses he has some "strings attached" that need cutting, he found post highly intriguing, and he promises never to make me eat cheap ice cream. I thought that part was rather cute. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Did I reply? Was this guy trouble? Eventually my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what happened, so I wrote him back.

OMG.
I am not sure what to say at this point. On the one hand I NEVER thought anyone would google that posting and find my blog - and on the other, it's so damn obvious I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. SHIT. I'm sort of freaked out, since those two worlds are totally separate, and the point of the blog was that it was an anonymous outlet of my own rather personal life ... not exactly ALL the information I would probably share a priori to a first date ... if you catch my drift. And presuming I did meet you, and like you - would that mean I couldn't write about you? And what if I started seeing someone else ... you know ... assuming we weren't all serious and committed and the like.. then you could read about THAT too.. and something tells me that would be a little bit weird. And what if I meet you and I think you're a goofball .. then if I write about it its going to hurt your feelings...or you think I'm a nut - then I get to let you read how you hurt MY feelings. This is kind of a problem.

But I am mildly intrigued by the fact that you aren't completely shocked and repelled by my atrocious (at times) , messy (often) and overly-emotional interpretation (constant) of some of my recent life events. Sometimes I wonder if I will one day look back at it and see it all as the somewhat juvenile musings of a grown-up diary. Either that, or I will give up my embarrassment and it will become the next best seller on the chick-lit shelf. Sophie Kinsella look out.

It's really true what they say ... when you start to write what's inside you - it sort of takes on a life of its own, and so YES this would make an incredibly interesting post, and I admit that I absolutley want to use this in a next installment ...so maybe I can protect your identity and you can recind that block on the cutting and pasting. It is really rather a fascinating twist ...

Now what are these strings you are talking about if it's not your wife? A girlfriend? Hmmm. Well I think you know how I might feel about THAT - seeing as I was all trusting and "wait and see how things pan out" before , and as you well know, Berlin is now on the list of men would eagerly push infront of a large, fast-moving vehicle. Don't worry. It's not a long list. But lucky for him he is FAR, FAR AWAY.

Too honest? U freaked out now? Oh well. It's hard to imagine I could say anything shocking to you knowing what you have already read. And since this really still is anonymous, I guess there's not much to worry about. But if you figure out my real name, just don't out me, K?

Oh yea - and I'm not a COMPLETE ice cream snob. In general I'm a total bargain hunter - with food , clothes, gas, everything ...But crappy vanilla or chocolate just sucks, and there is no such thing as a bargain that you didn't like. When you indulge, you might as well go all the way - that's my motto ;-D

WFTH

And here is where it gets scary.

WFTH (except insert real name),

After I sent the first email the lightbulb went off and I figured out who you were. I was going to write again but worried you'd think I'm dangerous or something - though after some of your confessions who knows, maybe someday it would earn me a "You had me at Google". So I'm writing from real me so it's fair - you could now cause me as much if not more problems than I could cause you. Please don't. I won't.

You did a poor job of concealing yourself, but fortunately most are too lazy to figure it out.

I'm permanently separated (8+ years), have a girlfriend, and it is that that is a relationship one could only call the living dead.

Don't out me, I won't out you, worst case we wind up friends. Y'know, someday, I'm going to use that motto of yours against you... :-)

-Tom

Tom-
If you get to use that motto against me, you are a lucky man. But I'm going to be honest - I'm not so sure - for a variety of reasons. For starters I posted that ad a while ago now, and I haven't been blogging a lot, so there is stuff you don't know. Namely that my husband and I are sort of talking again. Dating maybe. I don't know what we're doing to tell you the truth. It's not us back together, and I think we both agree that we need to take a good long break from the pressure of that, but the time apart has had a healing influence and we are in the process of mending some fences. Perhaps it will just be so that we can be better friends. But I don't know. No, there aren't multiple suitors. Berlin sort of broke my heart and other than this person I have been tied to for most of my adult life, I just don't know if I have the strength to do it again. At least for now. I reposted that ad to make myself feel better, or because I am slightly voyeuristic and love reading what people write - not sure really. But I haven't met anyone. A few close calls that fell through. They probably found my blog. Dear lord. So I don't want to give you any false hope. I've sort of started to think I need a break from heartache for a while.

