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#Azumeria Happy Valentine’s Day. Alas, my erstwhile punk rock princess ranks lowly in the annals of girls I’ve loved before. Over the span of nearly twenty years — beginning in that accursed, long-shuttered record shop on the Middlesex Turnpike in Burlington, MA, and then intermittently thereafter as thou drifted from one corner of this country to another — thou didst move in and out of my life with restless inconsistency.
When last we spoke, it was during the year of the pandemic. I had resolved to visit thee in Reno, Nevada, clear across the continent. Tickets were purchased; arrangements carefully made. And yet, in thy customary fashion, thou unravelled the plan entirely. And I lost hundreds of dollars on it, which I really could not afford to lose. Still waiting on reimbursement from thee for that.
Thou wast ever among the most distant and inscrutable souls I have known — and I have known a fair number, myself included at many junctures, none too proud to say. In the final reckoning, it amounted to little more than wasted years and misplaced investment.
I can only hope that the little girl thou bore at, what, 42 — and to a baby Daddy barely out of high school, a spoiled little rich boy with a most punchable face that thou meet in the halls of Alcoholics Anonymous (do not even get me started on that cult) — is not suffering unduly. The one I was looking so forward to meeting, but never shall. But, she probably is suffering, and is still quite young. Nothing I can do.
