After 5 months, I texted him and said it seems like we’re not friends anymore and that was your decision, but it hurt because I really needed a friend and you vanished. Short version of the story: we dated, broke up, remained friends for a year and a half, The week my mother died, he ghosted me. Marilyn's mind was a desert, a drought, with tiny compartments devoted to clothes, makeup, stardom, and fucking. Of course she understood none of it, because there was no fertile ground in which any of this could take hold: You can throw a multitude of seeds into the desert sands, but there will never be fruitage. Marilyn sought and developed her identity as a sex symbol she wiggled and cooed for the camera, but, incapable of satisfaction or understanding, she fought this image, so she would read Joyce and Schopenhauer and Woolf and Jung. 'People praised Marilyn because she read books, because, I think, we couldn't conceive that an ambulatory bowl of rich vanilla ice cream needed to think or to grow a mind. Maybe she let him see only a part of who she was because she didn't trust him. Marilyn was known for showing different sides of herself to different people. It's hard to imagine that they spent that much together. His take seems rather uncharitable coming from the same person who wrote Laura in Glass Menagerie. I don't think there's been a thread on this specific topic before.