I'm not THAT freaked out. I didn't go to great lengths to protect my identity - I just didn't want to make it easy. For obvious reasons, I don't want employers googling my name looking for my work and finding that blog instead. I really never thought anybody would be digging all that deeply though. Jeesh. I admit that I sort of don't love that you know all about me, since, while I am not all modest and shy and everything, I also sort of like having the power to reveal the details as I see fit. Most people close to me already know all the stuff I write about anyway. Not *everything* but pretty close. When it comes to new people, I kind of like the power of being able to control what they know.

I may go back into that blog and make a few changes just to make it a little bit harder should there be any additional overly enthusiastic googlers out there.

-WFTH

It was more or less the truth. The holidays had been kind of rough on me. I found myself feeling sentimental and nostalgic for a sense of family. My X was the only family I had. We spent Thanksgiving together, then Christmas, and ultimately New Year's Eve, though by then I was starting to come to my senses. I was dating, but the prospects seemed pretty bleak, and I was just confused. Tom and I emailed back and forth a few more times, revealed a few more personal details and swapped photos. I can't say he was really my type and so I let the whole thing drop, and he stopped pursuing me. I sometimes wonder if he is reading this.

A month later I met the doctor, and it was (dare I say it?) love at first sight. More or less anyway... I was crazy about him from date one when we essentially closed down the local Vietnamese restaurant and he impressed me by using chopsticks. He didn't kiss me that night, but he did immediately text message me and tell me he had a great time and would I like to do it again. I was equally enthusiastic, and we texted for a while until he finally said I should call him instead and so I did. And we have barely been out of each other's reach since then.

Once our relationship became serious - which was almost instantaneous- I decided to reveal that I had a blog. I didn't share it with him, I just told him about it. Primarily it was because I didn't want to lie. I would spend several hours on my couch writing and invariably he would ask me how I spent the afternoon.

"Oh just writing." I would say.
"Writing? Are you working on a story?"
"No, not really." This is just for me"
"Like what?"

After a few times of skirting the question, or just making up a bald-faced lie about what I was doing I decided to fess-up.

"Well actually, I have this blog ...." and then I told him that it is a series of personal memoirs and such, mostly about my relationships and my divorce and whatnot. I was deliberately rather vague.
"Is this something you want me to read?" I wavered on this question.
"Ummmmm. Not really. Maybe some day. possibly. I don't know. It's sort of personal. But maybe... or maybe not."
"OK then"

I really wasn't sure if I wanted him to read it. On the one hand I wanted him to know me -- all my faults and flaws. I was tired of being someone I thought I was supposed to be. I wanted to see if he could love me and appreciate the way I was, even with a past as sordid as mine. I wanted him to know about all the cheating and Craigslist, and my whole period of exploration and reinvention. But on the other hand, I was a little worried how he would take it - and assuming he was fine with it, then what? Would he keep reading? And what would that mean for what I could say about us?

We dropped it. But I was truthful from then on about what I was doing when I was blogging - and one day I left the browser window open -- not on purpose -- but I had stopped being very careful. I had ceased to worry about it. He hadn't brought it up again, and I didn't think he was that interested. So I decided not to be secretive.

But apparently I had sparked his curiosity after all, and once he saw my blog name, he couldn't resist. He looked it up one night and read the entire thing from start to finish.

The day after he read the blog, I came over for dinner, completely unaware of his new knowledge of me. He was acting really funny. Avoiding my eyes. Answering my questions shortly. I thought maybe he was mad at me for some unknown transgression. Finally, after he put the kids to bed, we cuddled up in his big oversized chair. Now that he couldn't get away, I asked him what was wrong. And he finally confessed.

"I did something."
"What?"
"It's hard for me to tell you." He was squirming a little, avoiding my stare.
My heart immediately started pounding and my mouth went dry. Oh my God. Did he cheat? Did he meet someone else? Was he unhappy and going to break things off?

I swallowed hard and decided to be brave.
"Why is it so hard? Spit it out."
He squirmed some more. Took a few deep breaths.
"This is really hard. You don't know what it is? You really don't?"
"How could I possibly know? Just tell me."
There was an excruciating pause.
"I read your blog. I saw the name on your computer. I thought you wanted me to read it. SO I did.

I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Shit. I thought it was something serious. We were quiet for a moment while I let this sink in and he waited for me to react.

"So what did you think?" I asked.
"I think you are enormously talented writer. And that there are lots of things you didn't tell me."

