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[Pictures_of_You_#_15: Inspiration?]

I know you're all furiously searching for pictures of Trent and banging out Haiku like there's no tomorrow.

I just wanted to give you a little inspiration:


A Haiku by Dierdre

The degree to which
that microphone resembles
a breast destroys me.

If you feel the need to practice your skillz by carrying on where I've left off, here, please do...

Posted by Dierdre ~ in pictures_of_you | Permalink | Comments (56) | TrackBack



Have you noticed the lull, you guys?

I guess with me feeling a quart low, Gabriel off on another one of his always productive quests for the fucking meaning of life, and Mimi consuming pastries by the oozingly suggestive dozens because she's upset at Gabriel (and Trent?!) for some reason of the heart that I can't fathom because I'm not French, things here at WTC have ground to a near halt.

It's not as if I'm not as enraptured as I ever have been by the way the hair sticks to Trent's delicious, sweaty chest, or that I don't imagine, night and fucking day, what his crazy, multi-directional fingers could do if strategically applied to my naked body. More importantly, it's not like I'm not as undone as ever by the strange alchemy that makes it possible for him to use rock firegod bombast and stagey histrionics to convey the soft, thoughtful, inner life of a remarkably interesting human man with devastating emotional verity and perfect focus, while rocking it with that hot, meaty little ass of his and the Lt. Jughead Reznor hairstyle that makes me want to lick every inch of his hot, hot rig.

I mean, VERILY, my friends, Trent Reznor is a very fucking sexy genius. I'm just so UNINSPIRED these days.

That's why I need you, dear readers. WTC is crying out for a good photo essay, n'est-ce pas? I need ideas. Help me out, people. Is there something we haven't scrutinized, probed, examined and fondly stroked with sufficient thoroughness? Favorite pictures we haven't cooed and gooed over with ample girlish enthusiasm? Details that need to be teased into the light and made to stand erect? In my wildest fantasies, each of you will send me your two favorite pictures of Trent, accompanied by super sexy, anatomically explicit haiku! Is that too much to ask?

Dear readers, WTC needs you! Ante up!

Posted by Dierdre ~ in call_&_response / with_questions | Permalink | Comments (34) | TrackBack


[Mimi's_Musings: Les_Hommes_du_Gingembre]

Salut mes cheries! It is with a heavy heart that I open my laptop to write to you today. For you see, just when I thought that everything was going roses dans la vie, the whole world was turned upside down on its head.

Tout le monde believes I am full of the hatred, but that is not indeed so. I am just very sad. I am sad that my heart has been broken, and someone whom I believed I could have trusted has abandoned me in the face of all adversity.

This whole situation began when we first learned that Dierdre was moving to Paris to marry her then beloved, Michel. Gabriel, whom I have had many battles with in the past with, was upset, hurt, betrayed. And so I tried my best to comfort him in the best way I know how, with words, wine and le bon repas. And it made him happy, and nice, and I believed that I was helping him to get over the hole that Dierdre had left in his heart.

But then Gabriel flew to France, dans le temps de la plupart de la violence, to rescue his friend from what he believed was not to be her destiny. Peut-être qu’il a raison, peut-être que non. I was left wondering what kind of man would sell his most prized possessions to fly over the moon for his copine and yet this man could not even spend the dix sous it would cost to send me a text message saying, ”Gone 2 France. Look after site. <3 G.” In return, the friend that is rescued thanked not Gabriel but a stranger, someone she will never meet, Trent Reznor, for making her see the sense.

I expressed my sentiments to Gabriel during a chat we had soon after he returned. I wanted to feel special again, and wanted him to feel special, too. Below is a portion of our chat:

Mimi: et oui it was formidable!

