What Teachers Wish They Could Say To Their Students

Fuck you.

Yep, that's the first thing. Okay, if you want to read some altruistic frou-frou that dehumanizes teachers into some bottomless pit of joy, then go somewhere else. At this time of the year when you are drained of energy, patience, and the ability to smile, that joy that school boards, administrators, parents, trustees, and everyone else depends on-- because if it's not there then folks get nervous that the savages may rebel; that the savages may not stand for the pittance of a salary and the lack of respect by an entire nation, let alone the students in the classroom-- at this time of the year teachers wish we could just tell you what we think.

Well, here goes.

Dako-- You're an idiot. An absolute idiot. Who the hell do you think you are to tell me "It seems you are in the teaching profession for the wrong reasons, as this could be expected from any teacher who genuinely cares for the success of their students." What are the 'wrong reasons' genius? Great pay for my education level? Respect from my students? Mature behavior on the part of my students? Tell me why I got into teaching. Because if it's about seeing the proverbial 'light bulb' go off, I surely missed the boat with you. Next time you get the daylights kicked out of you and you come to my class with the attitude that you should be treated better than your peers who didn't battle their friends for fun the night before a huge assignment was due... well, next time, I hope you get your clocked cleaned thoroughly. Your dumbass deserves it.

Jemo-- Are you kidding me? You're going to sit in the final exam and complain about the grade I'm "giving" you? I don't give grade-- you earn them. It's not just smoke I'm blowing here. It's legit. The fact that you're even passing with a month of absences in the grade book is amazing. I thought you were kind of bright. I don't anymore.

Rawe-- Quit your whining. Oh my gosh! I don't even like you any more. Your incessant complaining is tiresome and I don't want to hear another word coming from your spoiled self. Do not come to me asking for advice any more. You don't listen to me when I give you advice, so why should I care? You and your pals take and take and take and take and take and take and take from. "Why aren't you around?" you whimper. Because I can't take it. I'm about to break and no one around her gives a damn, is what I want to scream in your bloated, binge-drinking face.

Jiri-- SHUT UP! You may very well be the most annoying student I've ever had. And, hell's bells if that doesn't say a lot.

Miar-- You too-- shut up! No one cares what you have to say. You talk, talk, talk, talk about nothing all class period. You're not that clever or interesting.

Samc-- You're such a joke. You're not charming, cute, bright, or anything that would explain the arrogance with which you carry yourself. And I scare you to death huh? Must be because you know that I see through the facade. You can't talk your way out of 'it' with me and I'm going to hold you accountable for your poor performance and diminished intellect.

Magr-- You're just not that talented. You're okay. But the sooner you start living the life of an adult, the better off you'll be. Grow up and stop whining. When you do, I think you'll be a pretty cool person.


And to those teachers out there shocked and dismayed and disgusted by all of this: reread the first sentence. You don't know me. Better yet, you do know me. You know all too well, but you know that if you admit that the levee has a crack, that the flood waters will come too soon. Instead, you wait and absorb the insults the too-little, too-faint praise and wear a mask of plastic insincerity. Pat your merry self on the back and get away from me. You're more destructive than I am on my worst day.

Let me teach you this

We had an unusual start-- I was your teacher. I was a grad assistant who thought she knew everything and you were a reformed slacker. We hit it off. You told me that getting to perform on stage was one of the greatest moments in your life. I remember you bringing me flowers for my one-woman show. Who knew we would become such good friends.

That was then.

Let me go back to our previous roles of teacher-student to let you know that you don't treat people this way. Don't be a dick. If this is the way you treat your best friends, according to you, then you are fucked. Shame on you. F for friendship. Sub-par work on every level. You need to re-enroll because you won't be getting credit. Be certain that when you call me on my birthday, a year since we last talked, I won't be picking up. You won't notice, because you're too stupid to. And better yet, if your girlfriend gets sick of your tiresome ways and you start to call again in earnest, I won't be picking up. When did you get so sleazy?

Ick.

Good luck in the future. Your sorry ass is going to need it.

Why I Love Glee: Or, My Dear John Letter to The Office

Dear The Office,

I never imagined that I would have to write a letter like this. We have had our bumpy times-- like first watching the British you the summer my father died and wondering what all the fuss was about; Hearing there would be an American version of you and cringing; Watching the first season of you as an American and resolving to never watch again. Like most immature things, I got over it and fell for you. I didn't want to do it. I truly didn't. I had other things to do-- like writing a dissertation, finding a job, not killing inept colleagues-- the normal run-of-the-mill things that makes normal life boring and pedestrian.

