"Can we, as a country, all
: June 2002:Performance
honey-pie, my cute little spider monkey...I'm really
glad we have this chance to talk about, in a rational
manner, exactly what happened that night. I'm doing
this because it's the least you deserve. I need to be
I need to make myself accountable. I need to come clean
with the people I've hurt. You're worth it. We're
It's worth it. All the work I'm doing, all the
fines I'm paying, and all the classes I'm attending...it's
all worth it. My counselor said I need to talk about
what happened. The other men in my group have given
me the "green light" to talk about what
happened between us that night.
this is it. This is my apology. This is me telling
you I'm sorry. Now, since I can't remember what
happened...since you were the one who TOLD me what happened...let
me run it past you and see if I got it straight.
know, people are always telling me I'm too selfish.
They're always telling me I should share. No matter
how painful the memory, no matter how embarrassing,
no matter how it destroys any notions of my masculinity,
or, indeed, my basic humanity, I should fucking share
it with the world!
shared my warm loving, arterial-plaque-coated heart
shared my smoky-bacon-scented body with you, nuzzling
you up to my warm, hairy nips.
shared the stories, no matter how exaggerated or outright
false, of my childhood sexual abuse at my father's hands.
shared everything with you that's sacred to me.
the night in question, if your account is correct, I
shared a special part of myself with you. And despite
the fact that everyone's always barking at me about
how I should share, share, share, apparently I shared
too much that time.
accept the fact that I've been in prison. That I sired
a child out of wedlock. That I don't like black people.
That I'm a compulsive masturbator, which is the reason
I'm so frequently "not in the mood" around you. That
I'm tormented by sexual fantasies about Jim Goad. That
I often scream out, "Give it to me, Goadie!" while we're
way I see it, I'm just a free spirit.
you act like you're being a "big person" when you "accept"
all these "bad things" about me.
why can't you accept the fact that I once passed out
drunk and pissed all over you?
"You were pleading
with me not to sleep in a puddle of my own urine. Well,
you know what? That's why it's called
MY urine. And it was also MY bed."
what's your problem?
who's to say you didn't pee on yourself and blame it
on me? As far as I remember, there were no surveillance
cameras in my studio apartment! Nobody ran DNA tests
on the urine in question! Who's to say one of the Trail
Blazers didn't break into my apartment, pee all over
us, and leave?
you sure it was piss? Maybe it was lemonade or a nice
pipin'-hot cup of chicken broth.
really making me angry. I think I'M the one who deserves
tell you the truth...for perhaps the first time...I
don't remember what happened that night. I remember
slamming down about five pitchers of PBR at The Matador.
I remember we fought about the gas bill and your relatives.
I remember you were miffed about stepping on that
cat turd near my futon. I remember refusing to go
down on you, which you didn't think was too cool.
It's all about your pleasure, isn't it? Apparently,
my feelings don't matter.
The last thing I remember was you yelling at me to
wake up. You were pleading with me not to sleep in
a puddle of my own urine. Well, you know what? That's
why it's called MY urine. And it was also MY bed.
And MY apartment. So if you don't want to be sprayed
with my piss as if you were a joyful inner-city child
playing under a fire hydrant in the summer heat, well,
I hope the door doesn't slap you in the ass when you
leave! I gave you something that no one else was willing
to give you, and you have the gall to complain? Well,
that's just perfect!
there's no way the guys at group therapy are going
to accept this letter unless I say I'm sorry. So even
though I really don't mean it...and even though YOU'RE
the one who should be saying "I'm sorry" to ME...here
I'm sorry 'bout that whole peein'-on-you thing.
It was a total thinking error on my part.
I guess you're just too immature to let bygones be
bygones. I guess you're just sadistic and controlling
enough to demand an apology when your feelings
are hurt and your undergarments are stained
I thought we were at the point in our relationship
when I could use your body as a toilet and not have
to face all that static and guff from you.
was ready to make that step. I guess you weren't.
We all move at different paces. So I'm really sorry
that you weren't as advanced as I was. I'm sorry that
you aren't in control of your emotions. I'm sorry
that you're not as good a person as I am. I'm sorry
that you cry at the drop of a hat. I'm sorry you can't
accept me for who I am.
sorry you can't accept a liquid version of me.
to think of it, I'm sorry I didn't shit on you, too.
isn't about me. It's about us.
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