This is very tricky to write. On one hand, I have a lot of very non-Jedi vitriol to spew, and I realize that it may come off as the rantings of a man consumed by hatred; on the other, I feel I haven't said much, if anything, on the bullshit I went through from the spring of '06 until the summer of '07, and it's always good to release some frustration on the Internet (because that's what the Internet's for, right?). Spoilers: the good guy wins in this tale.
And maybe that is enough. It should be.
But there's a part of me that wants to write this anyway. As I wrote yesterday, there is beauty in hatred.
So let's call this art in the same way that black and white photos of dead people and a starving dog on a leash are art.
Then, let's rejoice.
(I'm probably going to Hell. I hope it's worth it.)
In late-winter of 2002, when my girlfriend -- who, in late-fall of 2002, would become my wife -- tried to burn down my apartment, I was shocked, but I wasn't exactly surprised, if that makes any sense. I'm pretty sure I deserved at least a tongue lashing for listening to Kid A while chain smoking in my bedroom (not for listening to Kid A, though), but no man, unless he's done the most heinous of crimes -- i.e, baby rape, patricide, Idlewild -- deserves to have his place of residence lit on fire. That could kill someone!
Long story short, I got over it. I swear, my girlfriend could suck another guy's dick in public and I'd probably feel okay about it in a few days. (Not that I encourage that kind of behavior.) But when torment turns from one night into four years, it starts to wear on you...and in the end you find yourself saying, "Looks like University of Illinois!"
Word to the Lost season 3 finale: It's November 15, 2006. Crazy wife -- who, in late summer of 2007, would become my ex-wife -- takes our three-year-old daughter's swimming float, puts it atop a gas burner, and, FTW, tries to set the place on fire while my daughter* is sleeping. I intervene. I get hit just below my right eye with a pot for my bravery and have to go to the hospital for stitches. Six, to be exact. I'm still pretty. The soup in that pot was tepid, thank God, and my ex-wife throws like a girl.
Riding in a taxi on my way to the hospital, my face bloody, my favorite navy-blue Polo T-shirt slowly turning deep-purple, I wondered: Will I forever be a glutton of punishment?
Nope. And neither would the 18th Letter.
This isn't only my tale of redemption, after all.
* I think that once you try to try to murder your own offspring you are no longer, officially, a parent.