Dear Dionysus II

Dear Dionysus II

Dear Dionysus,

Sorry for keeping you waiting. Well, not really, considering how many times you’ve done the same to me. I would say that I hope the expectation is killing you, but you don’t even really exist so that isn’t possible, is it? Of course not, but for all intents and purposes that doesn’t matter.

Let’s talk about when we met, shall we? That first bacchanalian reverie, back when it was all fun and games and drink and dance.

I was sixteen. Not pure, exactly, but relatively unblemished in contrast to what I would later become. Fresh-faced and wide-eyed and scared to death of just about everything. I hadn’t had much experience with girls (how that would change), outside of a fleeting and awkward courtship of a borderline mental case whose only attraction to me was likely that I was a bit more fucked up in the head than she.

That’s right, Dionysus: I was dabbling in lunacy and bad decisions before I ever laid eyes on you. Did you think all that only started when we began our delinquent romance? Of course you would—you’re more vain than I, but I learned from the best.

Anyways, my first romantic experience, though short-lived, would set the tone of my love life for the next decade or so in many ways. I would attract, time and again, beautifully broken and gorgeously unstable female companions, most of whom you would have a hand in introducing me to. But you were always my main squeeze, Dionysus, although you permitted (and encouraged) my illicit enterprises with others. We both liked it that way though, didn’t we?

Medea was convinced that she and I were soul mates and, despite the fact that we were merely teenagers and hadn’t known each other long, that we would be together forever. Forever, as it turns out, was about two months.

Medea was far more experienced than I in matters romantic and debauched. She had had boyfriends before. She’d done sexual stuff. She drank and smoked. She took pills.

All of this, of course, was foreign territory for me at the tender age of sixteen. Ironic how quickly the alien can become commonplace, and in turn the commonplace can become second nature.

Growing up, girls typically paid me very little mind. I didn’t get asked to dances and school functions or get phone calls from nervous female suitors. I was asked to a dance one time only, in the ninth grade. The asker was even more of a social pariah than I, so I declined the invitation, purely out of self-interest and self-preservation: whatever little social clout I had I wanted to hold onto, and attending a dance with her could have potentially harmed my (non-existent) reputation.

She was a very nice girl; I was a self-centered, scared little boy.

But Medea seemed to really like me. I’m not sure whether she truly did or not, but she certainly acted like she did. She wanted to see me all the time and phone at all hours of the night and elaborate upon all the things we would do in the countless years we would spend together in marital bliss. I believe our children were to be named Icarus and Isaac, but I could be mistaken.

Something about memory and not being what it used to be. I can’t really remember.

I do remember, however, the reason why I broke things off with her. She wanted to take our relationship to the next level, so to speak. Sex, Dionysus. A topic you’re well versed in.

I had thought and dreamed and fantasized about such things since I was old enough to jerk off, but now that it was right in front of me, now that I could smell it and taste it and hold it if I so desired, it scared the hell out of me. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I found myself suddenly self-conscious concerning my own naughty bits. I’d had lots (lots, Dionysus) of practice with myself, like any blue-blooded post-pubescent boy, but I wasn’t sure how well that would translate into a team effort. I was strictly a solo artist. A great one, admittedly, but the point is I worked alone.

What if I wasn’t adequate, in size or otherwise? What if she chuckled at my chubby? What if she didn’t like me afterwards? What if the condom broke and she became with child even though she had just been with a child? What if I gave her some rare, exotic STD that only boys get from masturbating too much? (I believe the scientific community refers to that one as Onan’s Disease).

As you can see, the pressure was far too much for me, and the potential for embarrassment drove me to make the only logical decision: I broke up with her. This little detail would make this particular relationship a unique one, as it would be the first and only time for over a decade where I was not on the business end of a breakup.

Medea, in turn, reacted in the logical way: she took fifty Vicodin in a valiant effort to kill herself. It was simply too much for her, knowing that sweet little Icarus and Isaac would never be.

Fortunately, she survived the attempt. Her father found her and rushed her off to the hospital, where the whitecoats pumped her stomach and revived her. Then she was promptly shipped to San Francisco to live with her mother and, I assume, to be kept as far away from me as possible.

Dionysus, I would like to say that I was saddened and concerned about this poor girl when I heard the news, but I wasn’t. On the contrary, I laughed. I thought it was positively hysterical that a girl would be so mixed up, so naïve, so stark raving mad that she would do such a thing over me.  Nevertheless, it gave me a feeling of extreme self-importance.  And it goes without mentioning that I was relieved at the prospect of never seeing her again, even though I would years later in a Wal-Mart. She was with whom I assume was her military husband and their infant child (I doubt he was named Icarus or Isaac, but you never know). If she recognized me, she didn’t show it.

If we’re being honest here (and we are, aren’t we?), then I must admit that I’ve always been selfish, even before I met you. Don’t get me wrong, you were a catastrophic catalyst, to be sure: you dragged out and amplified pre-existing terrible tendencies and aided and abetted me in becoming a total fucking nightmare. But you remember. You were there, weren’t you? Every staggering, slurring, solipsistic step of the way, you were right there with me.

And if you don’t remember, don’t fret– because I intend to go over it all in punctilious, painstaking detail.


Sir Rateval Hurtlinge

P.S. I realize that I didn’t get to the part where we meet like I said I would. I’m just keeping you on your toes, mate.

P.P.S. I am keeping track of the postage I spend on these letters. Once we are finished, I will be sending you an invoice. There is no pre-paid postage for post-partying imaginary friends, I’m afraid.

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