Quite a conundrum. I realize how badly I fucked up (re: Anatomy Part 1). After having spoken with several women for a female point of view, I see that I crossed a line that never should have even been approached. Of course, some of the guys have been more forgiving: "Ahhh, tell her to lighten up and get over it!" was one thing said to me. But the ladies have been far more critical, far more chastising, far more shocked that I would make such a comment as what was said.
I would like to tell (discreetly; I want to protect the woman's identity) what happened; if I am going to be a writer, I have to tell the story that needs to be told, no matter how painful it can be to me. Isn't that what this blog is about? Yet my screw-up was so abominable, if I describe what happened, I am afraid that some of you who know me might lose respect for me, and that would devastate me. I can make no excuse. I can say that having Clinical Depression, as well as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, combined with my inability to get refills for my antidepressants, have left my judgment somewhat... impaired. But to some, that still is no excuse for doing what I did.
Fuck it. I will tell the story. But let me preface it. First of all, if I lose your respect, then you were never my friend in the first place. Secondly, if you are my friend and truly know me, then you know I meant know harm in any way, even if I did screw up majestically. I learned my lesson. Thirdly, before you say "What were you thinking?", remember one thing: HELLLOOOOO! CLINICALLY DEPRESSED WITH PTSD OVER HERE! CHEMICAL BRAIN IMBALANCE REQUIRING TREATMENT AND MEDICA-TION! JUDGMENT AND MEMORY NOT AT OPTIMAL LEVELS! DIFFICULTY THINKING CLEARLY, AND CONDITION HAS EXISTED FOR 10 MO-ONTHS! HELLLOOOOO!
My preface continues. You must understand the context and environment I live in and am exposed to here in New York City, and SoHo/Greenwich Village/TriBeCa in particular. Now, here in the city, many parents dress their little girls most inappropriately. They style their little cherubim after Sex & The City and Bratz Dolls. The term "Prosti-Tot" was not invented by me. Nor was the term "Tramp Stamp", describing the lower-back tattoo many women and young girls get these days. While sexually alluring, I find that particular form of body art unappealing and somewhat disgusting; if you have one and get lewd comments, you get what you ask for. That is my humble opinion. Everywhere, tattoo parlors have signs in the window: Tramp Stamps, $100. The women call them Tramp Stamps. Now, if a mother pays for her 8-year-old to have a Henna version of the Tramp Stamp, who is the freak, me or she? When the little girls run around the playground, and both parent and child laughingly call the string of dolphins above the little girl's ass crack and low-riding pants and below her bippy shirt "my new Tramp Stamp!", who has impaired judgment, me for saying what I said, or the parent for dressing her most precious child as a little slut? I'll send ya pictures folks. I'm not making this up!
OK, here we go. Bungee jumping with dental floss.
The lady responded to my request for assistance by contracting me to modify photos of her daughter and create some materials using them. I will describe the project no further to protect her identity. For purposes of this narrative, I shall call the mother Quantricia, and the daughterrrrrr... Shinaytray.
I shall continue.
Quantricia and I had been speaking and e-mailing for 3 months, and I thought she was used to my warped, acerbic sense of humor. But I forget, SoHo, NY, is a planet unto itself, and I was dealing with someone from the Bible Belt (that Belt needs a new buckle!). She had sent me a photo of Shinaytray on a couch, her hair was a bit unkempt, and her clothing (I thought) looked a bit dissheveled. Quantricia asked if I could remove the background and make some other modifications. I responded thusly:
I am the Lizard King! I can do ANYTHING! I can remove the background, but it would take a great deal of work, maybe an hour or two. The other photo is better; it looks more "professionally" shot. Also, the loose shoulder strap makes her look a bit "slutty" (I mean that in a nice way; I hope she doesn't have a "tramp stamp" tattoo!).
The other shot has her hair nicely coiffed, the lighting and background are just right. Let's stick with that one.
DON'T SAY IT! JUST DON'T! NO MORE SALT IN THE WOUNDS! I WAS ALREADY BEATING MYSELF UP OVER DEBBIE'S DEATH, AND THIS JUST TURNED MY WHIP INTO A CAT O'NINE TAILS! SO JUST DON'T SAY IT!
Well, as you can imagine, the e-mail I got back was so corrosive, my hard drive melted! (The phone call made my cell burst into flames!)
Take note: IT IS NEVER OK TO REFER TO THE STRAPS ON A FUCKING SUN DRESS OF A NINE YEAR OLD INNOCENT GIRL AS "A BIT SLUTTY". EVER! And I'm really holding back on the "tramp stamp" tattoo. Not cool, Nori. Not even close. I'm so mad I could spit right now.
I was profuse in my apologies. I had begged for forgiveness. All to no avail. I would say it went downhill from here, but it was more like, over the precipice!
I e-mailed Quantricia many letters, including this one:
Is there no way for me to regain your respect? Is there no way for me to convince you that I am a good person, a dedicated father, a devoted family man? Is there no way for me to be admired by you once again? Is there no way I can tell you that I am a human being, with all the flaws and foibles of a human being? Is there no way I can get you to see that I made a mistake, that I misspoke, that I meant no harm? Is there no way I can persuade you to not think ill of me? Is there no way I can show you that I am not a disgusting pervert? Have you never done anything you deeply regretted, something you wished you could take back, something you could undo? Have you never felt remorse over hurting someone who meant something to you, especially when you did not mean to cause pain to that person? Have you never felt the pain of knowing you screwed up badly, and could find no way to make it right?
Is there nothing I can do?
Quantricia's response:
Yes, I've done and said things that I regret. I learned from them and moved on, but never did I expect for things to commence as they did before the blunder. Nor should you.
I may be 23 years out of the game, but that sure as hell sounds like "I never want to hear from you again, you sick fucking bastard!" to me...
I see.
As you wish. I hang my head low in shame as I leave your life. Thank you for the moments of joy you have brought me. Thank you for the times you made me feel better about myself. Thank you for your smiles and laughter. Thank you for the times you made me smile and laugh.
I will contact you no more, if that is your wish. But if you need me, I will be here for you.
Adiós, mi amor.
Wowzers. All that time, all that caring, all that... gone. Poof. In an instant. I cared about her. I thought she cared about me. If nothing else, I loved talking to her. I had no one else, and she made me feel less alone. I am a man stranded on a desert isle, alone Robinson Crusoe style. But I had a radio, and it worked. And she answered. For a while, I knew someone else was out there, and I was not alone. Then I had to go and smash the radio with a coconut. She made me feel good about myself, even happy at times. She seemed so nice and warm and caring. And she was so beautiful. I even allowed myself to dream and explore the possibilities. Kaput.
So now, properly whipped and chastised, I, El Perro Arrepentido (The Repentant Dog), tuck my tail between my legs, hang my snout low, and crawl back into my filthy hole, to emerge again I know not when. This episode took a great deal of energy out of me, and my fear and dread of messing up and being rejected came to pass. I just wanted someone to want me. I got back on the horse and was trampled beneath it's hooves. I'm afraid to even go near a merry-go-round now.
I have more heart-wrenching stories about Debbie to tell. Perhaps those will cheer me up.
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