I fell in love with you Office. When I realized what had happened, well, I was ill-prepared for the consequences. I didn't know my heart could love so much. I loved Michael's idiotic hatred of Toby and that a big girl like Phyllis could find love with Bob Vance of Bob Vance Refrigeration. I adored beets as only procured by Shrute Farms. There was a particular friendship that I envied. And then that friendship turned into love and my envy blossomed in the sweetest possible way. My heart soared at the dulcet tones of Hunter's band and the relationship bulding advice that "You can get new things, but you can't get a new party." And what to do with Holly and Kevin. Her generous encouragement that "You can get anything on the top row," reminds us all that life is about having the correct amount of change.

Something happened. I'm not proud of myself. I've always considered myself a faithful person. Sure, have I peeked at other shows? I'm human aren't I? I admit it... Pushing Daisies was so nice to me, I just found myself spending more time with it. I flirted with True Blood and Big Love-- but nothing ever happened. Nothing. I swear!

Look, something happened back in May. I just planned on watching some TV one night. No big deal. I don't know how to say it, but I'm really confused and think I need a permanent break from us. Just listen to me-- don't freak out. I just... well... I'm in love. I just know it. I'm in love. With Glee.

I love you. I do. But it's a different kind of love with Glee. I had no idea it could be this way, but all I want is to spend time with Glee. In the morning I think of Glee. When students come to my office hours, in my head I'm thinking about what day it is and how long until I can get home to listen to music Glee gave me or how long until I can watch the latest video Glee posted on YouTube. I know that it's not healthy to be so tied to one show, but it's really more about me wanting to be there for Glee. Now that we've found one another I know that neither of us wants to let go.

I don't want you to think that you've done anything wrong. You've been there for me. Even when we had a mini-break because of the strike, we were faithful to one another. We knew we would be back with each other before too long. And we were. And it was amazing. I don't think we were ever better actually. And then Glee showed up. I wasn't looking for anything new. Really.

I love Glee so much. Glee is so good to me. And good for me. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel like I'm opening myself up to joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. We're not perfect, but Glee makes me want to be a better person. Glee reminds me what it is like to sing with unfettered emotion; to dance around my bedroom singing and believing that there is someone out there for me. Being with Glee is like being in a car in the summertime with the windows down and your best friend beside you. Both of you are smiling and laughing and loving the act of living. Whether it was Journey or The Cure on the mix tape, all that you knew was that this was the way life was supposed to be-- forever.

I know that Glee will take good care of me. Finn, in particular, is a good person and he will treat me with only the utmost respect. I see us being together for the rest of our lives, Finn and I. I know it's far too soon to expect anything from you, but I want us to be friends. I do. You've been a part of my life for so long, that the thought of never having you in my life again... well, it devastates me. Maybe one day (maybe?) we can all hang out together and then you'll see how amazing Glee is.

I will always love our time together Office. I'll never forget you.

Love-
A.

I want you to want me

As I was talking to my friend this afternoon our lives and their trajectories and traverses became a bit too painful to plot and follow. He described having a rendezvous with a gorgeous man this morning... while I was buying resume paper and envelopes at Staples. As he touched this man, I was buying grapes at Sam's Club. And tonight? As he connects with beauty and sexuality and desire, I'll be working on said resumes and envelopes.

I explained my fear at not being able to get another job. "I'm a bit fearful about being wanted," or something of the sort left my lips. And my cells got a bit heavier, because I realized that that wanting pertains to every area of my life. I have noone to want me in a beauteous, sexual, or desirous way, let alone in a very practical, gainful employment kind of way.

I simply want to be wanted with the fierceness of my own wants.

Man from the Future

I took a bit of a nap this afternoon. And in doing so, I choose to believe I saw my future. I dreamed that he was there. He came in with our son and daughter and saw me sleeping. He wished he could've been ahead of our son, who was running in tearing his coat off. I roused out of the sleep-state and he held our daughter over me so that we could kiss one another hello. He took my iPod and headphones from me, taking care of me. As I woke and joined my family, we convened in the kitchen where we danced to Nikka Costa's "Till I Get to You." He and I bumped our hips-- his left, my right-- together as he kept holding our daughter on his right hip. Our son and I danced to the right of him. He was wearing a white shirt with tie. I was casual clothes fit for a nap.