Gabriel: i don't know what that means, but it sounds AWESOME. glad you had fun

Mimi: formidable means very good

Gabriel: so many of the people on WTC talk shit about that kind of stuff, like I can't have any fucking interests other than Trank -- so lame. they're just missing out

Mimi: it makes me sad that Dierdre did not get married because of Trent

Gabriel: I don't know if it was because of trent exactly... i mean... it's not like michel was a good guy

Mimi: you are a good friend to her but I do not think she appreciates how good of a friend you are. I wanted you to know that I think you are un homme formidable

Gabriel: thanks. everybody's so bitchy sometimes, just talking about how hot trent is all the time (*yawn*), and I'm really glad you're on the site with something on your mind other than getting TR into bed

Mimi: parce que there is someone else I would like to get in my bed, mon cher. perhaps someone who is more, how you say, attainable

Gabriel: really...and what did you have in mind exactly?

Mimi: well, as you know, I have my Winter Break coming up from l'ecole, et I need a vacation. Perhaps I could come to California and you could show me around. I would make it worth your while, cherie. you know, i am a pauvre etudiante, and would need a place to stay.

Gabriel: i'll just be in a studio apartment. it might be a little cramped. but we can always share the bed

Gabriel: no funny business, of course

Mimi: there is nothing funny with what i have in mind, cherie. I take these things very seriously

Gabriel: oh yeah? what would you do? turn me into a little french desert for your dining pleasure?

Mimi: oh, mon cher, but of course I would cook for you. And then you can take apart the layers of my millefeuille

Mimi: very slowly

Mimi: because of course it is very creamy, sweet, and rich

Gabriel: sounds appetizing... but what if the batter was not properly mixed?

Gabriel: what if i had to... stir it for you?

Gabriel: i have many utensils. many naughty utensils

Mimi: oh cherie, there is no batter for millefeuille. It is very delicate pastry, with thin little layers of creamy sweet custard, and rich, dark chocolate. You really only need your tongue to take the layers apart. Oh and maybe one of your utensils.

Mimi: i can show you how if you are nervous at first because each millefeuille is different

Gabriel: i would start by licking the outside gently at first probing with my tongue, to taste the sweet custard inside

Gabriel: is that correct?

Mimi: ah oui...c'est correct! absolument!

Gabriel: or do you prefer if I softly suck at the layers, until the custard spills into my waiting mouth?

Mimi: oh mon dieu! that is perfect! that is

Mimi: oh CALICE DE TABERNACLE. Fuck. sorry, cherie

Gabriel: what?

Gabriel: do you not like the way i suck the custard??? what?

Mimi: my mother is calling me on the phone

Gabriel: YOUR MOTHER!!!

Gabriel: WTF?!?!!?

Mimi: sorry, cherie i must go. I will talk to you later. I'm sorry

Gabriel: tell her you'll call her back!

Gabriel: we're talking about eating pastries here, goddammit!

MimiJonesTaylor has gone offline.

You see, mes cheries, I have come to realize that men are not like pastries. Les pâtisseries will always give you pleasure and comfort and never disappoint. They will never call you horrible names because your mother calls you at in appropriate times. Les pâtisseries will always make you smile. You are never lonely if you are holding a pain au chocolat, and there is simply nothing sexier than a galette des rois.

It seems to me, mes cheries, that my many disappointments this year have come from les hommes. First of all, Michel – he was supposed to give Dierdre the happy-ever-after ending that we all long for in notre monde romantique, but he turned out to not be the man that we had hoped for our Dierdre. He disappointed her because he could not allow her to be herself within the confines of their relationship. The next disappointment to me has been, and I am afraid to say this, but I am more afraid if I do not say it, is notre amour. Trent has disappointed me because of the power he holds over us, in particular, Dierdre, maise, bex, my demi-soeur Buttercup, and many of the other-wise women of intellect who are reduced to nothing but drool buckets when they speak of him. But most of all and finalement, I am the most disappointed in Gabriel. Of course, I should have known better that he was nothing but a common, inhibited Anglophone male ever since he censored my artistic creation, but I always believed that I could help him to understand the ways of la beauté, les arts, et l’amour. And now that he has departed on this voyage without so much of a word to me, except for a very passif-agressif message in his final paragraph, I am left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and drown my sorrows in the only thing worth drowning them in, un bouteille de Ch. Pétrus 1964. Your chalice and concert ticket may have been worth the price of your friendship with Dierdre*, but you should not have devalued the friendship you could have had with me, which would have been of equal or greater value if you had given us the chance, mon cher.

