Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro

That doesn’t make any sense.

I know.

So you shot this guy down, over and over, for–what, a year?

Something like that.

And then he finally moves on and gets together with a girl that likes and wants to be with him–just like you told him to.

Right.

At which point you are completely crushed and heartbroken, and remain so for what is now the better part of three years?

Yes.

You’re fucked, you know that?  Completely fucked.  Totally masochistic.

I know.

Not to mention self-centered.  You have run a website devoted to yourself since 1996.  Don’t you worry what that says about you?

Well it was only one of those free Angelfire sites to start with.  I didn’t own my own domain until 2000.  And it was a gift!

Whatever. You create and maintain websites that are shrines to you.  YOUR poems and stories and pictures.  I mean, your relationship with your blog has lasted longer than any man I’ve ever seen you with.

First off, everyone has those sites.  I’m not the only person on Flickr or Myspace Facebook, ok?  And second, my “relationship” with the site has lasted this long because I can ignore the blog for, like, months at a time and come back whenever I feel like it.  You couldn’t do that with a man.  And even if you could, is that the kind of man you’d want to be with in the first place?

That’s exactly what I mean.  You know things would have never worked out with this guy.  Even if he DID take you back after all that bullshit, you would have no respect for him whatsoever.

Maybe.  I don’t know.  I like to think that I’ve learned a lesson, that I’m different now.

But you haven’t.  You’re not.  Do you even read your shitty blog?  You’ve been complaining about the same crap for like six years.

I’m not complaining.  I’m connecting.

Oh my god.  You can’t be serious.

I am!  Lots of people come to the site and relate to what they read there, and then it’s like we’re–

–mutually masturbating?

Fuck you.  It’s a meaningful connection.  It makes us both feel better.

Sounds like mutual masturbation to me.

Whatever.

Listen, all I’m trying to tell you is that you have to stop being such a victim.  Stop feeling sorry for yourself and pining over your great goddamn lost love (that wasn’t even lost, by the way, you totally pitched it into the garbage) and acting like you haven’t had the opportunity for a meaningful relationship since then.  You just blow it every time so you can put on your silk robe and drape yourself over the side of your fainting couch and write shitty poetry that will get other people to feel sorry for you too.

That’s really unnecessary.  A fainting couch?  Could you give me a little credit, please?

You may not have a fainting couch, but I’ve seen that robe.  AND those ridiculous slippers with the little poufy bit on the front.

Those are feathers.  And they’re called Marabou.  Marabou slippers.

Ok, Blanche, anything you say.  I just have to tell you, as a friend, that you are getting too old for this shit.  People are getting married.  They’re having babies.  What are you doing?  Spending weeknights at dive bars?  Well that’s a great way to meet the Man of your Dreams.

Why does it have to be about meeting the Man of my Dreams?

Because that’s all you ever talk about.  You are a broken record.  It DOESN’T have to be about the man of your dreams, but you make it about that.  Why can’t you just focus on doing things that make you happy, and see what happens then?

But nothing makes me happy.

Oh, cry me a fucking river.  You can’t be for real.

It’s true.

And whose fault is that?  Don’t you think that there are people who would betray their own country to have what you do?  Do you realize how lucky you are, that you have the luxury of sitting around and bitching to the internet about how lonely and misunderstood you are?  You know what your problem is?  Too much free time.  That’s what.  They probably haven’t even heard of Facebook in Cuba, ok?

God, you sound like my mother.

We kind of are.

I know.

All I’m saying–

I get it.  Man.

Let me finish.  All I’m saying is that you don’t have to feel like this.  You don’t have to be an irrational slave to your emotions.  You don’t have to be so insecure, so worried about what you’re supposed to be doing and where you’re supposed to be.  But don’t say you’re going to try and then not try.  We’ve had this talk before and you get all fucking gung-ho for like a week, then you date some jerk and totally forget about all the things I just said.  Just try something different.  Try not dating a jerk.

I’ll try.

Promise?

No.

Well then at least stop whining so much.

Maybe.

At least stop whining so much to the internet.

Fine.  But not today.

Starting tomorrow.

Starting tomorrow.