It was vivid. And I believe it was a peek at the future.

I told God a few days ago that I was truly ready to find love. I've never believed that before, and I've certainly never made such an affirmative statement.

Ever since, I've been claiming these visions of the future. No mocking is necessary, my heart confirms.

Did I tell you how happy we were? The four of us? And what a good father he is? And how much we all love one another?

We were/are.

George Sodini didn't succeed

I, along with much of the nation, was disturbed by the news that 3 people were killed yesterday at a suburban Pittsburgh fitness club. A friend joked that the shooting was even further proof why one should never go to the gym-- trying to digest the illogical.

This morning as officials try to make more sense of the tragedy comes the release of his website where he chillingly revealed the fragmented darkness that led to the shooting. One thing is clear-- he was filled with hate. From women to blacks to religious figures to his entire family. It is disturbing. At the bottom of the website is his set of 'instructions' for the site, including a statement that the site should stay up forever so that he is remembered.

As I read his words I couldn't help but thing of a news report I heard in the wee hours of the morning. Supposedly Sodini fired 52 rounds of ammunition into the darkened fitness classroom. He killed 3 women and injured at least 9. I refuse to give him the credit he so craved, so desired. I'm not sorry George to tell you that you're a lousy shot. I refuse to give you the attention to wanted so crazily. I refuse. Consider me one of those 'bitches' or 'hoez' you described in your blog. You did not frighten me, and I plan on forgetting you as soon as possible so that you're sick plan for immortality fails too.

"Twilight" angst

I did it. I broke down and rented Twilight. If you've been living under a rock for the past year and don't know what I'm referring to, then let me explain. Twilight , in this case, refers to the film adapted from the book bearing the same name by Stephanie Meyer, a Mormon mom from Arizona. Her series of four books revolves around a teenage love story between vampire Edward and human Bella. Yep. That pretty much explains my conundrum. I actually allowed myself to watch a film about that.

Snarl. (I would usually say "Ugh" or "Sigh" here, but in trying to harness the energy of vampires and werewolves, I'm choosing to "snarl.")

So I watched and I can't stop thinking about it. I am utterly befuddled and perplexed that that would be the phenomenon it is. USA Today is writing about how Meyer's books are phenoms to be noted. Whatever. I fully admit that I've not read the books. Had no desire. Still don't. But I guess in my quest to figure out how in the hell Twilight has come to rule the popular culture universe, I'd better give them a twirl.

Part of my angst about giving into Twilight was simply about vampires. Not a big fan. Never have been. I thought that the film Interview with a Vampire was disgusting. I remember returning the video (video, not DVD) and telling the clerk how awful it was. He asked why, and I explained that I had no desire to listen to LeStat slurp his phlebotomous meal. I certainly wasn't looking forward to watching teen vampires at all. Well, I shouldn't have worried because the kitsch and camp and cheese of Twilight surpassed the drama and seriousness of the older film.

Let me start with Kristen Stewart who plays Bella Swan. (Yes, that's the character's name. I know.) I get it Kristen. I get it. You're working hard, hard to show us how much angst Bella is in. Yes, please hold your cell phone 6 inches away from your head once Edward appears. You're depth perception is off and your muscles go limp as his presence. Just like in the photo above. You do listless really well. Now what is interesting about that photo is that your mouth is closed while Robert Pattinson, who plays Edward Cullen, has his open. That's pretty much a reversal for the film. You're mouth constantly gaps open in that teenage-angsty way. You are just too non-chalant to close it. It's like a subtle middle-finger to adults. "See, look at me. I'm so cool, I'm giving you a droopy bottom lip." The reason I chose that photo was because it did capture your general blase demeanor. It says to me, "Yeah, I may be about to fly through the Washington forest on the back of my vampire boyfriend, but I'm cool. No big deal."

I must address the dialogue in the film. No I don't. I won't spend the time. I'll just give the lamest lines, in my humble opinion. Choice #1: "You're like my own personal brand of heroin." Choice #2: Hold on, spider monkey." My nephew explained it best when he said, "Well, they didn't read as lame as they sounded [in the movie]."

