I haven't talked to my beloved Kerri Strug for the longest time. All I want to do is hear her sweet albeit high-pitched voice. Perhaps our exchange of words would become a bit flirty. As she playfully swats at an imaginary fly on my strong manly arm, she let's out an, "Oh, you." The touching becomes more magnetic until we can't keep our hands off of each other. The magic spreads to our lips and after I steal the Slug line, "You kiss like you already came." She is attracted to that humble arrogance and soon we whisk away so she can use my body like a hirsute vault thingy.
I've awoken. That isn't reality and it will never be. The pain is too great to take. It's worse than a thousand Iraq wars, a hundred genocides in Darfur, 45 Hurricane Katrinas, 14 Spanish Inquisitions, a couple of Holocausts, another O.J. trial, and having to watch the Miami Dolphins play football. Not put together though, it's worse than each separately, I don't want to be overdramatic.
I've thought about devoting all of my attention away from Kerri Strug and focusing on Miri Ben-Ari. But Miri Ben-Ari is going away on tour and doesn't live in the Washington DC area anyway. Of course she would be the perfect solution for this pain if only things were different. Right now it feels like she'll only cause more pain. Nothing can happen for the time being, so why should I become emotionally invested in Miri Ben-Ari.
But I feel like I would do almost anything to take my mind, my heart, and my soul away from Kerri Strug and her little flexible self. If only I was that mat in Atlanta where she landed her one-footed dismount in the 1996 Olympics to give the US the gold medal in the team gymnastics competition, maybe my spirit would be far from the crushed egg it has become. But for now, all I know is tears.