It started with Karma and ended with Harley.
Then it became a story, because I’d thought about the whole affair so much.
And then it became an unpublished book, because I wrote about the whole thing so much.
Karma is in a world that would kill me. Violence and and all the vigilence addiction takes. And Harley is off, growing up, loving and doing [redacted] like that.
See... listen –
I loved Harley in a time and a place. But I really loved her. I loved her completely, and tried to be a good boyfriend. And the [redacted] up part is that, regardless of how she feels now, she felt something different then. I can’t ever be like her. My selective memory refuses to forget affection, but I guess my memory forgives it.
But I guess I forgive everything. My name isn’t Harmony Smith but now I’m finally confessing.
Because you broke my stupid, [redacted] heart, Harley – and I’m taking you out of my top 8.
Harmony Smith.
Lemon was dying with me. She was so sick of my [redacted], my late nights and early mornings, my unbelievable angst that led to a four hour work out every day. She was sick of it.
She liked the sex. That’s a nice memory.
“Harmony Smith?” Lemon asked.
And this was January of 2011. And this was a winter for loss and sadness and love, and a bunch of romantic parades that praised the beauty of solitude with another person.
I loved Lemon more than she’ll ever know, and it’s my fault she got hurt.
“Harmony Smith.” I told her. “It’s a pen name, you know? Like Mark Twain. Except way cooler.”
“But you have a pretty cool name.” she said.
“I don’t want to be me when I write. That’s it. I just... want to relax. I’ve never relaxed.” I said.
Lemon was sweet. She lost her dad too, and it made her appreciate relationships in a way I’ve deduced that you are never capable of until you are forced to consider that you really will die.
Lemon was bitter. But she didn’t lie, and when she tried, she didn’t do it well. She tried to be a good girlfriend.
You can only injure the vulnerable. Most of the time we never allow ourselves to be vulnerable, worried that others will perceive us as weak. But we’re weak for not trying.
I knew Harley would break my stupid, [redacted] heart. I loved her anyway, because she made me smile.
“Harmony,” I explained to Lemon, “for Harmony Korine. And Smith, for Elliott Smith. I thought about what a confession really means, and it’s kinda like the process for admitting you’ve lost what was innocent about you.”
“What happened, Colin?” she asked. “What was it? You’re a good guy... I mean, you’re so good. You’re sad as [redacted]. Didn’t anyone tell you to be happy?”
I had to look away from her.
“This one day,” I said, “I came home from school to find that my dad dissected the chimney. I mean, really, he was halfway through dissecting it. Now, at first, I thought the chimney was ****ed up, because I was like eight and didn’t know anything about condos or chimneys, just that my dad was sad and an alcoholic and his marriage was falling apart. So I come home from school and I can tell that something’s up, something’s wrong. I put down my backpack and asked him what was going on.”
Poor Lemon. Poor me.
“What happened?” she asked.
“My dad had a schizo-effective breakdown and thought that we were on a TV show for the universe, and that kids were climbing in through the chimney to kill us.”
Lemon looked paralyzed by this new knowledge. She was sweet.
She was like me – she really tried.
“So the first thought that I had,” I said, “is where the [redacted]is my dad’s gun? Or guns. I never really knew how many were lying around. Anyway, I took him into my room and tried to convince him that what makes a good TV show is authenticity. So I asked him to tell me about his father, ‘cause I never knew the [redacted]. He was dead before I was born.”
Behind those endless gold locks Lemon was all ears.
“And he goes,” I said, “’One time, when I was really young, there was this brown recluse in my toybox. And I was really [redacted] scared. So I shut the box. And I told my dad and he said that men don’t shut the box on their lives when they get afraid. You know I used to play guitar when I was a kid? So anyway, he makes me open the toybox and the spider bites me and when I try to kill it, my dad beat the [redacted] out of me, Colin. And he said that the spider was quicker. My hand nearly rotted off. I have no feeling in it. They removed all the nerves... and I felt all of them go. And I couldn’t cry, because my dad was watching. And he’d have beat the [redacted] out of me again.”
Lemon was tearing up.
“My point is,” I said, “my father let me know who he was, and that made him strong. But I’ve spent my whole life trying to remain unseen.”
“What do you mean, baby?” Lemon asked
And, oh, the way she called me ‘baby’. The way she knew how to love me. She really [redacted] tried. I felt really connected. And that never lasts for long, I guess`.
“They’ll find all these notebooks when I’m dead and know that I tried. I made an attempt.”

And right when I’m writing this story a debt collector calls me and I lie and say that I’m dead and tell her to ‘have a blessed day’. I think I’m the worst type of demon – the kind of demon that thinks he can still be forgiven.

....

Ah Plastic. How I've missed reading your [redacted]!

Nice to see you're still pouring out your feelings so superbly. Told ya once and I'll tell ya again, you got it kid! Whatever you do, don't stop writing...it will take you where you need to go.

i will miss you