No rant about Twilight would be complete without discussing the heartthrob-mania-inducing that is Robert Pattinson. He's handsome. No doubt about it. He passes the "I'd do him" test. But holy goodness... I get it! You're tormented by how much you want Bella. I get the inner turmoil. Seriously... it was painful to watch in places. But I forgive you because of those few moments like the kiss. That was some good shit. I forgive you because of that stern "You're my life now," to Bella as you head off to track some bad vampire. I know that I'm asking you to make steak out of hamburger, but seriously, when did cinematic teenage brooding become so painful to watch? I don't know, but I'm sure I'll see more of it in November when New Moon comes to theaters.

Ultimately, my angst about Twilight comes as a result of my strongly held belief in right and wrong. It seems so utterly criminal to me that this is what holds the imagination of teenaged and middle-aged (quelle horreur!) females. Where is the Barbara Kingsolver in their libraries? Margaret Atwood? Toni Morrison? Isabel Allende? If they're not in the library, they're surely not in the movie theater. It says something that some of the very best storytelling in the last two years has come from the folks at Pixar. I admit it. I'm jealous. Jealous as hell that Meyer is the rich bitch she is because of this junk. I'm jealous that I didn't have a vampire boyfriend in high school that looked that good in a black suit and/or pea jacket. It feels wrong that I'm jealous.

Or maybe it's just the lack of oxygen in the cultural air that makes me feel so dizzy.

"The Proposal" that will never come

Yesterday I went to see The Proposal. I had not desire to see it when it first came out. What can I say? I'm a fan of Ryan Reynolds but not of his co-star. Where had the Sandra Bullock gone that once had me envious of her kissing Jack Traven? Where had the Sandy gone from While You Were Sleeping? She went to the land of Miss Congeniality 2 and a slew of other tired formulaic films that did nothing for us, but certainly did much for her bank account. And I'm not going to lie, I thought it was a bit cheap that her husband Jesse James never did get a donation from her for The Celebrity Apprentice. Sure, is Donald Trump bad television, if not even a worse stereotype of New York sleaze and infidelity? Yep. But donating to charity, no matter through which means, is a bad thing.

I digress.

I saw that larger than life poster of the two of them and was disgusted by her. "That's not Sandra Bullock," I said to myself. "She's not that thin." Apparently she is... I went to the film after friends told me it wasn't a normal Sandra Bullock romantic comedy (read mediocre). So, I went and gave over to breaking the funk that I'm in with a lighthearted movie.

I did enjoy the film. It wasn't the typical Sandra Bullock romantic comedy (read mediocre). It did have something there. But I hate to tell S.B. that she was the weakest part of the film. She was a caricature of herself, her film-self that we've come to expect, the commodity that she is. Ryan Reynolds and Betty White... who could ask for anything more? Sincere, funny, worth every minute.

As I sat in that darkened room, directed toward the gorgeous New England scenery (because this is Hollywood after all, not Sitka, Alaska) I was struck by my lot, or what appears to be my lot in life. As Drew Paxton comes back for Margaret Tate I was telling myself, "That would never happen. THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN!" A man would never come back to tell a crowded room that he loves the woman before him. This is the bullshit that Hollywood has been selling for 100 years and the fantasy fiction we've been dining on and ruminating on for just as long. Men are not good creatures. They don't care about themselves, let alone anyone else, to put hubris aside for love. Men are awful beings.

And yet, I want them to be Drew Paxton. I want them to yell at the woman they love, to listen to them, to hear their plea of love. I want them to so fucking badly.

In the middle of these swirling contradictions I heard the song "But Not For Me." By Ira and George Gershwin, the song was first written for the musical Girl Crazy in 1930. It's been sung by music's best. But depending on the version, you can either be ebullient or forlorn. Dinah Washington's swing version belies the pain that Rosemary Clooney's version, all too effectively, highlights. As I watched Drew and Margaret (Ryan and Sandy) kiss I knew that they write songs, books, and films for everyone else but me. "They're writing songs of love,/But not for me;/A lucky star's above,/But not for me. With Love to Lead the Way,/I've found more skies of Gray/Than any Russian play/Could Guarantee," wrote those brothers. Indeed, they are writing songs and movies of love but not for me.

