My friend got broken up with. She's sad about it. She liked the guy, and they had great sex, and it all unraveled quickly and unexpectedly.
Now she's writing poems about the breakup. Good for you, I say. Climb out of the trashcan you got dumped in, radiant with sorrow, a pile of poems in your grubby hands. A pile of poems that communicate to the world:
You are bad and I am good. That is the very reason this did not work out, motherfucker.
It is impressive to me, this output of my sad friend. I could never do it.
If I am sad in love, forget it. Bed wins. And if I am happy in love, forget it. Bed wins in a different way.
I've become convinced that the secret to production is moderate misery. I sing moderate misery's praises to the sky.
I don't mean ambivalence. I think I mean a general disheartenment combined with hopefulness. I'm not sure what I mean actually.
That's not true. I know it because I feel it. I am it. But I don't know what words to use to describe it.
How would you describe it?
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