Dear Dionysus XXIV: A Cinnamon Disappearing Act

Dear Dionysus XXIV: A Cinnamon Disappearing Act

Dear Dionysus,

Things never got too serious with Analiese, although you wouldn’t have known it judging by the way she reacted when I ended things. I think we had been together for all of a month* before I broke the news.

“You’re a rad girl, it’s just not working out”; “It’s not you, it’s me”; “I love the way you grind your teeth, I just can’t see us grinding together anymore”; etc.

She didn’t take it very well at all, Dionysus. She cried and begged and pleaded with me not to break up with her. It was the most bizarre thing in the world to me, seeing as how we had basically just met and weren’t all that close. At least we weren’t from my end, although on my end was a colossally selfish prick.

It was almost enough to make me pity the girl. Almost, Dionysus. But I what I felt wasn’t pity; no, what I felt was an inflamed ego. This chick was clearly so hard up for me** that I absolutely had to be something special. I was the exalted idol, and she the loyal idolater. I was obviously a divine creature worthy of such affection, despite the fact that I was, in reality, a marginally employed, degenerate teenager.

Amphetamine is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?

So as this girl was weeping and beseeching and grinding her teeth at me, I was secretly getting off on the whole thing. That’s right, Dionysus: I was gaining a sick satisfaction from this poor spun girl’s woe.

Does that make me a sadist? I’m not sure if it was sadism exactly. My original intention wasn’t to cause this girl pain, at least not specifically; I was merely concerned with getting what I wanted in a timely manner, no matter what that manner was. And while her feelings assumed the guise of pain, that’s not what I was getting off on: I was getting off on the fact that somebody was willing to place such a high importance on me, which was something I was never able to do for myself. I was getting off on the validation, which was something that I thirsted for incessantly.

Even though things were over between us, I decided that I would try to stay on friendly terms with her. You see, at the time, her and I were on the same party circuit, so we would undoubtedly be running into each other at keggers and such. Therefore, I thought it prudent that I at least be cordial, especially since I didn’t want to miss out on any invitations for free booze. That was simply of the question, Dionysus.

But what was it that Lord Byron said? Something about how mistresses never can nor will be friends? About that…

When I ran into her at one such house party post-breakup, she was standing at the top of the stairs staring at me as I walked through the door. I should have just turned around and walked right back out that door, but I didn’t. Although I tried not to look at her, perched on that banister like a tweaked gargoyle, leering down at me with eyes equal parts love and hate.

But you know what, Dionysus? I fucking loved the way she was looking at me. For whatever reason, I’ve experienced it many times from many different women, and it really does a number on me. This is likely because I interpreted such looks as being the combination of hating me for being in control of a situation they didn’t like and yet still loving me because I was just too radical. Simply put, I was bitchin’ and in charge. Of course I was neither, Dionysus, but I loved those looks regardless.

Perhaps I am a sadist, after all.

I scurried off into the kitchen to make myself a drink. There weren’t tons of people at the house, but there were enough for me to distract myself from thoughts of Analiese and her sentry gaze. Even if there wouldn’t have been anybody there, it wouldn’t have mattered: it was a place to drink, which was often a hard thing to come by for an eighteen year old.

I was already mildly drunk when I showed up because I knew that I would see Analiese and I knew that I couldn’t handle that situation (or any situation for that matter) sober. She kept peeking her head into the kitchen and giving me really strange looks and I was feeling mildly uncomfortable and a bit anxious. The looks seemed to get progressively more psychotic, which wasn’t turning me on as much. My friend noticed too.

“Man, Analiese won’t take the hint. You’re fucked, bud.”

He started laughing. I don’t know what it was about the situation that made me react this way, but this is what I did: I walked over to the pantry, opened the pantry door, took out a bottle of cinnamon, and threw it on the floor as hard as I could.

“I don’t fucking care,” I said nonchalantly as cinnamon dust covered the floor and began to rise like a condiment smoke bomb.

My friend and I just kind of looked at eachother. I took a drink. I looked over and Analiese was peeking her head in again. We made eye contact and she darted off like Hermes on uppers.

Had she seen what I had done? If she had, then she was likely on her way to tell the owner of the house. Oh, whatever was I to do?

She did indeed return with a teenaged girl, who asked me rather irritably what I had done.

But I was always quick on my toes with a few drinks in my belly, wasn’t I?

“What did I do? I should ask you the same question! What kind of houseguests do you have here, throwing cinnamon about for no reason and getting spice all over my brand new shoes? I won’t stand for this! I’m leaving.”

And so I did, on cinnamon-soaked Chuck Taylors that were at least two years old.

You’re right, Dionysus: I’m definitely a sadist.

</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge

*Which is still a really long time to date a chick, Dionysus.

**I have no idea why any girl in her right mind would be, but I suppose that's why I've never dated girls in their right minds.

P.S. The next and last time I saw Analiese was some years later. She came into her work with her new boyfriend. She ruffled through some comics and would intermittently look up at me and half-laugh. It all seemed very juvenile (pots and kettles), and I believe her intention was to make me feel envious of her boyfriend or something. I didn't. I just felt really uncomfortable and the sudden urge to get a cinnamon roll.

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