THE HANGED MAN. Redemption through sacrifice, enforced sacrifice, punishment, loss, suffering, defeat, failure, death.
No I haven’t died, but I’ve been confused ever since I drew that card two days ago. I wasn’t sure how it applied to me. I am now.
I would sleep with Marcel, if he wanted to.
There. I said it.
But I’m not allowed … and he, of course, is hen-pecked … err, married.
Max is gone off the face of the hearth … Earth. He has made no attempt to contact me, since before the first blackout. Allen … yes, him finally … sent me an email. He’s been having … thoughts … and I don’t blame him. It was a short email. He doesn’t understand me. He …
Sorry. I must stop there. I screwed up. I should pay the price. (More sighing.)
Do I love you, Allen? Do I know what love is?
Christa is still here. We went to therapy today … retail therapy, since I go back to rehearsing tomorrow. I wish she didn’t have to go back soon. I have so much wisdom to impart to her … NOT!
- Never fall in love if you don’t know the meaning of the word.
- Never allow yourself to be possessed by an evil spirit.
- Don’t sleep with trumpet players. (She already blew that one.)
- If you can’t be funny, stop trying.
- If you can’t stop thinking about sex, think about sex.
The last is my favorite. I think about sex all the time. It’s more than a habit or an addition now. It’s a routine, and horrible when I’m not allowed to sleep with anyone. Of course, before Max it had been a year or so … OK, 412 days, 4 hours and 43 minutes …
I’m not good at celibacy before marriage. Did Allen ever propose? No.
Case closed. I’m not the marrying type, and he knew that. Did he also know that I couldn’t live without sex? Apparently not.
Just to follow up on a few things, I haven’t had any visits from the police or the feds. There have been no unexplained disappearances, and Marcel won’t tell me about any of the occurrences during my blackouts. (I must have done something absolutely stupid.)
I’ve got to move on, and not think about him (Allen) … or it (my possession) … or sex …
Wait a minute. Not that.
Christa’s baby wants a feed, and my udders aren’t up to the task. I don’t want her peering over my shoulder tonight, while I’m wallowing in self-pity.
Time to cry myself to sleep.