I recently came into possession of some things that would devastate a certain person who recently broke my heart, were she to find out. Or I should say pictures of things that are of such a personal nature that just knowing that they exist makes me suddenly a steward of this person’s secrets. Her very embarrassing secrets.
Before I get to that, here’s an early summer greasy dance jam. Get ready for sweaty late night make-out sessions in dusty corners of abandoned warehouses to THIS:
Ok, Now What kinds of things did you find?
Well, that’s an interesting question. It opens up so many more, deeper, maybe more important, questions. First off, what’s my responsibility to this person? Right? Like, she broke my heart, is that enough to act however I want? Well obviously it’s not. Having your heart broken isn’t a free pass to act like a monster toward the heart breaker. But then, there’s a spectrum of allowability in the being shitty department, isn’t there? If a girl just dumps you because it’s not working and you part ways amicably, I’d say you have an obligation to safeguard her privacy. You kind of have to proceed like this person is still an important part of your life. In fact that holds true for a lot of the style-of-relationship-ending spectrum™.
Any time you enter into a relationship with someone, you get access to stuff that person normally keeps hidden from the world at large. It’s how relationships strengthen, and how they become meaningful to the participants. I personally think that this begins almost immediately, but certainly once you get naked with a girl. You fuck someone, they’re now inside the velvet rope (at least a little bit). They’ve had a peek backstage. And likewise for you.
Well fucking hold on just a second longer, ok? Obviously different people have different standards on how much of other people’s laundry they can air out with their friends and acquaintances. No matter how heavily you swear a married person to secrecy, they are always going to spill it to their spouse. And take this blog, right? I’m spilling tons of shit. I’m also like an open book with a loudspeaker attached in real life interactions. I like to vomit it all out onto the table and sift through the bits with whoever I’m hanging with. But tons of people aren’t like that. This girl, whose deep inner world I got a ticket into without her knowledge, is certainly not like that. I’d say the idea of feelings in general is intimidating to her, and actually expressing pieces of her internal life to others is less natural than writing left-handed with a fountain pen. Less natural than oral sex to a Catholic girl. Less natural than robots building other robots? Whatever. The idea is she’s a closed, guarded person.
But boy did she do me wrong. I won’t belabor this much more than I’ve possibly already done elsewhere on the blog, but her actions, translated through the perceptions of myself and everyone else that knows about them toward me were borderline sadistic. My dessicated husk of a heart was like a mouse the housecat had finally caught and fallen for, joyfully and obliviously biting off its legs and breaking its spine before dumping it, half-dead and throbbing, onto its master’s pillow.
The problem is that I wasn’t helpless to stop it. Some would say (myself chief among them) I went along with the torture willingly. I got something out of it. And besides, she doesn’t really seem to get what’s off about how she handled things. Ok done. End of discussion.
Is He Done Yet?
So ok fine, here we are. I have pictures of something so private that this already private person would never have shared them with me, regardless of our semi-close relationship. I know that she’s the type to really really really cringe from the idea of people knowing things about her insides. I am angry with her. Moreover I’m in that dangerous place where I think she needs to learn some harsh lessons about people’s hearts and her responsibilities as a human being to at least be careful and look out for the well being of people she gets involved with.
And there it is. I’m already in that. I don’t want to shatter her at all. I don’t think anyone should ever shatter anyone else. If you know something you’re doing, or could do, is shitty, then you should stop it/not do it. Even if the girl needs a fucking wake-up call. It’s too bad, really, because this shit is priceless, lemme tell ya.
But get me drunk and I just might share. As long as you promise not to tell.