Incredibly good. In fact so good that I will go ahead and ask, "Alysia who?"
But also, in typical Housman fashion there are potentially tragic pitfalls awaiting in the future. She is however: incredibly sweet, surprisingly cynical (this is a very, very good thing), a reader (she recommended "Amusing Ourselves to Death", which I now recommend to all of you), a loyal Dodger fan with season tickets, and quite possibly the cutest girl I have ever seen, all of which warrant a risk of future suffering on both our parts.
Thank you for asking BTW.
6 comments:
Hehe. When do we get to meet her?
P.S.
Gagne season ending Tommy John surgery redux.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god.
Goodbye Mr Gagne. Thank you for the memories, and say hello to Dreifort for me.
June 22, 2005
Chloe Dove Says Goodnight.
Good mourning.
It’s me, your penchant for sadness, Chloe Dove. I just wanted to let you know that I understand. I understand everything. I don’t know if it was your plan all along, if you got one of your friends to help you out with all the banter and fan mail for me, if all this connection between us was a deliberate and brutal scheme to let me know it was not me, and never was. Or, I don’t know if I did something to change you or how you feel or if I hurt you and you’re seeking bitter and consequential revenge. Or maybe you’re having a mid-life crisis (how old are you, anyway?) and I am the pitiful and plentiful prey you bestowed your attack on top of. Purposely or not. Look, I just don’t know why you felt like you had to show me that you cared about me and then dropped this gargantuan sized bomb on my worn-out yet eager heart. I don’t know who has hurt you the way you’re hurting me but I hope when they did, it hurt as bad as it does now. And I don’t know if it was intentional to let me know that not only have you found someone else, but that you’ll be fleeing before I can come after you to show you that my love for you is what they call a bitter and biting reality. Bigtime.
And I don’t know what makes you think it’s not going to be unnoticed by me that you rub in my face that this girl (oh, excuse me, maybe I should say WOMAN) is the cutest one you’ve ever seen. Which is sad, because according to me, you haven’t seen all the girls/women/females in the world. So, it’s not fair to everyone, is it?? Making these claims and irrationalities??? Is it?? I have thought so many things that I shouldn’t have thought about you and me and us and the blog. I thought you GOT me, and really knew my lot. In life. I thought we understood each other somewhere where most people don’t understand each other. On a deep, deep, soul-jarring level. I thought we’d at least meet each other and lock lips at least for 25 minutes or so, so you could really jar my soul. Or something. But you never gave me that chance. You gave me the hope, but not the opportunity. You gave me the window, but you did not let in the light. So, I sit now in the darkness of what I refer to with disdain as my life and I wonder what could have been. I wonder how I might have changed the course of my life and yours’ had I not stumbled upon the blog that acted as a pathway to your spirit and had I not replied to you on a metaphorical and celestial whim and if my first acknowledgement of you as who you are had not catapulted itself into these months of pain and fun and words and poetry and language. But I guess what might have been no longer matters. Well, it really only matters to the girl whose wrist has been baptized with the allegorical if not completely cheap and generic Dodger bracelet you gave to in your class. I mean, like, couldn’t you have thought of anything else? At least maybe a shawl or a poncho or something.
By the way, how will Mrs. Hza Housman Houseman take it when you leave her for the High Seirras’? It’s hard to keep women waiting like that, what with temptation and all those porn magazines out there. How will you guarantee her celibacy and faith?? It might be difficult for her and you and all her reading and cynicism that made you fall in love with her, don’t you think? I do. I guess it’ll be a nice and warm homecoming after seven weeks, with a lot of residual and pent up sex and stimulation. How lucky for you. She sounds good. I’ve always heard girls who are into cynicism and have season tickets to baseball are pretty open-minded. If you know what I mean.