*Airfare from LAX – Charles de Gaulle last minute – approx. $3000.00 USD. Value of Ch. Pétrus 1964 Pomerol in mint condition - $3500.00 USD.

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in mimi's_musings | Permalink | Comments (38) | TrackBack



London is grey and I am feeling a little emptied out these days, after all the drama of my romantic interlude in France.

In a way, it's nice to be back in the bosom of my hopeless love, but I can't help feeling sad these days, and sometimes it's just not enough to be licked by a friend's dog while listening to the voice of a faraway dream of a man who doesn't know I'm alive, and probably thinks I'm fucking insane if he does. I'm not, you know. If anything, I'm totally, depressingly normal.

One of my all-time favorite images of Trent, ever, is this one, from the closer video:


I love how, in the video, he holds the nautilus shell, with all its flawless geometrical symmetry, next to his face, and then glances at it, his brow knit in consternation, before looking back at the camera -- at us -- as if to ask what relationship there is between his troubling irregularity and that perfection, while he sings "my whole existence is flawed."

I've always loved that moment because it made me want to yell "YES! You are exactly that perfect!" at the television, and it's a satisfying feeling, because I think that, by seeing that about him, even if he can't, I am helping (just a little) to fulfill the hope there is in his work. Is that crazy? Maybe it is.

I always feel that, as wrong as he might feel he is, there's always been something about Trent that's a bit like Chaos Theory, and all those pictures of Mandelbrot Sets in which equations that seem to exhibit chaotic behavior reveal their complex beauty and surprising organization when plotted after hundreds of iterations, and it's both magnificent and comforting. People always accuse Trent of repeating himself, like that's a bad thing, but I think every good artist has, like, one or two topics that they can never leave behind -- equations that have to be solved hundreds and hundreds of times before they start making sense.

He's way ahead of me, though. Sometimes I think I'll never have the courage to hold that nautilus shell up and even suggest a comparison like that. All of my equations are unsolved. Maybe it's because of how much I've always sucked at math, but sometimes I think my self-confidence gave up the fight a long goddamned time ago. Maybe not, though. Maybe not. I don't know.

Something Trent and I have in common, other than the way we both seem to enjoy wallowing in unrequited-ness, is that we're both "a quart low in the mood department." Maybe it's the holiday, but I'm feeling blue, here in London: uninspired, exhausted, essentially silent, lonely, and as if no one will ever look at me and see the kind of pattern I see in Trent... If I even have a pattern.


Plus, I try to fight it, but I can't help but feel a little sad that, in all likelihood, Trent Reznor will never fuck me like an animal. That's just fucking tragically unfair. As I've said before, sometimes the unrequited love is high-minded and makes you feel rich, and other times? Not so much.

Michel called me yesterday. All I can tell you is that I made the right decision -- not that it makes me feel any better about causing so much trouble with my stupid, romantic longings and the way I tell myself stories that totally aren't true.

I'll leave you all with a poem. It's from Don Quixote, but I changed it up a bit, you know, for Trent:

Either Love has too little understanding,
or too much cruelty, or else my grief's
not equal to its cause, though it condemns me
to suffer this, the harshest kind of torment.
But if Love is a god, then logic tells us
that he is ignorant of nothing, teaches
that a god's not cruel. Then, who has ordained
this terrible anguish that I adore?
If I say you, Trent, then I am wrong,
for evil has no place in so much good,
nor does my woe rain down upon me from heav'n.
Still, I must cry, of that I am sure;
when the cause of this sickness is unknown
only a miracle can find the cure.

I think I need to go home for Christmas. Gabriel? Are you checking in? Can I stay with you?

Posted by Dierdre ~ in inside_dierdre, unrequited_love | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBack



Greetings, my bitches.

