LUDIC LOG

I really can't complain.

How many guys get the kind of chance I got? How many men even get to speak to a woman that beautiful, that sexy, that goddamn charismatic, let alone have a relationship with one? I drew the luckiest card in the deck, and now you expect me to be bitter that I wasn't able to hang onto it? Forget it, pal. I'm not that kind of man.

I'm also not the kind of man who should have gotten the time of day from someone like Sara Ruland. Yeah, you know it: the Sara Ruland. How could there be more than one? God didn't just break the mold when he made her; he took the name out of circulation, he retired the number, he destroyed the plates. There's never going to be someone like her again -- and if you're expecting me to add 'thank goodness' to that, then you've mistaken me for someone who can't appreciate how good he had it. Sure, it was a bad breakup. Any breakup with her would be bad. Sure, I had my heart broken; I didn't even know I had a heart to break until she took up residence there. For every pain in my soul, for every scar on my body, there's a perfect memory in my head. And you wanna tell me you wouldn't make that trade? Well, buddy, that's because you never slept in the same bed with her, never traced the line of her underarm as she slept, never felt her hair. A guy who tells me Sara Ruland isn't worth having half your jaw shot off is someone who knows a lot about how hard facial reconstruction surgery is but nothing about Sara Ruland.

Oh, so you've heard the 'whole story', huh? I guess you think you know all about it? You only know the bad side. You only know the court transcripts, the newspaper headlines, the papal bulls. You don't know the part where she whispers in my ear from half an inch away, or the part about how she looks first thing in the morning wearing one of my old hockey jerseys, or the part where you drive around with her at 3AM, laughing like a ten-year-old kid, trying to find a twenty-four-hour laundromat. The only thing her public and private faces have in common is that they're both beautiful.

Hey, listen, man, I know what they say. I've heard them. They're pretty much all I heard after I got out of the joint. She 'used' me. I was 'manipulated'. I was a 'sucker'. Well, guess what, fellas? This 'sucker' had that body pressed up against him, had that mouth darting its tongue around his cock, had that magnificent brain dedicated to making him happy, while all you smart guys, all you non-suckers, just saw her picture in the paper. And what you guys did with that picture -- I did in real life. Choke on that, funny man. And I'm supposed to go along with your little delusion that it wasn't worth it? That no girl is worth losing an arm, a lung, and both feet over? Well, enjoy walking home to your empty apartments with your two good feet, boys, and remember that when I had mine, they carried me to Sara Ruland's apartment. And now that she's gone, what do I need them for anyway? I got nowhere to go. I have this bar, and I have my memories. What have you punks got? Just this bar.

Regrets? Sure, I've got regrets. I regret I didn't meet her sooner. I reget she didn't stick around a little longer, so my suffering would be even more worthwhile. I regret that none of you have had even a little taste of what I had, so you can't really appreciate how it was all worth it, every last bit. So I can't leave the borders of the continental United States. Big fucking loss. All that means is that the death warrant they have on me in seven Asian countries isn't worth the paper it's printed on. So the President used us as a cautionary tale in one of his speeches. Is history even going to remember you losers? I'm gonna -- no, we're gonna be in a presidential library. Are any of you going to be in a presidential library? So I have a steel pole where my spine was. If you didn't know you had a spine instead of a steel pole, I bet you'd never be able to tell the difference. Life is too short for regrets -- at least mine is -- and a life with her in it automatically leaves less room for them than a life without them.

Oh, I know what she's up to. I watch TV, you know. It comes in fine in my good eye. So she's taken up with some fancypants neo-Nazi supervillain, or whatever. I wish them both well. I had a good run. If she's going for the flashy type, I trust that she knows what she's doing. As to the whole thing about her faking her orgasms, well, I can't really speak for her. In fact, I can't speak at all without this special device. But I know I said some stupid things after we broke up, and I'm not going to begrudge her a couple of misguided statements. I'll tell you this much: I never faked mine.

Used me. Used me, hell. She used me like the US uses the Marine Corps. I was the lucky one. I got to be part of something truly special. I got to be part of Sara Ruland. That's something not many people can say. Well, not many people in this bar, at least. At this hour. I was the boyfriend of the sexiest woman ever to walk the earth for five glorious weeks, and all it cost me was a couple of years of so-called freedom, my so-called reputation, and most of the use of this so-called body. And you wanna know how I feel about it?

I'll tell you. Inasmuch as I can feel anything, I really can't complain.