I hope you guys have a great life. I hope you guys have about four kids with shaggy hair and glasses and who don’t have cankles. I hope she becomes a schoolteacher while you own a franchise Domino’s pizza and drive a Zamboni at night to supplement your income. I hope you go on lots of family vacations to San Diego Wild Animal Park and have movie nights on Sundays. I hope your kids look good in bermuda shorts and knit fleece. I hope Christmases are filled with light-hanging and tree trimming. I hope your kids’ bloodied knees from learning to ride bikes don’t keep you up at night. I hope the first time you see your daughter leave on a date with a pimple-faced, easily-erectable teenager who wears his pants too low and his sneakers unlaced, you don’t have an ounce of fear or remorse for the viriginity she will lose in his Infiniti. I hope when you roll over in bed next to Mrs. Extra Cute Dodger Fan after fifteen years of marriage, you see past her laugh lines and underplucked eyebrows and permanent emotional exhaustion and remember the girl you fell for hard in class and dared to give your bracelet to and who gave you a book to read. I hope when you see her walk down the aisle on your wedding day before your honeymoon to Cancun, you never doubt if she’s IT, or if you should have waited just a little longer to know for sure, to see if Chloe Dove was the one who got away. I hope when you put your dog down to sleep after twenty five years of companionship and loyalty, you never feel as though you are asking me or the memory of my youthful exuberance and faith in you to also rest in peace. I don’t want to follow you like a ghost through your journey toward the beginning of the end. I don’t want you to carry me with you like the driver’s lisence in your wallet as a means to show you are who you are and that you are, indeed, able to move about freely in this existence we know as Life. I don’t want to be the good time you never had, the fruit you never tasted, the shadow of your past. I understand that you had to do this to get over me, that maybe things between us are on a level neither of us could ever really comprehend. Maybe you never imagined you’d meet a cosmic genius like me, or never realized that girls like me come along once in a lifetime, and maybe all of that was too much to absorb or deal with.
I hope, that if we run into each other at a TGI Friday’s or at a Black Eyed Peas concert, that we will pass by each other silently and wordlessly and you will know it’s me and I’ll know it’s you and you’ll look back over your shoulder while Mrs. Seriously Sweet will keep walking ahead because she’s talking and thinking you’re listening and that’s normal because she doesn’t ever really give you the chance to speak, and you’ll watch me walk away. You’ll stop in the middle of the crowded room and smile, wondering if it’s possible that I’ve just strolled by. Then, you’ll have one moment, one split second decision to choose if you’ll go after me and tap me on the shoulder and envelope me in the most passionate and hopeful and irresistible and fervent kiss of your existence, or if you’ll simply see the back of my head growing smaller and smaller as I walk away, further from the man you’ve become. It’ll be the biggest fork in the road you’ve ever come across, and what you’d do speaks volumes of who you are. I know what I’d do if I was you. But, it’s not my life.
You know, as a subsequent and superficial though not shameless sidenote, Ronnie found out last week from Shawna that the baby she is having is not his, but actually his Supposedly Wonderful and Trusted Best Friend (now known as the Motherfucking Cocklicking Small Dicked Fruitcake) Danny’s from the time Shawna and Danny did it in Danny’s mom’s bed while Danny’s mom was in Montecito for a mastectomy. I don’t know if Ronnie’s pain is equal to mine when I read your news-breaking blog, but I guess we’re both experiencing extreme heartache and sorrow. I probably won’t go to Cutie Pie’s house in the middle of the night and shave her head after pissing in her mouth and shitting in her favorite pair of brown work boots, though, the way Ronnie did to Danny. I have more class. I will, instead, tell you that I recently heard a song on this mixed CD that my gay friend Ty was listening to on our way to see ‘Mr. And Mrs. Smith’ which had this song by a group named Heart on it, and it goes like:
I hear the ticking of the clock
I'm lying here the room's pitch dark
I wonder where you are tonight
No answer on the telephone
And the night goes by so very slow
Oh I hope that it won't end though
Alone!!!!!!!!!!!
Till now I always got by on my own
I never really cared until I met you
And now it chills me to the bone
How do I get you alone????
So, that’s pretty much how I feel. But, like I said, maybe this is for the best for our souls and hearts. Loving you has not always been easy, and I’m not going to pretend I’m a strong, tough girl who can always handle the pain. No, I can’t. I guess all I have to say now is this:
‘That Nonfat Vanilla Latte I Thought Would Taste So Good Just Burnt the Shit Out of My Fragile Tongue,’ or
‘My Love For You Is Medium-Sized’
You
Me.
Life.
Love.
Knowing you.
No-ing me.
Stopping you
Seeing me.
Finding you
You weren’t so easy to see.
Asking myself,
Could we be?
All this time.
So long, so short.
And now it’s
Gone.
Vanished
Diminished
Squashed.
Savagely slaughtered.
Shortly surrendered.
Stammeringly stunned.
Seriously unsalvaged.
But I try to stand Tall.
In the face of it all.
Will I?
It’s not my call.
But, I get up when I fall.