The truth is I had already told him a lot. I had told him that while I was living in New York I had a number of affairs - most of which were nothing more than modern-day technology assisted Loooking for Mr. Goodbar one-night stands. I told him about the Craigslist ads. And I told him about Berlin.

He shocked me then by not being shocked. In fact he seemed rather impressed that I asserted my sexual independence in this way, and that I had it in me to go trolling around for sex on the internet . Of course he made sure I didn't think the whole cheating part was OK ( I didn't) or that I thought that was the sort of communication I wanted in my future relationship with him (again, very much did not want that) . But he not only was not repulsed, he wanted details.

This immediately made me embarrassed, because this blog is the only place I have ever uttered any details of any of this period in my life, and the most freely I have ever talked about sex. The truth is I am just not that comfortable talking about sex - something I figured out immediately once I was face to face with someone who was. So eventually I choked up . Which is probably why he was so curious what I had to say about it here.

I think what he found surprised him. I have never actually asked him, but I imagine he thought it was going to be more of those sort of sordid sexual details and less of my emotional fumblings. He told me it mostly made him sad for me, to see how bitter and angry I was over the whole Berlin business. And that he thinks I was completely wrong in expecting something more than what I got - under the circumstances of the relationship we created.

That made me a little uncomfortable. Deep down I agreed. I had been naive and foolish just downright stupid, over and over again. But I didn't want him to see me like that. I wondered how my outpouring of love for Berlin made him feel- now that I felt so strongly for him. Did it cast doubt on my true feelings? Did it make me seem weak and overly emotional? Did it make me seem like a woman who didn't know her own value, having given so much so easily? I was suddenly very self-conscious. I had just given him a glimpse of my innermost thoughts, and now he had the opportunity to critique them. He had the opportunity to see them in their most raw and unedited form. The unfiltered. What would he make of it?

It did begin to give me some insight into his personality though. It became clear, that he saw my actions from a clearly logical perspective. He saw my expectations, my desires and my dreams - and felt they were misguided. He saw everything as a series of logical choices and expectations wanted to right my thinking. But what he couldn't seem to see, was that emotion clouded my judgment. That expectations when it comes to love are not necessarily based in realism and reasonableness. Sometimes we love just because we do - even when it is all wrong for a multitude of reasons. The trick is falling in love with someone who will love you back for all the right ones.

Keys to the Temple

My good friend Mad Scientist wrote a love letter to her husband for Valentines Day that may be among the most simple and touching things I have ever read. Maybe it's because I know her so well that I found it so moving. I know that she's a lot like me: tough on the outside but a big, sentimental mess of weak and easily-wounded softness underneath. And despite her gallant exterior, thinks twice (or thrice) beore letting individuals probe into the nether reions of her emotional insides.

She and I are different in a lot of ways too. For example, she's much more disciplined, focused, and when provoked, has a tongue sharper than Ginzu knife. I am a classic procrastinator, stare dreamy-eyed and wistful at he computer screen for hours on a regular basis, and when faced with confrontation my mind goes blank and my reservoir of witty retorts evaporates faster than sweat in the Sahara at high noon. In my most flustered and insecure moments I would kill for her powers of sure, swift, and eloquent oral persuasion.

But I like to think that while her shell may be titanium to my lead (read: good for keeping out pesky inquiring x-rays, but little use for deflecting sharp, pointy objects) deep down we're kindred spirits. So when I read her words of affection for her beloved it struck similar chords in my own heart and reminded me of how love drives me, propels me forward, and or better or for worse shapes me heart-and-soul. It made me think about what love means to me and and inspired me to write my own love letter.

It reminded me of how utterly lost I feel without love. How much of it there is inside me. And how desperately I have longed to bestow it on another human male. It made me realize that throughout all my past relationships - all the ridiculous, immature, and utterly desperate behavior I exibited all-too-frequently was nothing other than a manifestation of this immovable fact: I need someone to love. Someone to let me love them. Someone who wants me to love them - needs me to love them.

All my craziness was not about me needing to be loved by someone else - though receiving love is certainly the natural and desirable extension of giving it. But there is a subtle and important difference between craving love from someone else, and desiring them to crave it from you. Hoping that another person would find your presence and contribution to the world so rich and fulfilling that without you in it, all that's left is a dark, airless void. That your love is the light, and the warmth, and the music - and the life-giving breath that fills the lungs.

