I have a real Joan of Arc meets Dirty Harry sensibility. But I am aware that my temper is dangerous and so I try my best to protect people to warn them whatever you do don't make me angry.

I've been protecting someone from my rage for quite some time, all the way back to the beginning of June actually. I've protected him against the rage of Rabid and Jen, I've protected him from my own rage. I've been swallowing bile so long that I can only eat every two or three days. And for this protection, how have I been rewarded? With insult. Not just betrayal, but insult. This is what I get for taking the higher road. I get to that higher plane and discover that I don't want to be in this country.

I've been hoping, hoping that perhaps he would return, he would change his mind and realize that I am the best woman he will ever have in his life, certainly he won't find one better educated, better in bed, or more attractive. I've even been hoping that maybe we could have some sort of artistic collaborative projects together.

Somebody pass me a lighter because I'm going to burn this bridge.

What has gotten me to break my vow of silence is that he has committed to most unpardonable sin:Bad Taste. And I don't mean Jon Waters Bad Taste-I mean eating mayonnaise on saltines in Paris kind of bad taste.

He broke up with me two weeks ago. A week before he is lying with his head in my lap telling me that he cares about me but he doesn't know if he can love anyone including himself and the next week he is leaving me because "I'm not the one." Of course, so many things I had been angry about that I never said anything about, so much disappointment that I never disclosed because, like a fool, I didn't want to hurt him. Because it is always in my nature to be more sensitive to the needs of other people than to myself. I found out that I am not even good enough for alcoholic Russians who oversleep for their own gigs on park benches and lose guitars. My father always told me, aim low and you'll never be disappointed. It is apparent that he died before ever meeting any of my boyfriends. Aim low is all I've ever done, and disappointed is the inevitable result. If I aim any lower, I'm going to have to start dating unicellular beings.

Two weeks ago he tells me "I thought you were the one, but you're not." I'm living on tylenol pm and alcohol. I can barely get up for work each day, and no this isn't his fault because I have a history of depression, but to be dragging myself around and then to go to his site and find this post. For some "not unattracive" chick who offers the unoriginal notion that Sex in the City was designed to make mediocre people feel good about their lives. My own pithy comments about Sex in the City aside, to not even address that fact that I am far better looking than "not unattractive" and able to make far more stimulating party conversation than talk about Sex in the City which has been off the air for over a year and therefore is passe as well as cliche, to not even consider the multiple insults, that this twat got mentioned on his blog after one evening at a party and I had to wait how fucking long? Until May 16th. How long had we been dating by then? Almost two months. Oh sure, my wicked wit made him feel like a lucky man. And it well have fucking should-he should have been lighting candles and hopping up and down on one leg writing thank you notes to Ganesha in triplicate that a woman such as myself would allow him to chew the scum off the sole of my shoe. And yet he took his damn time acknowledging my very existence. For example, here he wrote about seeing Spalding Gray for the first time, what he didn't feel fit to do is link to me and explain I was the one who showed it to him. Or how about the day after we have sex for the first time he puts up this post about depression and making love with fuckings intruments? Don't insult me. Any man who can go to bed with me and think he hasn't been to heaven and back doesn't deserve to have sex for the rest of his life-because clearly he can't appreciate quality.

And trust me gentle readers I could get really nasty here, I could get really really honest and graphic and mean, but still even at this late fucking date I am restraining myself just the tiniest bit. That he doesn't love me, fine, but do I really need to hear about how he did love a philandering Protestant? Brainiac tells me that he thinks he can't love anyone including himself and then goes on and on about the lengths he was willing to go for for this undeserving bitch. I, the good girlfriend, the uncomplaining, porn star like, talented genius, I get thrown by the wayside without even much of a fucking fight, and he's still mewling and puking about her? Pardon me while I get my violin so I can play moonriver just for him. People wonder why the dating advice I give always the same, be a fucking bitch-cheat, lie, insult him, make demands-and that's because I've never seen it fail-be the girl a man says he wants and you'll never see him run away faster. Trust me, I've got the empirical data on this one.

This jackass wants to be tortured. It's true. He likes women who treat him badly and I think on some level a lot of his treatment of me was to get me to lose my temper-he wanted me to abuse him and when he realized that my pain tolerance is a lot higher than his and I wouldn't abuse him in the way that he wanted he left-left for some mindless bink who couldn't hold a conversation with one of my less intelligent students after a frontal lobotomy. This is a guy who couldn't read one of my two sentence emails without a fucking dictionary. And the whole time, when his cell phone rang during my monologue, when he went to a party instead of offering support before I performed for the first time evn though by his own admission he "knew it would make you angry", I bit my tongue. I should have bitten right off. And for what? If I had been the bitch, he would be groveling at my feet at this moment.

