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Container | Feb 21 2002

I don’t remember what she said or did or even what it was about, but I know that we were standing outside that place in Harvard Square called The Garage, which isn’t a garage at all but a little indoor mall, lord knows why it’s called The Garage, it’s certainly not big enough to have ever been a garage, and I was screaming at her.

There was a trash can right there, right where I was screaming, so I kicked it over, or did something else to it, I don’t remember what exactly, I was so ripped, if that’s what you call that, so fucking livid. She was—this I remember well—surprised by what I did to the can, I could see it in her eyes, so I did the same thing again, just to say, Hey, you liked that, well look at this.

I am by nature a mild person. Like anyone I get angry now and then, but rarely do I show it, and then only to a degree. However the feelings with her were so intense that if we weren’t fighting we were fucking, or about to fight, or fuck, sometimes it didn’t matter which, although no, I suppose it mattered, it did, but anyway there seemed no way to contain it.

So while I was doing whatever I was doing to the can, which by the way plenty of people were watching me do, not that I cared, I screamed something like, THIS IS IT. THIS IS SO FUCKING IT. I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN. JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE AND DON’T EVER COME BACK. Something to that effect.

And this was just our first break-up.