Worst Superpower Ever

I’ve been reading a book called “Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story” which is about death and rock n’ roll. A paragraph in particular caught my attention:

“There is an entire cult of disciples (led, I believe by Minnie Driver) who inject the knowledge of [Jeff] Buckley’s demise back into his work, and what they hear on songs like ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ is something that couldn’t exist if he were still alive. It’s a simple equation: Buckley is dead, so [his 1993 Album] Grace is profound. But this is reverse engineering; this says more about the people who like Buckley than it does about his music.”

The idea I found interesting is that events that happen after the work was created have influenced how people interpret the album. And in a way, it’s sort of what’s been going on in my life.

What follows is ENTIRELY the work of my own neurosis, but I’ve begun working up a case on whether or not my ex was cheating on me. Logically, I know she wasn't. Well…I suspect that she wasn’t. I guess no one can ever really know for sure. But logic has no place in my interpretation of past events based on our eventual split. Every conversation we had now takes on a new meaning.

Example:

Me: How was your day?
Her: fine.

Translation:

Me: How was your day?
Her: I’m fucking other guys.

Now, I’m already aware that it’s unfair, unhealthy, and completely stupid. But right now, those three words are a pretty good description of me. Seriously, my mind is doing really bizarre things with this new perspective. Relatively simple facts all seem part of some sinister master plot for my ex to sleep with hundreds of dudes.

Example:

She wanted to move to Pittsburgh. Men live in Pittsburgh. Therefore, she wanted to fuck the starting offensive line for the Stealers.

Unfortunately, my weird irrational imagination also extends to current actions. Meaning not only am I misinterpreting past events, I sometimes manage to convince myself that I have ESP strictly localized to my ex-girlfriend’s vagina.

So I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, utterly certain that she’s doing reverse cowgirl with the guy from the brawny paper-towel commercials. No one in the history of the world is having more unbelievable and mind-blowing sex than my ex…in my imagination.

I find myself praying that it’s only my sick mind and that I haven’t somehow inherited the shittiest superpower ever. Although, the creation story for said gift would probably be pretty amusing:

Once a mild-mannered gynecologist, Clit Vaghammer’s life changed when exposed to gamma radiation while elbow-deep in Miss Cleo. Now, he roams the earth, talking in a crazy accent, righting the wrong, and obsessing over his ex’s vag.

I really need to get out more.