When Eric first left me I started dating a guy named Chainsaw, well that wasn't his real name, his real name was Kevin Rose-he was a bouncer, but he was also a pacifist from Cananda. I don't know how he reconciled those little ideas in his head, but he did. When I met Kevin he was appropriately honored that I would deign to date him. And most of the reason I dated him was that he had been left by every woman he ever dated. I thought "This is the guy I need to restore my confidence." Well not only did KR an I never have sex after a month and half of dating, but I got the honor of being the first woman he ever left. Ah yes, he will never forget that because I forcasted that the problem was that he wanted to be abused-he liked it-he thought he deserved it-he needed it-the truth was I was too nice to him and the next girl would treat him like dirt and cheat and leave and when that happened when he ended up belly down in the dirt I wanted him to remember me and realize no matter where I was I would some how know and I would be laughing.

I did indeed see Kevin Rose later, and sure enough, he regards me as the Oracle of Delphi because I saw the future for him many times over-and he avoids me like the bubonic plague. As if I could do anything worse to him that inform him of his unavoidable, incontrovertable fate. The bad part is that I learned nothing from the experience. I know objectively that I should be a bitch, but four year later here I am getting left for the same damn reason. And apparently the only thing I managed to actually learn is not to date men named Chainsaw.

Or maybe it wasn't just that. Maybe there is something else more hidden which is that maybe he didn't like the fact that perhaps I'm smarter, or even more talented-he liked the stupid bink because she isn't a threat to him-he likes to be the center of attention-but I'm as good at holding a crowd as he is-and in some ways better-I've had more training-I've got more education- I certainly have more strength-but beyond it all maybe it's that I have more talent. Just maybe. And some philandering christian or sloshed sociology student isn't going to be a threat to any of that, but I am.

-What Patrick Swayze was supposed to say in Dirty Dancing and flubbed the line

The one caveat that I put on the jackass is that his isn't allowed to write about me anymore. The deal was if he left me, he can't use me for material. I can. That's the quid pro quo. You deal with this kind of pain ,there has to be some sort of payment for it to balance it out. But the other reason I didn't want him to write about me was my fear that he wouldn't. That I was so insignifcant to him that he would just write "it's over" and move on as apparently he has, and after all the insults I had endured, it was just too much to bear. It was enough that he never wrote the post about my disability, the one thing I had so looked forward to, but to dismiss me as a footnote, even I was not willing to countenance that. So I made it impossible. The truth is I shouldn't even bother doing this. He is such a naracissist I shouldn' give him that kind of power, but you know when you have been holding back so much for so long-there is a purifying rush to confession.

And what kills me is even after all this, I was still waiting forapproval from this cretinous twit. I was still being nice for fear that he would stop talking to me. What and lose out and all that nuanced conversation? Do without how my breasts can kill rhinocerii or how tormented he is about having left his mother? Please. If I want to be somebody's unpaid therapist, I have a long queue of would be patients who show more respect than him.

Nice Guy Eddie took me out for wings last week and said, "Listen, from what you've been telling me you should be jumping up and down with joy looking for someone else's face to land on." And so instead of wasting my time reading the drivelings of idiots who clearly can't recognize quality, I'm going to do just that. And this time I'm going to make sure it's someone tall enough to reach the top shelf in the supermarket.

What exactly does that mean? That he didn't rehearse? He didn't get up and have a costume and speeches? I'm a practicing heterosexual and I emphasize practicing because I obviously haven't perfected the art yet. But I'm working on it. Anyone want to help me rehearse?

For the last two years I've been trying to be a part of the blogathon, and yet my efforts have always been thwarted. I have finally signed up, and although it was hard for me to pick a charity (it seems I should donate to something for mental health, literacy, or education), when I orginally started planning to do the blogathon, I decided my first time I would have the American Heart Association as my charity and that I would do 48 Movies and Memories-horror films and my associations with them in honor of my father who died at 54 of congestive heart failure. If you want to register for the blogathon go here, and if you wish to be a sponsor for myself or some other blogger go here. I will be posting a button here soon for people who wish to sponsor me. Because if I must be a horror film addicted sleeping disorder suffering blogger, I might as well be a horror film addicted sleeping disorder suffering blogger in the name of charity.

This year the blogathon will be on August 6th. So get out your Red Bull and your wallets people, and let's get ready to RRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUMBLE.