NEWS: Jonathan Kesselman's Suicide Watch: ShiksaX

CULTURE: Jonathan Kesselman's Suicide Watch: ShiksaX

The following is as accurate an account of what transpired between myself and my ex-girlfriend (for the purpose of this report she will be referred to as ‘ShiksaX’) during an ‘Extreme Wine Tasting Event’ at a hipster Silver Lake enclave known as, The Echo. Please note that the confluence of time, mass wine consumption, anger, and Shiksa Lust have all affected my memory of the event. As such, I will take liberties in describing what occurred that evening…

Okay, so I had already broken up with ShiksaX six months prior. Let me re-phrase that. The cunt whore broke up with me. I’d like to quickly explain that it is not my intention to offend any of the women who are reading this. It’s just that I learned long ago that in order to keep my eggshell of an ego intact, it’s of the utmost importance that I demonize any and all of the fucking whore-y ass gash sluts who break my heart.

Anyway, so this ethereally gorgeous, blonde goddess from a small town near Palm Springs called Hemet, had violently ripped my heart from my chest six-months prior, threw it on the ground, and then stomped on it with her incredibly sexy high heels. She had left me for her ex-boyfriend. Some guy from her home town, who I can only imagine still wore his swimming letterman jacket, and worked as a teller at a bank somewhere in a three-stoplight township in Northern California.

My eight months with ShiksaX prior to this break-up had been amazing. For the first time, I had completely let down my guard with a woman. I was vulnerable, and I was seriously falling for this girl. When I was away, all I could think about was her. When I was with her, my heart swelled. I’m not what you would call a ‘happy’ person. I was happy with her. And not that it should matter, but this was a girl who wore thong underwear and shaved her vagina.

So, anyway, months later, after the breakup, we began to see one another romantically again. She was the one who initiated first contact (just in case any of you were wondering). I was wary at first. The sexy spiked heel hole in my heart had just barely scarred over, and I am a proud man: proud to a fault, in fact. But she wanted me back, and who was I to deny her? Apparently, it wasn’t working out with the letterman jacket-wearing bank-telling swimmer. He wasn’t “going anywhere in his life.” Not like me, the uber-achieving, intense Jew she had found so interesting just months prior.

The rekindling of our relationship boiled down to this oft-repeated conversation:

She would smile demurely and tell me, “You make me so happy.” I, with a raging woody and goofy smile plastered on my face, would gaze into her eyes and respond in kind, “It makes me happy…making you happy.” Pathetic, I know. But I was in LOVE. I think. You know, because you can never really be sure it’s LOVE…let’s just put it at this -- I was in a whole lot of LIKE.

So, after an incredible Italian dinner (she loved Italian food, BTW) and already slightly buzzed, we found ourselves flushed and holding hands as we walked into that den of Silver Lake hipsterdom…The Echo. …eCho…ecHo. echO…

Now, I’m not sure where the conversation took the nose dive. I remember telling her about my love of New York. I had just gotten back from a trip, and was glowing from the experience. She asked me why I loved NYC so much. I told her that whenever I was there, I felt that at any moment that I could keel over from a heart attack from over-stimulation, and how I loved that feeling. I told her that NYC is a town designed for me. On every block there are countless restaurants, bars, and Chinese people that actually do your laundry relatively inexpensively, and fold it. I told her that for a Jew I felt very comfortable there. That 1/5 of the city is comprised of Jews. It was a place where as a Jew…

This is where she freaked out. She stopped me, and said. “You see, this is why it won’t work for us.”

I was thinking to myself, "What the fuck is she talking about?"
I turned to her and said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
She continued, “I’m not Jewish.”
“I know that. You think I don’t know that? What difference does that make?” I pleaded.
“I don’t know. We’re just…so different. And I just don’t know if it can work”
“But…but…You make me happy. I make you happy. It makes me happy making you happy.”

I thought that would shut her up.

“Jon, what if we were to have kids? I wouldn’t want to raise them as Jewish.”

Oooph.

But I didn’t care about that. I started to speak, and then suddenly I stopped myself. I mean, I’m not religious. I don’t care about that. But, what’s wrong with the kids being Jewish, or even half-Jewish? I like being Jewish. A lot. It’s a hell of a lot better than being a bank clerk ex-swimmer who wears a letterman jacket at the age of 30, or some Blonde bimbo from Hemet who says ‘Like,’ like, a hundred times, in the process of forming a single sentence. I searched for something to say. Anything to say…

“It’s not like we’re getting married. And if, by some chance, we ever got down that road, we’d figure it out.”

It was time to change the subject. I missed my hard-on. I put my hand on her thigh, and leaned in to give her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Why are we even talking about this? Let’s just enjoy being with each other.”

She responded by saying, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

She got up and left me sitting there. Confused. Buzzed. Semi-hard.

As I watched her walk off towards the bathroom, it dawned on me that ShiksaX and I weren’t going to last.

It didn’t end that night, but a few weeks later. I found out she was dating her ex-boyfriend and me, simultaneously. She was, for lack of a better word, ‘auditioning’ me, and as a proud man with a freshly broken heart, I wasn’t going to allow her to re-open the wound again. And so, a few weeks later, on the night we were supposed to go down to Santa Monica and have a great seafood dinner and then walk hand in hand on the pier, and tell each other that we made each other happy and then later have killer sex, I told her that until she made a decision between Bank Teller guy and me, I didn’t want to see her again. There was silence on the line. I could hear my own words Echo…eCho…echo…echo…

And so, here we are, years later, and I still haven’t heard from her. It’s sad I guess, but in hindsight I feel that I did what was right for me. From now on, I will not ruminate over what could have been. I will move on and find ShiksaY, or JewessD, or Sri LankanA. Whatever. The point is that I am over her. Done. On to bigger and better things. The end of story.

But did I mention she shaved her vagina?

Jon_Kesselman is the filmmaker responsible for THE HEBREW HAMMER. To celebrate completing the screenplay for THE HEBREW HAMMER 2: HAMMER VS HITLER, Jon decided to get all Jew-y on you this week.

You already wrote the right lines for this bitch, "Shabbat Shalom Motherfucker!!!!"

Umm ... tricky business the vagina shaving. Perhaps the labia?

But good job on moving on.

heh...i still have a letter[wo]man's jacket for swimming (of all things)

but i haven't worn it since i was a sophmore in high school, it got old really fast.

I love this, thanks for writing - you're a great story teller. I think it's funny that the stand out thing you remember about this girl was that she was a shaver. It's like finding the holy grail of girlfriends, back in the day, it seems very common here/today -- but she came with a price

I was probably working the door at The Echo. I shoulda warned you. Sorry.

I guess I'm one of the lucky guys who's met an incredibly smart girl who isn't religiously Jewish but ancesterally.

Oh please tell me that Adam Goldberg has signed up for this. But the title alone will get me into the theatre anyway.

(oh yeah, good article too )

Another wonderful piece.

I was on the opposite end of basically the same thing.

Though she had some major issues aside from that that made it a "just as well" situation anyways.

Weird shit though, she dropped me about an hour after we left some kind of get-together of her synagogue's "young singles" (or whatever) group. I thought I'd done fairly well, though perhaps I should have waited till after we left to make the whispered comment about the Vulcan hand thing I saw on the table. Yes, I knew what it really was, and yes, I knew that Leonard Nimoy dropped that into the show because he's Jewish.

I think she really just brought me there just to sense non-existent disdain from her Jewish pals so as to give herself a good enough reason to unload me.