Frehel Diaries: The Never Ending Story
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While Julius Caesar said that, " The evil men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones" it seems that in this, like in all things, I am the opposite. In the absence of a man, I forget his bad qualities-the walking behind, the sweating to the point of fainting at Mont St. Michel, the starving in the hotel room, the running to his pouting bratty daughter for every little thing-and remember only the perfect lovely moments.** I realize how much I miss him. Sleeping next to him-his warmth, his strange mangling of my name, his unpredictability. Being with him was like trying to live on a swiftly tilting planet. But I found myself at any moment of the day trying to think of what he is doing his time, and yet telling myself that I was not expecting to hear from him again. No, no no.

At night, alone in my bed, however, it's yes, yes, yes. Checking my email and each time there is no message I tell myself, he's still in Frehel, tell myself it's better this way, telling myself that I'm not expecting to hear anything from him.

But my heart sinks.

It only takes two weeks of NY. Two weeks of sleeping alone, the predictable disappointment by the usual burbling boozeheads, the unringing cellphone, the optimistic dance of handing out cards and phone numbers and hearing nothing back, the slogging through days of work for no respect and less money, staring down the despondent nights clutching ever tighter to my Grey Goose telling myself as I always have that someday SOMEDAY I'm gonna be someone...and with every day that promise seems less likely to come true and it takes more Grey Goose to convince me that tomorrow, tomorrow is going to be the start of the New World Order, I'll prepare for the GRE, write a best selling novel, and while accepting an award in some European city-a young man will romance me-my autobiography will be optioned, I'll write the script and all those kids who made my life miserable will pay good money to watch it and wonder why they were such fucktards to me all those years ago-and I will finally, finally be able to go to the Oscars and accept an award in a gorgeous gown, delicately weeping, in a very attractive way, mind you, and thank you all for making my life so miserable because without that suffering I wouldn't have the fabulous and amazingly fulfilling life I have now.1

And after two weeks, I decide that's it, I'm moving to France. I'm going. Fuck these dreams that aren't gonna happen. I've had it with this city and this country. I'm out, that's it, I'm off. I want to be back in a place where everything is possible. It's not just that I like France better, it's that I like myself better when I am there whether the Sauvage is involved or not.

And this very night that I call the Doberman and tell him I'm moving to Paris, I don't know when, but I'm going, I get an email from the Sauvage-telling me that he's back in Paris and that he misses me. And think this is a sign...but of what I have no idea.

** or as I would later jokingly tell my friends, the only way I can like a man is if I am separeted from him by an Ocean and common language.

1 I would add "Suck it Jesus", but Kathy Griffin beat me too it.


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