Give War a Chance

It's been too safe here. Fueled by my own uncertainty over who's lurking on this blog. People who know me, people who used to know me, people who think they knew me.

But there's a reason it's called Misanthropy Central. I should reclaim it more often. If I write something offensive, what did you really expect?

I wonder if my ex reads this. Grimly. For fodder. She needs the characters for her plays because she's so hard-up for anything original.

Even now -- trying -- I can't easily express the anger I live with. The engine of hate I harbor for someone that I once cared about completely. Does it go away at some point? Every so often, I seem to be reminded of it. She was writing plays about us/me while we were still together, I guess it's not a shocker she's still at it. Only -- our spheres are entirely separate now, you'd think she'd want to stick to writing about her own fucking life.

It's a grotesque little ghetto, the New York Asian-American theater community. So-called community. It's possible that someone from there might lurk here, and convey these idle thoughts to her. Out of maliciousness or concern or glee. But who really gives a fuck? I've got a right to be angry about a great range of things and that's never been a secret.

So, what's it going to be, then? A war of words?

Is it worth the wasted paper?

There's a life I left behind. I'd like to leave it there, in ashes. There's a new life I'm dedicated to building. Lessons learned.

I've still got a lot to prove, but whatever I've got, whatever molecular perception of success I've got at the moment, I've earned. I've had coming to me for a while. And I'm just going to keep going at it.