Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders

Often times I think to myself: If I could quell my desire would I be a better girl? Would I listen more acutely, would I be prettier? Certainly I would be sweeter. More patient. Would it soften my features? Curl my hair? Strengthen my nails? Heighten my intelligence? Stabilize me?
Make me that much more capable of being a loving creature? And if not than why not?

Trying to think of something more masochistic than writing to the man who no longer loves me is a difficult accomplishment. If I had the chance, would I erase him? Or would I meet him in Montauk, like in the Gondry film? He’s erased me. I remember people saying you need one month for every year to get over someone. How could they possibly put a timer on someone’s desire when they’re in a period of constant grief? When they’ve lost the person they’ve shared dinners with, secrets with, deodorant, tears, their body, their fear, “each prayer accepted, each wish resigned?”

Sartre once wrote that to be loved is to want to be loved. A simple point. A selfish point. When he left I had to come face to face with the substance of my emotion and it was no flimsy whim, no gust of wind. It was concrete. But it's immutability didn't render it static. It had breath and it grew, and goddamn did it have teeth. Now I know how it feels to have a broken heart and it's awful. It's an icky feeling. Icky.

Now I find myself in a desire slump as well as a sex slump. I do not desire him. I do not desire another. The only thing I’ve desired of late is whiskey, obscene quantities of cheese products and a few games of Big Buck Hunter Pro.