slam me

Sometimes I wish I were as daring as tristefemme, who slammed her ex-boyfriend for the whole blogosphere to know. Everyone loves to read posts on the ugliness and juice of the lives of others. I found her blog heart-wrenching, and therefore, real-life entertainment-valuable. That is cheap of me I know. Now, everybody knows the story, they even know who the ex is and where he comes from. His name is extremely google-able. Just like many of us are too, surely.

Note: her site is no longer hers alone, she took that one down already. It is still valuable, please read it.


What I want to say is that, whenever I discover more secrets and lies, more about the timely-delayed infidelity that beset me, more about the wanker-behaviour of some people in certain life-aspects, I wish I had that courage to just say what I feel, like the way Elaine would when she was younger and more insensitive towards the dissonance her listeners would experience.


But I won't.


I might take it to my grave, these things, or my lovers will guess it out of me. If I never uproot and bury it well, I might take a wrong turn and have a future family life right out of the nip/tuck mould, or have a painful love story, like a reunion with my lover only in cemented death/retirement as in Love Me If You Dare, something like that. But thankfully, if God, all these remain phantom-nightmares, parallel non-existences.


But if I were to immerse in story-telling, and speak of everything, I would become, unwillingly, a drama script-writer, and everyone who reads will know the characters. Whom I must protect. Because they are nice people who just lie and hide and steal. Sounds like the thief in John 10:10 but no it's not the devil. They might really be nice people, no kidding. They have friends, colleagues and team-mates - definitely likeable.


This betrayal is harder than the last one, which I have already forgotten, and forgiven. But this current two are horridly nice people who make me sick.


I also will not tell, because standing on this end of the stick, I cannot see my own unfaithfulness as well as I can see others. No I have not been sexually adulterous in fact, but in mind, in the could-have-beens, in the maybes, probably. All the maybes. Yet, I have less of them - really. Because I do not keep secrets and hide as much, nor do I lie about the things I have done in those familiar places.