This is for you, Thompson.
He tells me I look just like Mary Magdalene. We will marry in ten years as he, so strangely, resembles: Jesus.
I swear to him he has been mistaken. I blush. "Marie Antoinette is my ancestor," I say. His name is Matthew.
It was three on my bedroom floor. A friend of mine was hosting a Sexy Party at my house and Zoiks had just finished performing upstairs. I lit black snakes and threw Pogs into the air to show my pride and excitement. We crushed methadone into orange specks on my deflated air mattress and sniffed up two lines each, Matt and I. He was gripping a three-litre bottle of Riunite Lambrusco.
Matt first discovered me on the internet. He found my Myspace page, and the first thing he wrote to me was this: "Tell me everything you believe in." I was agnostic. We later planned to meet in Lawrence, at a party.
It rained the etire drive down from Manhattan. I drove thirty miles on the highway. As I recall, I was far more nervous about meeting Matt for the first time than I had been about such ill weather.
But, Friday was the Sexy Party. It had been six months since Matt broke off our one-year relationship, and was the first time we really spent any time together. It was relaxing and it was refreshing. I still feel unworthy to be around him regardless. One night, last year, I drove his grandmothers' brand new car into a ditch after tripping it over to Kwik Shop for popcorn. I spent twenty-one days in jail, having been driving under the influence, have you. That was when I just knew we weren't going to work out.
