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Jon?

Dinner time.
Saturday. 8.4.12 11:24 am
I’ve taken quite a few losses recently. The whole choosing Virginia over Iowa and Oakland was a loss. Taking the job on the campaign trail was another one. Moving to a city that I hate to be with the woman who told me to come in the first place and go from her confessing her undying love and devotion to me with her head on my lap one night to one week later crying in the middle of a coffeeshop when she tells me she no longer loves me that way was a moderate loss as well.. but, I digress.

Trying to move on immediately was another one. In retrospect, there were many warning signs that this particular move-on girl wasn’t the right one. For instance, when she found out I was in D.C. after having quit my job, her first response was to tell me that I need to learn to bend my knee if I want to get anywhere in life. The second response was to compare me to Eddard Stark over dinner.

“If he had just learned to bend his knee, instead of trying to do follow the moral imperative, a lot of lvies would have been saved. Sometimes you have to do dirt, Jonathan.”

I shrug, not really seeing the connection. “See, the difference between me and Stark is that I’d never take a gig like that – one where I have to choose between my principles and my job.”

Before she could complete her incredulous eyebrow arch, I continued. “… Outside of the one I just quit with the campaign.”

“See, that’s what I mean, Jonathan. In this world, to be successful. You’ve got to sell yourself out a little bit every now and then.“

“So pragmatically, we’ve all got to be prostitutes in your world?”

“Pragmatically, we’re all prostitutes already.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“And that’s why you’re in your current predicament: alternating from couch to hostel, jumping from city to city like this.”

“… Touche.”


The evening didn’t really go well. She called me about five times in the span of thirty minutes before we met up, leaving two messages. When we actualy sat down for dinner, all she wanted to talk about was Batman or Superman and other escapism things and all I could think about was how I missed shewhoshallnotbenamed. The tattoos decorating every voltronic piece of her body – from calf to clavicle. The.. ah fuck it. I’m not doing this to myself right now. Where’s the Drake at? It hasn’t even been a week but these past five days are the longest we’ve gone without any contact in years.

Years.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to talk to her again. I’m embarrassed that the last time she saw me, I was sort of this 6’3 man painfully clinging onto her with tears reluctantly falling from my face and onto her hair.



I wasn’t crying though.. I had just been chopping onions.


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Vagabond Jon
Monday. 7.30.12 8:19 pm
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what are you going to do?
Sunday. 7.29.12 10:55 pm
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shewhoshallnotbenamed
Sunday. 7.29.12 10:22 am
is only person to make me shed a tear in the last ten years.





she's done it thrice in the past twelve months.

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the miseducation of jonathan
Wednesday. 7.25.12 8:14 am
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she tried
Sunday. 7.22.12 12:59 pm
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I yelled, trying to win a volume match with the Merle Haggard song my mother was blaring.

Momma would look at me, smile, and sing along with the chorus: “Momma tried to raise me better. But her pleading I denied. That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Momma tried” All this did was infuriate me more. She had a staple of old country songs she played over and over again, as if hearing Kenny Rogers croon “Son, you don’t have to fight to be a man,” would make me less volatile in school.

I used to fucking hate those songs.

She’d hold me then, rock me back and forth and tell me how much she loved me. I’d push her away – or at least try to back then. She was strong. A lot stronger than me. So she’d just hold me, tell me I need to calm down lest I end up like my father. His reemergence in my life later on, as well as just general maturity, went a long way in curbing the anger I had for the world. But I credit her with instilling in me an innate sense of justice and a strong willingness to try and do the right thing, fuck the consequences.

Now that I’m older, I often tease her about that when she brings up my reluctance to chase money and follow the path of least resistance. “But momma,” I say,” you always told me to do what I think is the right thing. I know everyone else is set back at school… but I kind of like having my soul in tact.”

“And I bet they like having a job,” she shoots back. It’s a fair – and so fucking accurate – point. These public interest jobs don’t really grow on trees and I’ve really got no idea how or what to do to secure one upon graduation. Shit would’ve been so much easier if I had just opted to interview with a few law firms, gotten a big payday gig, and live comfortably for a while.

Ah well.

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