I suppose that sounds overly dramatic. My X -husband certainly never understood it. I tried to describe it to him once - what I wanted - what I hoped for -- how I wished he felt. The look of exasperation on his face was heartbreaking. He told me I was vain and selfish. He thought I wanted doting and ooohhing and aweing over my amazingness. He called me shallow for what he saw as needing someone to fall all over me to feel loved.

He just didn't get it. I didn't want any of that. I didn't want any outward display of love per se . I simply wanted him to have the deep, inward desire that I would love him that way - in a way that made his whole world shift.

I don't beleive that just anybody shifts your world. These are not small shoes to fill. In my darkest moments I was tempted to accept the fact that maybe the best I would ever do was capture the modest affections of a good man. I'm glad I didn't listen to that devil on my shoulder. It's one of those rare instances when I am rather proud of my obstinance, and my stubborn refusual to give into reason. My inability to accept the ordinary because its more probable than its precious and rare extrordinary cousin.

I'm no gambler --in Las Vegas, I don't even play the slot machines. But when it comes to love I have bet over and over again, and every time I lost I refused to walk away, certain that one day the big payout would be mine.

Dear Doctor, I think I've finally hit the jackpot.

I know that I can be weak, selfish and petty. I know that I am always running late, and take on more than I can handle. I second-guess myself, I hide my insecurities, and sometimes I'm afraid to just put myself out there and be who I really am. Sometimes I cry at completely inappropriate times. And other times I don't cry at all, even when my heart swells with uncontainable emotion. I avoid confrontation even when it's to my detriment. I know I'm always trying to be glue, even when acetone is called for. I can get defensive. I'm stubborn. I find it hardest to be honest with myself. And yet you seem to love me anyway.

Sometimes I look into your eyes and I just ache with joy and happiness and wonderment that we found each other. I am filled with so much gratitude for the chance to know and love the amazing person who is staring back, who is loving me with every breath, and every compliment and every criticism. Who is asking me to love him in the best way I can. Loving my imperfections and flaws. Healing my wounds. Uncoveirng my scars and finding the beauty behind them.

I think back on myself - on the sad, lonely and broken woman that I was. So ready to give up on happiness and a shared life purpose. When I conjure up that pain I am overcome by the way you washed it away and allowed me to start fresh . I want you to know me. See me. Reach down into the deepest, most intimate and secret parts of me. I'm willing to let you push me to places that make me uncomfortable - because I want to let you in. I want be a better person for you.

You make me happy in the smallest of moments. Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about the small of your back, or the tip of your nose, the way it feels when you sneak up behind me, wrap your arms around my waist and kiss the back of my neck. I secretly watch you with your daughters and derive little bits of pleasure every time you soften in response to their irrisitable charms, or hold them tenderly in your arms. I could hope for nothing better than to build a family and a home with you, where our children will grow up under the umbrella of our mutual respect and admiration. Where they will have a foundation of trust and honesty on which to build a framework for their own healthy relationships.

My deepest desire is to give back all you have given to me, and then some. To make you feel loved and desired and needed. To show you that you are the most important thing in the world to me - and without you I'd be adrift in a sea of lonliness. My greatest fear is that I will fail. That I will disappoint you. That I will let you down. And every time I think I fall short of your expectations I feel a pang of guilt, sadness, and shame.

You once said to me that falling in love with me as like hearing music for the first time - and you didn't know what you would do if it went away. I don't know that a more beautiful thing has been said to me -- ever. It may be presumptuous to expect that these words might touch you in the same way, but I can't help but try. You deserve the deepest, greatest gift I have to offer, and so I present you with these sentiments. They are my soft and vilnerable insides. My inner dog rolling over and exposing his belly in submission. The keys to the temple of my heart.

10 Things I Hate About YOU

It has been weeks (about 6, in case you were wondering) since I have stalked Berlin's facebook page. I looked at it again today -- but solely for the purposes of this posting. I'm chalking it up to journalistic curiosity.

The truth is there's nothing there anyway. Just a bunch of stupid comments from old friends, and frankly, I figure its about time to end the madness anyway. I know what I need to know. He sucks. We've both moved on.

But that doesn't mean that I have been entirely mature about the whole thing. In fact I was decidedly childish. But what can I say, love drives you mad sometimes, and not being loved - well that drives you madder.

You know the old adage ... hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And damn, had I ever been scorned. So scorned my skin was on fire, and if there was some way, any way, that I could hurt him back, I was going to take it. I'm not proud of my vindictive streak, I'm just honest about it.

