bitter end : poof!
[22 july 2010]


Dear ___________________________,

These words, then, are whose?


These are nothing more than personality types, personas, patterns. These are not who we really are.

But if this is not really me, and that is not really you, then, what? Who? What between us? What then?




Dear _______________,

What does it mean then to love, to be loved? Who is it that loves/is loved? What does it mean to be a friend? Where does it end?

My identity crisis spins/bends/blends.




Dear ___________  ________________,

The level of misconstrued misunderstanding, misinterpretation, misreading, and miscommunication, is so mind-boggling, that I am left paralyzed and numb and struck silly dumb. Puzzle pieces hopelessly lost, signals crossed—veni vidi dum dum—I can only laugh now at how profoundly mixed our messages have become. Does a do-over equal a complete undone?

I'll call you! I have your numb—




Dear __,

Mirror mirror on the wall:

“Your personality is prone to fantasy, homes. It clings to the idea of individuality. You insist on believing you are different from everyone else. Special. You insist on separating off all alone. You like to believe that you do not have to play by the same rules as all the others. This is one of your primary delusions, and every word you say and write issues from this basic fallacy. Every romantic gesture reflects this fundamental fantasy. Each impulse is an effort to maintain the false premise of aloof.”

Just look in the mirror mirror for your watery pudding and your proof.




Dear ________,

The roof! The roof! The roof is on fire!




Dear ____________________  _________________,





Dear _______________,

You learn to ride a bicycle one way once and you never forget it again.

I saw you there in ____________ with the same wheels spinning, pulling the same old chain.

Read my lips with a Freudian lisp:

“That circus-circle was a compulsive roundabout, that psycho-cycle was the articulation of an obsessive habitual repetition.”

Indignation and daggers in your eyes. Infuriation at my jokes. I do not take your anger seriously enough, I laugh, you despise, I poke.

The real disappointment is something else, though.

Because the last time we’d met, a week before, you tried to cut me again with the same old juxtaposition, the same tired joke—but the blade was dull and the new skin was thicker than you could ever know.

And now, here I was giggling at all the self-righteousness, the ego trips, the steady drip blows.

Once, I was addicted to your I.V. manipulation, your sentimental, flattering, people-pleasing drone. Once, I was addicted to that fear of being alone. The mangy dog refusing meat, gnawing the same old dry bone. This was one bad habit that I was glad to finally kick, and now you could see it there, reflected in my eyes—with all your new friends, it was you who was really alone. A secret history of belittling, disparaging remarks belying all your persistent mechanisms of generous Hamburger Helper denial.

Maybe you don’t realize it yet, but your victim stance has become your cue to a bitter, resentful hatred to the bitter, bitter end. It’s only a matter of time before you try to cut me again. Best to leave you to you. I would deliver the punchline, but I’m no longer that kind of fool. Violence begets violence—punchdrunk is for the permanently dazed and confused.

I already laugh at me as I laugh at you.



I’m through.






text copyright ©2010 by Ruben R. Mendoza. All rights reserved.

images copyright ©2010 by José Luis Vargas, Jr. All rights reserved.

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