Do you?
Hey, you Blogger with my heart in your hand:
Do you remember
Any of it?
No?
I’m not surprised.
Are you?
Well, I guess that’s it. I hope you have a great summer and life and that my tears right now don’t electrocute me as I type and they fall on my keyboard. Though, at least, if that happened, of course, the anguish would subside. If you ever have the notion to think about me and us and the past and the blog and your old days of the past, I hope you remember me fondly and as the bright, supersilious girl who thought the world of you and your worldly life. Who read the words you wrote and was at their mercy and beck and call. Who knew you more than you know. And I ask you to remember my wide-eyed wonder at everything you said and did and how it began to shape my own intentions and reality. And, please know that no matter who comes along, Chloe Dove may have been the one who cared the most.
Your sorrowfully stifled yet stubborn and subsequently saddened soulmate, Chloe Dove.
The End
PS: If you could, just if you have time or whatever, would you let me know if you think that Lindsey Lohan has gotten too skinny or if she hit that paparazzi guy on purpose?
oh chloe, chloe dove. your words pierced through me like a knife to my heart. you know that feeling you'd get when you were a little kid and your parents would drive over a hill too quickly? like your testicles had entered into some kind of anti-gravity chamber, and were racing up into your stomach? that tickling sensation, the same feeling you got when you were at your friend richard's house drinking and smoking pot and he pulled out that bottle of "rush", and you inhaled it, that jolt, and the burning sensation in the back of your head, and then he offered to perform oral sex on you, and you wanted to leave but you were stuck with him in college park, maryland, and the last metro had already left? that's exactly how i felt upon reading your missive, like the manicured hand of jesus slapped my on the ass, and i hung there, suspended upside down, covered in amniotic fluids, my placenta twisting in the breeze, as my soul awoke, truly awoke, for the first time. oh chloe, sweet sweet chloe. i am but a traveller through both time and space, to be where i have been. you are the way, and i hold you like a light in my hand. we are truly as one, you and i. you and i, we are truly as one. i do not not know you, and yet i feel as though i've known you all my life. i feel as though we've already shared so much together: a weekend at a youth hostel in san diego, the salty tears of innocence lost under a tree in back of an abandoned house in osos, a long walk on the beach at night, your face and mine framed 'neath the sharp yellow glare of a gypsy moon, you and your brother ronnie smearing my face with peanut butter...
oh chloe, chloe dove (the magic of your name! the sheer wizardry of the way those three syllables lilt off the tongue, like the whisper of the night wind through the curtains of a partially opened window, while it rains softly, so softly, outside. chlo-e... dovvvv...). think not of this hizza, for he is but a child, while i am a man. he is as a priest, insisting the sun moves 'round the earth, while i, i am your galileo, your copernicus, your nostradamus, for only i see the truth; that you are the sun around which we all turn. that you are the light by which we see, the heat by which we are warmed, the ultraviolet rays by which we go blind if we stare upon for too long. you are my everything. you are my god. you are the dorian glory of a carlos santana riff, looping itself endlessly while the ancient protein strings of the genetic code crash around you like an endless wave.
oh chloe, if you should happen to read this, if the fates should see fit to allow me the honor of relaying this message, tell me true, what would i have to do to get with you? because i want to get with you. i want so, so badly, to get with you...
hit me back, just to chat, your biggest fan, this is BERnARD NEWLS.
(ps please please please respond soon. i've promised not to go to the bathroom until you do, and i've just eaten thai food.)
Liz Nickels, a psychologist in Oakland, Calif., who is 5-foot-7 and 275 pounds, founded Big Adventures to teach obese women to scuba dive.
Dove...you are one misguided, sad and hopeless soul. If you are so attached and epically bonded to justin through his blog, prove it. Your degenerate attempt to prove your love through lyrics is utter slander. The painful things you wrote prove nothing but that a petty and frightened girl wrote them. Who do you think you are writting things about people you don't know and situations you didn't experience. The dodgers are far more profound than you because what they do is real. You have a big voice for someone who never made her idealistic relationship a reality. Don't scorn justin for moving on since you were too afraid to kiss him for 25 minutes or whatever you said. Anyways your thoughts are an abomination. If ignatious Reilley met you he would call you a mongoloid and probably lash you on the shoulders. Grow up and understand that talking shit openly on a blog is for babies. I didn't forget about him and I won't.
looking forward to meeting you face to face
the dodgers fan
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