So in mid December, I sent him this email:

Please do me a favor and return the items that I gave you. You can mail them when you are back in the States after Christmas, since I know you are too cheap to spring for the international postage. I would appreciate it, if you would also burn the letter I wrote, delete emails and whatever other items might connect you to me, that is, if you haven’t done so already.

I threw out the plants.

Please don’t reply.

The thing about the plants was just a way to piss him off. He had given me a bunch of plants when he moved. He had studied botany or horticulture or plant biology or something like that in college. He could name all sorts of plants, and when we'd be out on walks he would always be teaching me something about some kind of plant or flower. I loved it. I happen to know relatively little on the subject, but I have always had an interest. I used to have a big orchid collection, and a lot of plants at home, but over the years of moving, and apartment dwelling, it became hard to really maintain, and most of them either died or had to be given away. I have always wanted my own backyard and some time to design a garden. I had started one when the X and I bought a house, but since we moved and the house is going into foreclosure, my lovely yard is now a sad, and untended mess. It took so little time to undo that labor of love - and while I'm talking about the Garden, it seems an apt metaphor for the relationship as well.

I actually cared about the plants, and I figured Berlin knew it. And I know that at one time he cared that they might actually have a proper home in which to flourish. Me deliberately killing them was a destructive act that was meant to be hurtful. Who knows. Maybe by then he had long since given up on them, and me. They were just plants. But even so - I couldn't REALLY throw them out. I said I did (and I kinda wanted to throw them out the window on a couple of occasions) but in the end I simply couldn't do it. So I still have them, I just lied and said I didn't.

After that email I waited. And when he did exactly what I asked - that is he did not reply - I began to stew in my own angry juices and I chose to further provoke the situation. I emailed Marian. Yup that's right. I emailed her and told her that Berlin and I had been having an affair. I told her that he told me he wasn't sure he loved her and that he suspected her of cheating, and that he had said he was awful and uncaring and that he wasn't sure he was making the right choice in moving in with and across the world for her. I said things he told me in confidence. Things that only he could know. Private things, so that she would know I was telling the truth.

I justified it by claiming that I would want to know if I was her. And I think the truth is I would. But it would be a bald-faced lie for me to claim that revealing the sordid details of my sexual tryst with Berlin was something I did out of kindness. It was pure, unadulterated spite, and targeted wholly at him.

I knew he had already bought a ticket back to the town in New York where he was from for Christmas. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would be back here for a visit. He's incredibly social and can't stay away from his friends, plus he mentioned he was thinking of driving to Texas with his Dad - and my fair city happens to be a hop skip and a jump off that path. I wondered if he might show up on my doorstep to berate me for outing his indiscretions. I sort of hoped he would. I was itching for a face-to-face fight.

I wondered silently for weeks whether my actions invoked the ire I had anticipated. I got my answer on day when I came home from the store and noticed a package wrapped in a plastic bag in my mailbox. Inside was the journal and the ipod I had given him as a parting gift at the airport, and on the first page was a handwritten note.

If you need to demonize me inside your deranged mind in order to justify why you are a cheating wife that is one thing. You have no basis for this, but it is something that I can accept. What I cannot accept is that you attacked Marion, a woman you really know nothing about, with your evil, "I know this about you," and "I know that about you," comments. You have no justification for this, it is purely evil, and a window into the true despicable person that you are. I have nothing but disdain for you. You should be ashamed and I am happy to report that your evil plan did not work, but has brought Marion and I closer together. please leave me alone you deplorable person.

When I finished reading it my hands were shaking . And then I started laughing. The whole thing was so incredibly ridiculous. I had been such a complete fool in every respect. I was strangely relieved by the fact that he was as immature as I was, but still pissed as hell. I wanted to kick and scream and beat him with my fists and tell him how much he had hurt me and how much I wanted to see him suffer. I wanted to see the anger on his face. I wanted to create a scar so deep he would never forget it.

