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So we have the winner – the best party (for the time being in the very least) goes to Massive/Lift “No Party” of last night.  It was… well, massive.  No question about that.  The rumor has it there were something like 2,500 people there and I have no difficulty believing that.  The music was great, the Dutch hosts were tall (and some particularly curly), the crowd was in a great mood.  It was definitely a place to be, so everybody who could get in, did so.  And by everybody I mean them all.


Ok, I’ve been clearly avoiding the subject far too long.  Last year I was a renowned drama queen – I managed to get my heart nearly broken.  In Cannes.  Twice. It was a mess.  The mess went under the code name of Johnny Banana(s) as you might recall.  And last night was the mess’s 40th birthday.  I had no intention to send my greetings or in any other way to encourage further mind fucking, but after running into the guy on the Massive dance floor, I couldn’t help being a little stung.  By the fact that I have allowed any of this to hurt me.  By the fact that I have allowed myself to be so delusional.  The person I cared for existed in my imagination only.  I have realized with piercing clarity that the man in front of me was a stranger, the one who never intended to get involved with me and whose motives were inexplicable.  But what surprised me most was the feeling of loss.  It’s not easy to comprehend that a few months ago you have been vacating your heart for a ghost.


But moving on!  Letting go of a phantom is one thing.  Letting go of a true friend is a much bigger deal…  A long-term pal whom I shortly dated – but who always was a friend first and foremost – crossed me out of his life.  He deleted me off his Facebook via his iPhone while hiding in the restroom from his jealous girlfriend.  He wiped me off Skype, got rid off all my phone numbers…  We have been looking forward to seeing each other in Cannes more than I can possibly tell.  This is one and only guy out there who might not agree with me, argue with me, criticize me on all levels, yet he never stops caring for me.  He is one of those friends who will remain friends even if we never talk again.  He knows that if he ever asks me for help, there is no road I wouldn’t go down for him.  I know I can count on him in exactly the same way.  He is cutting me out of his life not because HE does not want to know me, but because he is being haunted, followed, tortured and daily terrified by his bitch of a girlfriend.  And if she is one of the people who is reading this – I stand by my title for her. And I’m not apologetic about it.  If you are deliberately, intentionally, repeatedly hurting the person you claim to love – you do not deserve another name in my book. 


My friend – let’s call him Tristan – was a lovely, charming, a bit sensitive and hyper, brilliant and bright guy with many Isoldas.  He wasn’t hooking up with girls for a good lay, but rather for a full-blown shot at romance.  Which usually lasted a week.  Or two.  The wind shifted and so would his interest. 


I have to admit I was mocking him for this.  I was saying he should make up his mind and either fuck around and enjoy the constant flow of beautiful girls that he had never a problem of attracting and stop expecting to find big love, or slow down and not break up with yet another lady of the heart after ten days of mind-blowing sex have worn the passion off.  He seemed to listen to me there.  He followed my latter advice.  And I feel terrible about it.


Tristan, my dear!  My heart is breaking to see your sad, pale face.  You’re in Cannes – that you greatly love – and yet there is not a sparkle in your eyes.  There’s misery and fear and pain instead.  I couldn’t help tears after that first encounter of ours at Martinez.


Tristan, my friend!  You’re a lovely, talented, eccentric human being with a heart that could embrace the world.  You reach out to people, you love life, you love music, you adore Massive parties – and yet after seeing me at the door that slave owner of a girlfriend made you leave after only five minutes.  This mess, Tristan, is not something that I can force myself to get over.  This isn’t something I will ever forget or let go off.  I’m hurt for you.  This is a full-scale case of Stockholm syndrome, my dear!


I am in no way a Dan Savage.  I have no right to give advice.  But I can’t help myself.  You’re being held hostage.  DMTFA!

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