You've probably noticed I've been quiet the last couple days -- and no, it isn't because of the Xbox 360 launch tonight (though I'm this close to standing in line at the local Best Buy to get one).

The San Diego and Oakland shows were this past weekend, but I don't have any reports: I didn't go. I sold my tickets to the same freak that bought that Chalice when I funded my trip to France to save Dierdre. It was just the tip of an iceberg of enlightenment that has slowly revealed itself to me, inch by arctic inch, until I've found myself surrounded by the dense white beauty of pure enlightened ice.

It's like being in Superman's Fortress of Solitude. But it's not that cold, and I don't really feel all that solitudey.

Anyway, given the upcoming holidays, and the happiness that's seemed to come from my first good and pure act in such a long time, I realized I needed to make some changes in my life. That there are many open-ended chapters in The Book of Gabriel, and it was time to finish some of those motherfuckers.

So over the next two weeks I'm going to find my father.

Well, I already know where he is; I mean, just getting in the car and driving and hoping I find him would be kind of stupid... but I haven't seen the man in about 12 years. I haven't talked about him much here, but when I was growing up my Pops was a Calvinist minister, and we were a great little god-fearing churchgoing family, until Pops got caught playing Hide The Cruficix with one of the church staff. One of the male church staff. Needless to say, my folks soon got divorced, and my mom and brother and I all moved out to California.

I don't know what to expect... but I am nervous, and excited. I think it's going to be a good trip, and will be just the first of many changes coming up (speaking of, Dierdre and I's apartment is going to be up on the market soon, so if any of you San Diego readers want to live in the place where the genius known as Wearing_These_Chains was birthed, send me an email). I don't know what Internet access is going to be like, and most likely, I'm not going to be checking email and the net anyway. This is going to be a trip for me to recharge, rediscover, and recalibrate myself.

I think of it as a Roadtrip of Purity. These types of experiences are what we must all push ourselves through if we wish to evolve, and when you've reached the type of emotional enlightenment that I have, I think you'll agree.

The open road beckons. And I must answer. I will speak with you all soon. Until then, I leave you in good hands (well, one set of good hands at least. The other set is a bunch of bullshit that just gets you amped up and then leaves you hanging. And fuck that.)

Fare thee well.


Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (41) | TrackBack


[Pictures_of_You_#_14: I'm_Not_Saying_There's_A_Theme Here]

I just really like these ones, for some reason...


Posted by Dierdre ~ in pictures_of_you | Permalink | Comments (75) | TrackBack


[From_Miller_to_Meat: Apology_Accepted]

You know, the world ain't bad.

Maybe it's the approach of our American holiday Thanksgiving, where we celebrate all the generous help the indigenous people of North America lavished upon our ancestors (before said ancestors' germ-infested, raping, and murdering ways wiped them all out, leaving only colorful casinos behind), but everything seems pretty great lately. My best friend Dierdre is back here on the site, having narrowly averted a mistake of cataclismique proportions, Alex Carpediem has learned how to use the "tom" in his drumkit, so NIN can now play "Dead Souls" live, and Meathead has formally apologized to Wearing These Chains.

"But wait a second, Gabriel", you exclaim. "I never read any formal apology." Well, I say to you, then you don't know Meathead.

My name is Head.  Meat Head.

As we all know, Meathead writes a column for the nin hotline, where Meathead makes fun of Trent Reznor (or as he likes to call him sometimes, "Trank Rosner"). Sometimes he calls him dumb, or lazy, but it all comes from the place of really being a super huge geeked-out fan of Michael T. Reznor's in the first place.

Remember how in 3rd grade guys would pull the pigtails of the girls they secretly liked? It's kinda like that.

Well I'm sure you're all by now familiar with the fact that when I offered Meat some constructive criticism, it set off a retort, and then Meathead actually quit the internet because of it all. I was crushed. But then he showed up at the Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania show, wearing an official WTC t-shirt:

Meat DOES read!

