You say things are “hectic.” Then you add that you “don’t want to talk about it.” And that’s all? Nothing else happened to you on April 22, 2007? Well, if I’m to believe that, then my name isn’t Moleskine.
When you walked into Barnes & Noble months ago, with every intention of buying Tucker Max’s I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, and not at all searching for a pocket-sized gateway to your emotions, I spoke to you. It was fate.
I refer to the entry dated September 15, 2006, your first:
I was standing by the notebook display, and a voice spoke to me. It was the cute salesgirl. She was saying, “Can I help you?” I got her number, but had to buy this stupid notebook in the process. It cost fucking 14 bucks. For that price, I might as well write something down.
Sure, it was tough love at first, but did I run? No. I stuck by you. I gave you a chance. You who can never admit to crying during Big Fish but who have no problem discussing your “daddy” problems between my elegant front and back covers. You who have so often been called cold and detached by the women in your life, including your mother, and that salesgirl, whom you “pushed away,” literally and emotionally, too, when she barged in on you with another girl. Recounting the incident, you said it “served her right after making copies of my keys behind my back.” But I don’t judge. All that really matters is you told me. That’s what you never understood. Sky’s the limit if only you write it down.
At first you showed promise. You did. And that’s what makes this so hard. You filled my pages with long tales about a woman named Penny, whose talents in bed made up for the fact that you are normally attracted to women with bigger chests. You wrote of your father, and how ashamed you are of his decisions, so late in life, to become a Web entrepreneur. “The Internet’s fine,” you said. “Go start a Web business. But 30 webcams scattered about the house! I’m violated by Suburban-Voyeur.com every time I visit.”
I began to feel an intimate connection between us. But, oh, how wrong I was.
Your entries grew shorter. There were problems at work. Each day was “tense,” but you never said why. Passed up for a promotion? Forced to supervise an incompetent underling? Under investigation for sexual harassment? I didn’t know.
Penny, for all I could tell from what you wrote down, was out of your life. Did she dump you? You her? Was it her paltry chest that ultimately proved ruinous? You said nothing on the subject. At least call the girl a whore! It would’ve taken but a few seconds. Indulge me.
And now you write of this “hectic” day, so vague and unrevealing. How am I, the chosen notebook of Van Gogh and Hemingway, supposed to accept this? Please, let me know. I’m struggling to come to terms. Anything—a short sentence will do. I just want to know why this is happening, why you’ve turned your back on me.
Was it something I said?