Noone writes a song or movie of love about the big girl. Big girl is, of course, a euphemism for fat. We don't like fat folks. We really don't. And we especially hate the fat girl. She doesn't fit into our society's stereotyped performance of gender. How can I be cute if my ass is too big? How can I transfix a man into a mediated-kerfuffle that would lead him to do such an unmanly thing as profess his love in public when I wear clothes in double digit numbers? I can't. Never have. Never will. I realized yesterday just how alone I am, and will always be. Yes, the evil shrew that was Margaret Tate's character for the first hour of the film is more desirable than me. She may be a bitch, but she's thin. Learn the lesson-- Thin Wins. Always.

I knew I shouldn't have gone to that fucking movie.

Music and My Man

I've been in a funk for a while. But tonight... the clouds parted and my mood lifted. Thank you Foreigner. Thank you Mick Jones, Ian McDonald, Lou Gramm, Dennis Elliott, Al Greenwood, and Ed Gagliardi. Thank you.

Growing up I heard your songs from my brothers car stereos and record players. But I must say that my love for you was solidified with the album Records. It was almost more than a person could take... every song was a gem. I had forgotten about our love until a friend with a crush on you, as well, reminded me of your delicious ear candy.

I literally felt the blues vanish as I was listening to "Long, Long Way From Home" tonight. The anticipation of listening to "Dirty White Boy" has me in a tizzy. But when I was dancing to you all tonight I realized that it's going to be so much fun to belt out "Blue Morning, Blue Day" and some "Turn Me Loose" by Loverboy, for good measure, with my husband Keanu. We're going to have a hot-blooded time....

From the Archives... Celebu-tide

Baby Pictures and Fair Compensation
-- originally written March 29th, 2008

This week I read that Jennifer Lopez and her husband, Marc Anthony, were paid $6,000,000.00 for photos of their newborn twins Max and Emme. Six million dollars. I am aghast and disgusted and numb, all at the same time, at the news. According to People, the magazine paid the amount for exclusive North American rights to the photos. Now, this amount of $6 million is much more than the $1.5 million Christina Aquilera and her husband, Jordan Bratman, earned for photos of their son Max (clearly the name of the moment). No word on how much Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubrey will or have received for photographs of baby girl Nahla. But of course, the real coup was in 2006 when Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt was born in Namibia and Getty Images paid $4 million dollars for North American rights. Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt reportedly were to donate all proceeds to charity. At the time it was rumored that the deal was also about safety, so that a bounty, literally, wasn’t put on anyone’s head for the photos.

So, what’s the big deal about $6 million for some photos?

I can’t help but think of my friend John, who when I asked if he knew anything about the rampant rumors that a colleague of mine was having an affair, said “I don’t know. They’re both hot, so I say go for it!” I was so shocked. I kept thinking, they’re being ‘hot’ doesn’t absolve them of an extra-marital affair. And I can’t help but think of similar things with Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony.

How do you arrive at the decision to sell photographs of your infants to a national magazine? How do you navigate your moral compass? How do you remotely explain the decision to sell your infants for $6 million? Oh sure, they didn’t actually sell the children, but being a visual communication researcher and teacher, yeah, I can spout enough philosophical writing to say that, indeed, Lopez and Anthony actually did sell their children.

And what do you do with that money? Buy another house? Put it aside for the children themselves, telling them with a glint in your eye and a rock in your chair, Sweethearts, when you were just days old, Mommy and Daddy sold your pictures for a lot of money. If Max and Emme know they’re getting thatcash, will that make it all better? Or will they feel violated, years after the click of the camera? Or will these children have to make their own way like the majority of humankind vs. the anointing of the celebrity offspring? Granted some have had it hard– Tori Spelling didn’t even receive a full million from her father’s estate; and Paris Hilton will only inherit about $5 million, after taxes, according to The Telegraph, after her grandfather Barron decided to donate 97% of his +$1 billion fortune to charity.

And what about us? The buying, consuming public who buy the magazines and consume the images, and likewise, buy and consume the people in those photos. This morning as I was buying donuts, I had to walk buy (pun intended) the gauntlet of magazines beckoning me into the “Wedding of the Century” about Brad and Angelina and onto the beach with a bevy of beauties with bikinis. Are Lopez and Anthony, Aquilera and Bratman, Jolie and Pitt, just great financial minds, thinking of how they can build their own ‘brands,’ specifically, the newest expansion of the brand name? Isn’t this just one more form of entertainment they’re providing for us?

Maybe Max and Emme are the luckiest babes in the world. Luckiest until Angelina and Brad’s newest edition joins us all. Imdb.com reports that if the Jolie-Pitts have twins, themselves, their babies will be worth $10 million.