At first I was confused -- why was Mr. Head wearing our shirt, the URL to the site prominently displayed? Wasn't he mad at us? Surely he must knew that by adding his delightful addition to our design, he was only -- aside from upsetting the balance of my meticulously crafted design work -- giving us "props", or "respect"... but wasn't I -- Gabriel Miller -- the very reason he quit his column in the first place? And then I realized what was going on.

He was pulling my pigtails. This was his way of apologizing. And after further examination it became clear why.

The MeatGraph

One of the main points of my dissertation against Meat was that his recent output had suffered from a general lack-of-laughness. Both in quantity and quality, Meat wasn't bringing the goods. But as the above graph demonstrates, after my post Meathead's creative output leapt an astounding Two Hundred and Twenty-Five Percent -- which even included a flash cartoon! The conclusion is obvious:

I am Meathead's muse.

So right on Meathead -- you keep on being meaty, and I'll keep on being myself, giving you that plateau to strive for. Who knows; maybe with my example to follow we can get your average up to 2 posts a week.

We can do it. Together. I believe in you.

Posted by Gabriel in gabriel's_ponderings | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBack



Dear Trent,

I can't tell you how many times I started writing letters to you in my head over the past couple of weeks. All of them began with "Dear Trent, Paris is burning, and so is my heart..." Yeah, I know. I'm barfing too.

It's been a rough couple of weeks, trying to pretend like my dreams weren't really mine, and play-acting in reality. Fuck, love is confusing. In the end, while Paris erupted all around me with the anguish that comes of denial, for that is truly what ails her, I came face to face with my own lapse of the courage it takes to face the truth -- the one that allowed me to deny the flesh and blood of my ideal love and true passion, for its pale shadow of the real.

I know that seems ass backwards, but for some reason, I always think you'd understand such things. I suppose it should be true that the flesh I can touch should lay it's firmer hold on my heart, but the simple truth is that it isn't enough, and it doesn't. I have to accept that for the time being, because anything else is certain death of the soul, and as everyone knows, there's no worse fate than that. Does that seem melodramatic? Well, so it is, and so I am. But, then again, so are you, aren't you, Sparklepants?

The sad truth is, I'm sorrier to lose the imagined bliss of being the perfect French wife of a handsome photographer than I am to lose Michel. It hurt me more to try to give up my dream of you than it does to give him up. Perhaps it's a sad commentary, but my inexperienced guess is that that's no basis for a lifelong union. I'm not sure the whole think has really sunk in yet. I'm sure it will.


Meanwhile, baby, what the hell have you been up to in the past few weeks? Jesus! First these revelations about the musical selections you deploy when making your move (for the record, I know you had a big crush on Erykah Badu, so even though she is fucking exemplary, I'd rather we went with D'Angelo or Sigur Ros when you freak me. Or, alternatively, could you just sing me one of your mysterious new songs? I have a feeling that would really hit the spot, if you get my drift...), then the whole making out with the mosh pit (and someone who, I'm told, is keeping track of a "Trent mount count", no less), and now with the constant masturbating!? That's hot. The masturbating, I mean.

You're a busy man, it seems.

I snuck out of my golden French prison long enough to watch your performance at the Voodoo Fest online, and that bit with Saul Williams totally touched my goddamned heart, I must say. I think Saul Williams should get your band to back his brilliant ass up more often. You're looking practiced and perfect on stage these days, and it goes without saying that seeing your shiny rig and smokin' hot ass is always a pleasure, but it was an even greater pleasure to see you change it up and look so chuffed with yourself while rocking a little back up rap. You're so cute!

More later, you big sexy man, you. I'm back.