The idea that after everything he just couldn't fucking say"I'm sorry that I hurt you this much you feel the need to lash out in such an inexcusable way." The fact that he was unable to shoulder even a drop of blame infuriated me. And what was the bitterest pill to swallow was his accusation that I was a "cheating wife." Perhaps it was because it was true. I had been a cheating wife. I was once as dishonest and untrustworthy and adulterous as he was. But not with him. I wanted something better from him, and instead, he turned it into something ugly. And I hated him for it. If I could have I would have gotten on a plane, tracked him down at his doorstep and given him a piece of my mind while I straddled him with my hands around his throat. It's a good thing I didn't choose that route since I'm much more skilled with my words than my hands, and I probably would have been the one getting choked. Sp I did the next best thing. I wrote him one final email, and I swore it would be the last communication between us.

Berlin-

The idea that of the two of us, I am the cheater, is absolutely laughable. Months before I met you I told my husband it was over and I planned to see other people. The fact that I kept it quiet and didn’t throw it in his face was my being respectful of his feelings. And let’s not forget, I moved OUT. You moved IN with Marion. Who are you kidding?? I was not hiding our relationship from my friends or my X. You were. The only deranged one here is you.

Oh, and should you feel like sharing it with him, be my guest. I told him about you long ago. He asked me why it ended and I told him it was because there was someone else – and you know what he said? So why was he seeing you then? Good question. Better question: why was I seeing you? Answer: Because you lied to me and told me the relationship was ending. Because you were not forthcoming with your full relationship history with Marion, or your future intentions toward her.

You go right ahead and make me into the devil if you want, because whatever haughty, self-righteous “disdain” you have for me, it does not even begin to scratch the surface of the pure hatred I have for you. The fact that I ever even had the slightest affection or respect for you is the only thing that pains me now. The fact that I turned a blind eye to your obvious fucked-up character.

You are a spineless, insensitive, delusional, selfish, washed-up loser with zero integrity, and I cannot thank God enough for ending that pregnancy and not binding me to you with a child. If the knowledge of the indiscretions brought on by your obvious mid-life crisis has served to draw you and your teenage lover closer together then, bravo. You have my blessing, because there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that you two deserve each other. Go with God.

And here’s a little piece of advice. If you decide to cheat on Marion again, when you break it off with your lover, do yourself a favor and show just the smallest amount of tenderness and respect to her. Make her feel that even for a little while she was valued, and that the moments you shared were ones you will remember fondly. Show her a few small gestures of affection and appreciation for the fact that she cared for you, went out of her way to help you pack, let you share her home, was thoughtful enough to buy you a present, and got up at 4 in the morning to carry your heavy boxes and drive you and your dog and all your shit to the airport when even your closest friends wouldn’t. Comfort her in her time of deepest loss, and when she says she’s going to miss you, the appropriate response is “I’ll miss you too.” Not “GOOD.” For someone as adept at lying as you, I would have thought telling one or two more wouldn’t have killed you. But then again that would require a level of empathy and thoughtfulness that is evidently beyond what you are capable of.

If it makes you feel better to call me evil and deplorable and despicable, you go right ahead. If nothing else, convincing yourself this is all part of my evil plan should make it easier to look in the mirror every day. But the facts are this: I was always completely honest. You were not. My relationship with you was never a secret. If revealing it to Maria is perceived as an attack – well – that’s probably because YOU kept it a secret. And it’s probably because YOU actually said all the things I said you did. Did I have to share them with her? Nope. But I really began to wonder if your depiction of her as a cold-hearted tease who kept you hanging at the end of an endless string of lovers was accurate. Maybe that was bullshit like everything else. A way for your “deranged mind” to justify that you are a cheating boyfriend who was just stringing me along. If it was, then you’re an asshole and she ought to know the truth, and if not, well then none of what I said should have come as any real surprise now should it? If she’s really fucking every guy in sight right under your nose, and believes in open relationships, then she shouldn’t really give a shit, should she? Either way, you can both feel free to hate me all you like. I’m not losing too much sleep over it these days.

The irony that I hope one day you’ll come to appreciate is the ire and wrath I am invoking on you now could have all been avoided – by either the smallest amount of genuine tenderness on your part, or... with a few compassionate white lies. How funny is that?

It’s almost as funny as the fact that you hand-delivered your hate mail. Brilliant! You are even cheaper than I thought.

And I haven't written or spoken to him since.

Though this cool line of hate mail cards sure makes me wish I had one more round of venom in me. Check em' out : http://www.junkmailgreetings.bigcartel.com/

The Ice Cream Wars

I am picky about ice cream. You may have already figured that out, based on my refusal to bend to the whims of Berlin and his cheap ice-cream buying ways. Call me crazy, but I just think that with all the calories that stuff packs, you had better damn well be enjoying yourself while you're eating it.

