Dear Don, A More Diseased Mind Than Yours Once Observed...

Why, long after the fucking has stopped, do the arguments seem to continue? I found myself pondering this question last weekend, and wrote an open letter to my friend Don, with whom I had a brief courtship following an episode during which he tried to grope me in his sleep while hosting my friends during the 2006 Pitchfork Festival. It ended stupidly, but we remain close friends. And yet he often insists on talking about how it ended, and more to the point, how its end was orchestrated by me. Welcome to our first edition of "Closure Chronicles," in which the pointless pursuit of some nebulous sense of satisfaction is held under the lens we generally reserve for figuring out who stopped calling who first.

A revolution is not a dinner party. And that time we fucked a lot and talked about and engaged in a little companionship brinkmanship before somehow everything went shitty, or back to the status quo — that was not an Ideological Struggle. So why do you dudes — who by the way, were totally to blame for fucking it up — always need to Win The Argument? Why can't you ask me how I feel about the Olympics? Why the need to go back and rewrite the Epic History of Our Preposterously Brief Courtship? You already won your sovereignty.

That is what you wanted. Why are you claiming now that's not what you wanted? Here's what we both know; infatuation is irrational, a real shitshow of distracting neurotransmitters that demand you attend to them constantly, and the process of converting that state into some sort of plausible romantic union is as delicate and tricky as the ensuing romantic union is invariably kinda meh.

You have to be at once courageous and retarded, supremely chill and impulsive, which is why you have all that sex in the first place, to avoid thinking about who the fuck you think you are that you're going to pull this off. So look, it's no big deal that you weren't up for that this time, but why must you act as though it was me who fucked it up? I'm the professional here. I don't have "pride." Except to the extent that I of course have some pride, duh I am human, but you can't well write about astrology on the internet and make pride a welcome concern in your brain. I come from a fair and logical position. Everyone who knows anything about me and/or you knows that you fucked it up. Maybe because you...just weren't that into me? Who knows? It doesn't matter. Why are you still trying to win the argument? Why am I? Trying to win through reason the rights to write the inscription on our little monument to the limits of unreason, when we all know what they say about history and losers like me. So there, you do, actually, win. You win! But by losing I actually win.

Dear Moe:

This is seriously how it happened...1. i liked you — a little too much (think LD can work between adults), say stupid shit to you. 2. you think "wow, this is some stupid shit. you're kinda ridic. stop being like that." 3. i think "maybe she's right." and chill on that LD talk (slow things down [see what i did there?]).4. things kinda stay like that for a while: arms-length. i kiss a girl. you get mad. i didn't know you would care. 5. i think "man, i'm very careless with other people's feelings." then i think "wait, i'm an asshole. and so is she." 6. we are totes cool with each other. How do assholes love each other? i'm pretty sure i can't handle anyone who doesn't treat me with some kind of disdain or unimportance. (insert groucho marx quote made famous by annie hall) On the other hand I can't have you be mad at me, so I do the "you're mad, so i'm mad." thing... of course, i've set it up so i'll never be hurt again. it's been working well.

In other news, you know our mutual pussywhipped friend Brian? Breaking up with his girlfriend was the best thing he's ever done. He has fucked like four girls in his office already and is even allowed to laugh at Stella again. Thanks for the mention, though. Perhaps renting High Fidelity would help?