Posted by Dierdre ~ in dear_trent | Permalink | Comments (56) | TrackBack


[Jerome_The_Vampire: Van_Rezning, The_Final_Chapter]

         Aaron, who had never harmed a soul in his life except for the occasional piece of stage equipment and maybe a roadie or two, lay in shreds on the floor of Jerome’s hotel room. I recognized it was him from the locks of black hair attached to the ragged pieces of scalp on top of his skull. It was hard to picture this lifeless pile of skin, blood and bones as the same guy who just last night threw me into the hallway.
         “What the fuck happened?” I cried. Then I felt the eyes staring at me. I turned around and saw its face. The same demon that had done this to Aaron, his grey, wrinkled skin pulled into bunches on his forehead, his bushy eyebrows knitted into a hawklike stare.  Blood dripped from his fangs down his face and neck.
         “And now I’ll take care of you.” The creature spoke in a voice that, though its pattern was familiar, sounded like it was put through a synthesizer from an 80s horror movie dance tune.  I narrowed my eyes to stare at the unkempt hair on the creature’s head.
         Before I could think any more, the creature swooped down towards me. I held up my hands to defend myself, but the creature was stronger than his wiry frame betrayed. He aimed his mouth towards my shoulder (which I found strange since I always thought vampires aimed for the neck), and I was able to deflect his bite with a butt of my head. While he was stunned, I threw him onto the floor, stood up and ran into the bedroom, barricading the door with the writing table.
         As I turned around, I noticed Aaron’s dufflebag on the floor, filled, as if he were about to leave. I guess he thought I was going to fire him. But he was just letting off steam.  I can understand that. And then I wondered if I was only thinking good thoughts because of my superstition of speaking ill of the dead. How did that little buck o’five fucker throw me into the hallway yesterday? I rubbed my head as my recollection brought back the pain. But wait…wasn’t Jerome in the room last night? Where is Jerome? Did that creature out there consume his body too, polishing him off before starting on poor Aaron?
         There was a loud thud at the door. The creature was trying to break it down. I looked around for a weapon, a lamp, anything, that could injure him if he managed to get in. Unfortunately, nobody on this tour believes in Christ enough to carry a damn crucifix.
         The door began to bevel under the force of the creature. I saw Jerome’s drum sticks on the night table beside the other end of the bed. That seemed strange. Were Aaron and Jerome sharing a bed? The things they kept from me. I would have been cool with that. Really. As long as they didn’t try anything on me, it would have been fine.
         The door cracked as the creature pushed to break it down. Summoning all of the faith that I had in this religious shit when I was younger, I put the sticks together in the form of a “t”, and stood, facing the door. If anything, it might delay the creature for long enough until I could think of something else to defend myself.
         The table went flying across the room, and the door crashed into the wall above the bed. The creature stormed into the room. I held my ground, though my hands shook as I held up the sticks.
         The creature stood up tall, and laughed. A laugh that I had heard before.
         “Do you honestly believe that movie trick will work with me?” he said in his growl.  “With my own sticks, even?”
         My hands fell to hang beside me.
         “This… Aaron… the dead girls… it’s been…”
         “Well it took you long enough,” he said to me, his forehead relaxing ever so slightly. “I was wondering how that bump on your head effected your thinking. It seems to have made you slightly smarter.”
         I tightened my grasp on the sticks, and snorted. 
         “So now I know what you really think of me, “ I said to him.
         “I’ve been telling you for years,” he said. “As usual, you never listen to anyone around you. It’s all about you and what you have to do. We’re all fucking sick of it. You’re nothing but a self-centered, uptight, fascist dictator.”
         “Why, you fucking ingrate!”
         His words blinded me with rage.
         “After everything I did for you. You nearly fucking died. And I still gave you a fucking job as my drummer. And you repay me by slaughtering not only my fans but my lead guitarist?”
         “See? You, you, you... all about you. What about the rest of us? Can you play all the fucking instruments live? You’re the ingrate.”
         Jerome headed for the front door.
         “Where are you going?”
         “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “The best way to make you suffer is to take away your band, one by one. See what you do then. I’m off to visit Alessandro…”
         I leapt across the room. My band? He’s going to take down my band? Who does this little prick think he is?
         I reached forward and grabbed his shoulder.
         “You can’t take my band,” I shouted. 
         As Jerome struggled to break from my grip, with an instinct I had never felt inside myself before, my hand drove a drumstick between the rib bones of Jerome’s back.  His eyes widened. I spun him to face me, and, continuing to follow my instinct, I took the other stick and drove it into the center of his chest, crunching through skin, bone and cartilage, stopping as the diamond tip pierced his grey, cold heart.
         Jerome’s grip on my arm slowly began to lose its strength, as his body slid onto the floor.  The wrinkles in his forehead receded, and his fangs retracted. His face softened, becoming pale and kind. Whatever creature had possessed him had gone, and it was about to take Jerome with him.
         “Thank you,” he whispered, looking up at me, “for releasing me. I’m sorry…about Aaron…he was a good kid…”
         I placed him beside Aaron’s remains.
         “It’s all right,” I told him. “Be at peace.”
         Jerome’s eyes closed, his head slumped over to one side. Overwhelmed, I sank onto the floor, holding my head, staring at the bloody carnage.
         “Fuck,” I said to their remains,  “could this tour get any fucking worse?”

