can it be that it was all so simple then
To pick up on Streisand's melodiousness, conventionalized regret, it was not so simple then, not for me. Whatever I may have intimated about my adhesion to Jerry McGuire, I fought a literal life and death struggle about emailing him in 2007 (am I a stalker?). I did not want to start crying, did not want to beat myself for failing the intellectual acumen he saw, and oh, we were fine in email, off to do my chores. A few hours later it was soup city. You haven't seen drama queen until you've seen an Italian American with cerebral palsy beat her chest with grief as if over a crack in the earth, about to fall. I did not want him to know my composure would be still that easily broken over this disciple teacher aggrandizement, but my composure is brittle. I knew he was aging, and for the sake of his legacy, I acted, but I also flipped out, and I mean flipped, and punished my ex, poor Frank. I railed, and the poor bastard took it, clueless, as I was trying to bust a hole through five inches of concrete, with no one to tell me "cool it."
He is just a very smart, brassy, peripatetic New Yorker, Jerry. I mean, that's about all. We're not gods walking the earth, disappointed in myself, him, both, a little envious that some students can fool around and it's cool, but subtextually knowing he would have rejected me as a woman anyway, regardless of personal loyalties and Widner's administration having a shit fest if their special student popped her cherry on a half cocked veteran. Merciless, aren't I? No longer feeling physical desire. My cunt is tweed and my lungs on auto alert, and in his last bit of sage advice, his bad heart taught him how to be positive.
But you never really talked to me old man, and one wonders why women like me do this to themselves, emotionally void fathers to the emotionally impenetrable, willing to perish in a pointless protest against society, never having gotten what I want.
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