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Most Women Are Dull and Stupid

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<I behaved as well as I could, though perpetually

Saying to myself, 'Well, I care not how she decides.

I care not much for her; the whole thing was only

Ever a game.' As I left, she hung upon me, crying,

Sobbing aloud, saying, 'I hope we shall meet under

Happier circumstances'--as if the circumstances

Of our next meeting were not entirely up to her.>

 

I walked home, at much slower than my usual

Pace, my thoughts and movement alike turgid

As though I pushed through snowdrifts, as on

The alp, though instead of icy cold, I felt only

Numbness, and the heavy warmth of all my

Garments, the weight of my enforced patience.

 

<'Well,' said I to myself as I walked off,

A pretty scene we have had, but surely I care

Not much, and I shall take my time of suspense

Very quietly, easily reconciled either way.>

I reread what I have read and try to own it,

As I always have before. Surely my journal

Can reconcile my memories and my thoughts?

 

But this afternoon my pen is a weak instrument

For recording what must be. I drop it, weary,

Bilious, inky fingers shaking, my hair in my eyes.

I'd slept perhaps two hours the whole night,

But sleep was even further from me than sweet

Equanimity. I ran, spewed my grief another way.

 

<Don't do this. Don't you dare do

This to me again, I prayed

In rage. Don't you dare-->