Wow.

We’ve had it all wrong all these years. Instead of a photo being worth a thousand words, it’s clearly worth a million dollars per shutter snap.

And I thought my family photos were worth the world….

From the Archives

I just thought I'd share something with you I wrote a while back....

Plurality

I’ve been fascinated by plural marriages for a long time. Some call it polygamy, or polyamory, or polyandry, but with the recent raid on the Yearning for Zion compound, the scrutiny of polygamy has reached heightened levels.

In many ways, I don’t know what to do with ‘it.’ It is disturbing, surely, all of the reports that many of the female children take from the YFZ compound were underaged mothers and/or pregnant; reports that young boys were victims of abuse; reports that many of the children were injured, some with broken bones when they arrived to protective custody. Disturbing– it almost seems too benign a word.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching Big Love on DVD at home for the last week or so, that I’ve been thinking more and more about the YFZ sect. I’ve always had a fascination with the LDS faith– ever since that day as a small girl when two young men came to our house. My mother asked if they wanted something to drink and invited them into our living room. They talked to my mother about their faith and then they left. As an adult I told myself that if Mormon missionaries ever came to my house, I would do the same thing. One summer after my folks died it happened and I listened and took what they said to heart. I even prayed that God reveal whether this was the path I was to take. It wasn’t then. Maybe it is now? I doubt it, but I’m still fascinated nonetheless.

One of the most compelling, disturbing, fascinating, arresting tidbits from the stories of the raid, is the discovery of beds in the temple on the compound grounds. I am in no way saying that any bed, any where, that is used for unconsentual sex is okay. I am in no way saying that the underage ’spiritual’ marriages between middle-aged men and young girls is okay. But there is something to be said about the sanctity of sex and the spirituality of sharing your body with the person you love. There is a part of me that finds the thought of sex being ‘ordained’ is a beautiful thing. Instead of cheap one-night stands (hell, more like 15 minute stands), instead engaging in the act as a deeply spiritual and privileged act. I know, I know… it’s all hokey but maybe we need to return to the notion of sex being a gift, versus a fast-food drive-thru. Hi, can I help you? Intercourse in a bathroom? Okay, that’ll be 2 shots of tequila. Drive around to the back of the house, please. What have we lost by making sex as common as walk around the block? What have we lost by creating an industry where women are the highest earners, only to ‘empower’ them with multiple partners captured on video for generations and generations to come, no pun intended?

Perhaps the greatest perversion isn’t at the YFZ compound, and that is the most disturbing of all.

He's Just Not That Into You

Who knew that a movie could have such insight? Such predictive powers? I'm watching He's Just Not That Into You and he calls. He calls. Not God, but the one, you know, the guy, the one I've said "He's just not that into you" to myself over. That 'he.' He calls. I answer as the movie continues to play.... No answer on his part. I can hear his pals laughing in the background. Telling. Telling me, yet again, that he's not the one for me. I need to forget about him.
I watch the film and feel the butterflies consume my stomach. I cry. I can't help but think back, wistfully, to that phone call. He never calls and to not answer seems an especially cruel lesson in love.

The movie ends with me having shed tears at seeing love- albeit a fantasy, but the only way I'll be able to partake and I'm okay. I start to tidy up in the kitchen and the phone rings again. It's him. Again, there's nothing on the other end. I text him back, becoming one of 'those' women from the movie. He apologizes after we finally get to the bottom of it... he was inadvertently making phone calls to me because my name, alphabetically, is first in his address book. It cuts. It stings. It's as it should be.

I go back to tidying. Before doing so, I put his number on my reject list. I need to be done with this foolishness once and for all, and at the very least tonight. By the time I get back to the phone he's called 3 times and texted me to "pick up." I text back, but it is already too late. His momentary lapse of reason that allowed him connect with me is over and he really doesn't need me or to communicate with me.

When I was lamenting the sting that he brings to me, like the Acacia tree, fully of thorns, a friend send me a photo of the real Him. Again, not God, but the one I will be with.

It is so sad the way we spend our lives making do and imagining what life will be with the one who decided he had no better place to be at the time. "Don't choose me because I am faithful/ Don't choose me because I am kind/ If your heart settles on me, I'm for the taking/ Take me for longing or leave me behind," sings Alison Krauss.

It's over. I'm breaking up with you. You won't ever know it, because to know it would mean you care to know. And we both know that's not the case.