Careful with that I, Eugene –or– Why, let’s keep this between you and me

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

I Regret

I don’t regret the not-inconsiderable times I was a dick. It generally marked highlights in my comedic career or lessons for someone who was really-o, truly-o begging the Universe for the narrative editorial correction.

So you heard
I crossed over the line
Do I have regrets?
Well, not yet

Give, Tori Amos

I don’t know that you want a human face here. As I’ve mentioned, this place is a writing experiment gone gamey; a site without a target audience, only targets. It’s not a personal blog in the way that Doosheª or WTFIWW is. It’s not a filter commentary site in the way the or ¡Bloing Bloing is.1 It’s not political like the Daily Kak or even my belovéd snake milker der IOZ; not to conflate, the a[@rel]s say it all.

Readership on Sedition·com has always been quite good—seven figure annual views for several years now—but it’s been focused on The Devil’s Dictionary X™ and pedophilia2 for the King Gorilla’s share of the 11 years, 5 months, and 30 days we’ve been in operation. Lately, for whatever reason, traffic to teh h0mepadje has increased quite a large amount. It was nothing we did here. If anything, there have been fewer reasons to visit lately.

I was in the process of mothballing le blague for the immediate future so I wouldn’t be tempted to post fluff. It was the week leading up to the decision—Happy New Year — notes molding in the hopper; also so long, farewell, et cetera and so on and so forth—that traffic ramped. In fact, the poor little budget host account is groaning under the traffic. Lots of timeouts as any regulars probably note.

From the top. Regret is, obviously, a personal thing but I don’t think it’s treated privately enough. Spilling yourself, your phobias, your desires, and, oh ok! your anger onto RAIDs TCP’d to Hell and home should be something seriously debated internally. Not publicly.

This withholding though, taxes. That human. Face.

Anna Cypra Oliver was a highschool girlfriend. We became real friends years later due to the written word that loves me. The effort not to be self-referential lines between–

I’m not allowed to say anything bad about Keillor right now because a good friend of mine who thinks I’m crazy works for him and I don’t want to get her in trouble. We had a love affair while she was married but it was only by mail and she broke it off when I wrote one letter too crazy. I mean “many.” I wouldn’t have real bed staining sex with a married woman. I’m not that kind of guy. I will, however, have sex with a donkey by mail. I like good mail sex that much.

a joke I stole and let them sue me

Great cheese! I’d love to be friends with all of you that way. To be able to write as a person and not a series of bits, angles, rebuttals, parodies, critiques, absurdities, and invectives. Why would one though? I think I deserve a chance to but do you deserve the same? Questions are bad style, que no? Non, je ne regrette rien.

Well… as I said, je ne parle pas français and I’ve been mercilessly cruel on occasion. Here.

That traffic spike. What do you want? It’s like going on a date with someone you’re really into but kind of scared of and you just want to see her again but you know it’s not something safe to invest in before finding out what does she want?

I regret that I cut the branch with a hummingbird nest in it and killed the two eggs which were just about to hatch. The bloody, nearly complete chicks visible in the broken shells. I didn’t see it but the mother had been flying around me when I started the yard work and I’m not normally so thick. I should have known there was a nest. It was a stupid way to douse two tiny sparks of beauty from the world and there really is no excuse.

I regret what I said in Mrs Jenkins’ room to ____ ________: “I’m indifferent.” It wasn’t that it was inaccurate. It was that I had no business saying it where anyone else could hear. I should have taken her into another room to tell her and other words were available. If I hadn’t been a naïve mess of 16 year-old I would have had the strength to see the poetry in the girl and initiate a torrid 2-year love affair—learning physical love from a shy dryad who worshiped me instead of the serial predator who snared and gutted me a few months later, leaving my skin flapping on the barbwire along Route 64—before moving away from Taos forever.

I regret that rock I threw. More than that, I regret not calling Pat to get Mouse to butcher the fawn so it wouldn’t be wasted on coyotes. Would that children were taught their power before they have to unfurl it to know it.

The trouble with this line is it becomes self-indulgence. And perversion. The regret is a more delicious meal than minor joy. What do you care that my two year-old looked up from playing with his cars and said, “I’m so glad you’re home, daddy!” at bedtime last night. These moments subjectively weighed can’t mean much to you. Shouldn’t if you’re living right.

It’s banality and mirrors of mirrors or it’s regret, hate, accusation, sorrow, disappointment, apologia as diet. Per diem. Don’t you crave the exceptional? Wouldn’t you rather understand hungry than be patronized sated?

Getting closer might be what you want. What I want is for you to think about why. If you can afford it. What I want is for you to think about why you do and feel everything. “Why” is the most beautiful word in the world. I want you to be beautiful too.

1 Thank peach schnapps and edible panties for the latter.

2 If my vocational school guidance counselor had only let me know where the real money lies.

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