Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

A famous Beatles lyric later adopted by the Manson family was supposed to go here. I think I’m finally learning what “hilter skilter” can actually mean.

Man! This first stage of love is always such bullshit. All the insecurity and confusion I was trying to avoid has swept over me like the coarse bristles of a witch’s broom. We’re so alike that it’s infuriating. Jenifer’s doing the same damn thing that I was trying to do this summer before I met her; playing the field and having fun. Unfortunately the relationship she just removed herself from must have been even more serious than mine was or at least more dramatic in ways that only girl relationships can be. Her laid-backishness is taken to the point of fanaticism at times and I can see how it is preventing us from being together.

It has only been one week and I am already up late at night writing these words under the light of a single bulb casting its dirty glow around my dark, cat-pissy room. These are the actions of an inexperienced virgin-boy dammit! Why am I obsessing like this?

Everyone is predicting the death of Jerry Garcia soon, rumored reports tell of another failed stint in rehabilitation. The scent of motor oil and sun-cooked asphalt fill the air. The weed around town is abundant and the greenest it’s been in years, producing rich thick smoke that fills the air with laughter. Its rich aroma results in the firing of intellectual pistons that merge us both into one person. I am a Gemini you know.

But there is still a problem. Jenifer thinks she loves another. A fine strapping boy of a man named Kristoff with the mystique and doe eyes to drive women (and some men) mad with want. He looks like that picture of Nick Drake on the inside of his Pink Moon album. I pretend not to care because they have known each other since High School and if I start to resent them, soon I’ll resent myself for falling out of the tree and bouncing so readily onto the trampoline of love again.

What does a man do in a situation like this? Stalk her of course. Under the almost respectable age-old pretense of creating that chance encounter. There’s a summer of freedom before me that’s still in its virgin state, so I have the time and the feverish desire to watch her do the girlish things that cause me to infatuate. Plus by following her around, I get to see how actually “with him” she really is. I casually show up and run into her at places I would normally never be in anyway. At the time I think I am being cool and non-chalant but I know deep down that I’m only increasing the repulsive fawning puppy dog effect. I guess I will come to terms with the fact that I am just a couple of one-night stands to her sooner or later, but “Da-Nile” isn’t just a river in Egypt.

I trailed her this evening to one place off Fry Street called the Karma Kafé. It’s one of those trendy coffee places that I always expect to fail but still seem to hang around and make a profit, serving all sorts of granolas and the coffee-addled-Renaissance-fair types that seem to dwell near a college campus at all times. I like this coffee shop because I can ride my hundred-dollar fenced Diamond-Back across the street, on the University campus, and not look like a total stalking doo-fus. The café has big front windows covered with flyers for local bands, but enough of the window is exposed to fuel my hopes of catching a glimpse of her. More often I see the object of her affections walking around and I wonder if he knows his powerful mystique is keeping this beautiful girl’s heart from loving mine. I have made it a point to be there as she inevitably walks home alone because I hope to appear to be the embodiment of chivalry and raw appeal. Corny? Yes, but my heart is hers and I would rather act the fool than lose her forever.

Does that even make sense?

How do I describe the intensity of being in love to the macho parade of men that will read and laugh at these semi-private lamentations? I suppose it doesn’t matter, for this journal isn’t about the opinions of others, it is about my damn summer and the crystal clear knowledge that turns out to not be so crystal clear even when you think you’ve finally found the “one” person in your life that will make you complete.

After being fed romantic movie schlock for years, this is the dream that I have. Traditionally the story should go, awkward boy meets beautiful girl, girl won’t give him the time of day, girl is betrothed, girl is dying of terminal illness etc. etc. ad nausea. Boy takes it upon himself to follow and stalk the young fair maiden and luckily finds himself in a situation to prove his love by saving her from a wild boar, gang members, unsympathetic cruel world etc. I guess that is the emotion going through back of my mind. Or maybe I just want the chance to spend that one last evening in her presence before fate whisks her away. I am sure at this point that I will continue the rest of my days pining for the magic of Jenifer. All the demons of hell have conspired to give me one night of passion and love so wonderful that the rest of my life shall pale in comparison. I am foolishly and romantically in love and not ashamed to go through the throes of that agony if that is my fate, but I will do everything I can short of letting go to keep me from giving in to life without her.

Jenifer and Kristoff have had their relationship for years. Anything that has made her the beautiful creature she has become is a good thing, but deep down I just know that if Kristoff wasn’t more of a free spirit than Jenifer, she would be with him in a heartbeat. For some reason that hurts me even though it’s his loss. While he is actively and openly pursuing other company, Jenifer and I are becoming close friends on the cool. It’s depressing playing second fiddle to the James Dean persona that every girl falls in love with but I think I’m playing it off rather well by acting like the situation doesn’t bother me. The pressure of honesty will drive her away at this point so I am content to be her friend and occasional fuck buddy. I enjoy the nights we spend together and I’m playing the cards the way they fall. For now.

It turns out that Jenifer’s not much of a pot smoker because of her hard-core asthma, so I am flattered she consented to do bong-tokes with me on that magical day we met. It means she realized I was trying to pick her up and despite my clumsy attempts, she was attracted to me. I thought I was slick, but Jenifer has cool in her genes.

Maybe I should start a little earlier and expand the description of my living situation. Moving into the Delta Lodge was one of those ideas that sound a lot better drunk and late at night than it actually turns out to be. My roommate’s name is Ernie Harding and if I haven’t mentioned him already, he happens to be one of the coolest people I know. He got busted in high school with some bitches that had a stolen credit card and ended up taking the whole rap for their little shopping spree. That’s a big deal in the state of Texas and so he is on probation like almost 1/3 of the people in this fucked up state. Does he complain about it? No, he heroically has transformed his life so that he can drink and drop acid with us, he just leaves marijuana out of the equation since that’s the only thing the State’s drug test can really detect. I can respect that, even if I couldn’t live that way myself. I mean pot is the herb of life. It’s in the Bible and everything.

Ernie used to live right down the hall from me in Bruce Hall where we would drink and do lots of acid together. He pledged the Lodge the semester after I did, he was one of the people that dropped me off in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma for a pledge prank and he was even there for me the night I got alcohol poisoning after doing too many beer bongs. Basically Ernie’s an all around good guy and a good friend whose life seems to consist of beer, sports and fighting over the phone with his long distance relationship girlfriend. I could tell a million stories of our delinquency if I wasn’t so busy writing down the joy and trauma of my current life.