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack



It's about 7:44am here local time. I'm writing this on my laptop, plugged into the ninternet via one of the wireless access points here at Charles DeGaulle aiport.

For the record: LAX and San Diego International blow compared to this shit. This airport fucking RULES.

I haven't slept much the last few days, and am just looking forward to crashing out on the plane. My flight's in about 2 1/2 hours. Yeah, crashing out sounds good. That and a fucking vodka tonic.

Dierdre's not with me, and will not be returning to the States anytime soon. I don't think she feels the U.S. is really her home anymore, and I don't know if she'll ever come back for any length of time.

But it was good to see her, you know? I didn't really realize what a step I was taking on Friday when I flew over here. What was I going to do? What would I say? How would I buy smokes when I don't speak French? All I knew was that I was consumed; taken over by that same blinding drive I felt when NIN club tour tickets went on sale, or when I stepped onto the field at Coachella on May 31st.

I didn't know how or why I was going to do what I was going to do, or what the outcome would be, but I knew there was nothing in my being that would prevent it from happening.

It turns out Landerneau is actually a really pretty town, and I imagine it's the kind of place anybody would be more than happy spending the rest of their life in. The people are quite lovely -- I strangely found the French to be amongst the friendliest Europeans I've met -- and Michel's parents were not the overlords of abomination I was expecting.

Dierdre looked stunning; gorgeous. Michel was not pleased to see me. I am pleased to report that for once, I didn't hit back.

It didn't seem appropriate.

All I know is that I got my moment with Dierdre. To tell her how I felt. Not to come in like some half-cocked pleather-clad cowboy, but as a friend that loved her. Because though I have done things I'm not proud of in my time, I did not want my experience knowing her to end that way.

You pass certain crossroads in your life, and you breeze past them, and you never pay them mind ever again. Other crossroads, however... if you don't take a certain path, you will regret it for the rest of your life. (Please no Robert Frost allusions, Maise, thanks).

So I got to do the right thing. To give my final words to her as words of love -- not of anguish, or striking out, or misplaced frustration. But as the sum emotional truth of everything I am and everything I know.

Because that's what I came here to do. And once I'd had that chance, I could walk away. Knowing I'd done the best thing I could for somebody I truly care for, and felt was harming herself.

I just wanted to say thanks to all of our readers for sticking by me the last couple days; I know I've been more ornery than usual. It's been a hard time for me, and a time where I think I really had to learn a lot of things in a very short amount of time -- many of them things I didn't really want to ever learn.

But here I am. And a good portion of it is because of you. So thanks. And thanks for your comments the last couple days -- a larger majority than normal seem to be positive thoughts, wishing me well on my journey, and that love and encouragement means a lot too.

This has been the best thing I've ever done. I just wish Dierdre was here with me to talk about it.

Nobody gets me like her.

So I guess I'll have to go to London sometime soon, where she's staying with friends.

Apparently France feels pretty small when both you and your fiancé that you've just walked away from on your wedding day live there.

Dierdre Keating. Never a dull moment. That's my fucking girl.

Gabriel Miller
Paris, France
November 14, 2005

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