The same night the Doctor broke my wine glass, we shared some post-coital Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream that he had brought over for dessert. A very thoughtful gesture I might add. You know you love a man when you can lie naked an bed with him and eat ice cream right out of the carton.

Now Ben and Jerry's is perfectly good ice cream, and by no means falls into the cheap, grocery store generic category that isn't worth the waxy cardboard it's packed in. However there was something off about this batch. For starters, it was really, really frozen. And while there wasn't anything really obviously wrong with it, it just did not press my "this is really delicious" buttons, and make the spoon move magically from carton to mouth all by itself. And that's really the test of ice-cream goodness. How hard is it to stop eating it, even when you're full? This one was too easy to put down.

So the Doctor ate his fill, and returned the carton to the freezer, the door of which he failed to properly close. So sometime in the middle of the night, when I stumbled to the bathroom, I found a partially open and defrosting freezer. It didn't seem to have passed the point of no return, so I shut it and went to bed. Crisis averted.

But the poor ice cream had already suffered. It got that disgusting layer of ice on the top, and even below the ice, the creamy, yummy goodness was now intermixed with crunchy crystals of ice that absolutely ruined an ice cream that had been already teetering on the edge of the sub-par dessert category anyway.

So for several weeks, the poor B&J's languished in the freezer, untouched, and relatively unnoticed, until I finally threw it out.

In exchange I bought two other flavors of Edy's to take it's place - vanilla, and Spumoni - two of my favorites. I figured since the Doctor really hadn't touched that cookie dough ice cream since it's inauguration to my freezer, he wouldn't really miss it.

I was wrong. When one gets a craving for ice cream, you go looking for it, even when it has long since passed its prime. It's like the And to prove that point, just other day, I was on the couch watching TV, when I noticed him rooting around in the freezer. And before I had the chance to ask him what on earth he was looking for (I already had a sneaking suspicion) he wandered slowly into the living room with a quizzical look and somewhat taunting glint in his eye.

"You threw out my ice cream, didn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow. I thought I saw just the slight crack of a smile, but he maintained composure.

"well....," I hedged, "it was gross. It was all frozen and yucky."

The Doctor nodded, the corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk. "Sure whatever." He said turning and walking away.

"Oh come on, you weren't gonna eat it anyway." I called out after him.
"Yes I was. It was perfectly good. there was nothing wrong with that ice cream," he said over his shoulder.

I bounced of the couch, followed him back into the kitchen and put my arms around his waist. I looked up into his eyes and we stared at each other for a moment.

"Are you mad at me for throwing out you're ice cream?" I asked trying to stifle a giggle.

"No, but I'm pretty sure why you did it."
"Why?"
"Cause you wanted to make room for all of your stuff. You got your ice cream, the kind that you liked, and there was no more room for my ice cream in your freezer."

Now I couldn't help it - I was full on laughing.

He continued. "I've never thrown your ice cream out of my freezer - my freezer is wide open to your ice cream."
"Whatever!" I shot back. My ice cream has never even made the acquaintance of your freezer, much less moved in."
"oh so that's how it is? Your ice cream would be welcome in my freezer any time, and would be in no danger of being tossed out. Ice cream should never be so hated."
"I'll get you some more - you want cookie dough?"
"No, no - the damage has been done. I understand. There's no place for for my ice cream here."
"I'll get you some more," I laughed.
"I won't eat it."
"Yes you will"
"No I won't."

I rolled my eyes.

The next day I stopped at the store and bought a gallon of Edy's cookie dough ice cream. It was the only brand of cookie dough ice cream they had (lest you think I am a walking advertisement for Edy's)

I sent him a text message.
"I got you a present." I wrote.
for the next few hours while he was at work, he pestered me about the nature of his surprise.
"If I give you a hint it will give it away," I told him teasingly.

He works nights, and the next day he came over after work, just as I was on my way out to work... In the freezer I left his present ... with a note (see above). He was sleeping when I left, but I knew he would find it when he eventually woke up and went rummaging around for something to eat. I was cracking myself up all the way to work.

The eventually found ice cream did elicit a good chuckle, though he still hasn't eaten any. I plan to break him down though. I'll leave him alone in the apartment with nothing to eat but that ice cream.

Or maybe I'll just eat it all myself. That'll teach him.