Today Munch’s Scream was stolen from a museum. I sometimes have a bit of sympathy for art thieves, admittedly, the vast majority of them are probably working for some recluse ultra-wealthy art collector, but there seems to be something a bit more romantic when it comes to art thievery. I guess the Thomas Crown Affair has perverted my sense of judgment.
While I read the article all I could do is keep running one thought through my brain. That being, “My scream has also been stolen.” I realized I have never really cried over Neal, I forced a few dramatic tears out the one time we talked on the phone, but they were clearly forced. I am no where near over him. When I had sex with that guy last week, all I could think of was “a) this guy is a terrible lay & b) God damn do I miss Neal.”
I wish I could cry, rage, and scream about Neal. I think about him everyday and now that I have the apartment to myself for 2 full weeks (roomie just moved out, and am waiting on the other) I just kind of mope around thinking of him. He never did call me this week, and I knew he would not but I just wanted to hear from him so much. I do not know what it was about him, we are clearly two very different people, but when I looked at him, it made me feel like the way I did when I was with Jennifer. I really want to mourn over this and move on, but I cannot stop wallowing in my own pity. It truly is something disgustingly pathetic.
To the art thieves: “Shame on you for stealing a wonderful piece the public has enjoyed for years, bravo on pulling something like that off. If you know who has stolen my scream, I would be willing to pay the ransom.”
