In the event of Rapture, this vehicle will become unmanned. The holiday is almost over. I should rant about how things I dread always turn into blessed events, but I haven't the energy. Maybe later. But, I love my family, and I love my cat. Tomorrow we're going to the hometown berg for new years. Well, cut me some figgy puddin', won't that be exciting? I think it will be. Because of boys, beer and beastly behavior.

I really like having this time away from people right now. It may sound callous and cold hearted, but I enjoy just hanging out with my immediate family over the holidays. What I'm really trying to say, is that Westjet is driving me crazy. Something about the holidays makes him go crazy = he phone me every day. Every day. "Lets go sit around and talk about nothing?! Or, how about we just sit down and tell each other that we love me?!"

Bizzarrely enough, instead of getting less patient and more rude, I get more patient and less rude as the holidays progressively follow through with him. And I do enjoy his friendship, I just wonder what the problem is, because he is a very high-maintenance friend, but I don't understand why.

Oh, and christmas was yesterday, that was awesome. I got snowshoes! They have crampon studs! They rock! I will snowshoe myself into a lean mean polar bear fighting machine this winter.

  ¶ 6:51 PM 0 comments

  More laundry sitting in the washer In addition to previous bastard literature.

She couldn't say when it happened
Could have been minutes
Weeks
Months,
Or maybe every time
He appears,
It just keeps occurring.

She is adamently against it
Fights the idea constantly
Of her aortic regions
Gushing in his hands.
At first it seemed he hurt her
But really all hurt is self-induced
Guided by blind susceptibility
To fantasies and dreams.
Watch her-
Small distant laughs and smiles

It was altogether too perfect
In the minds eye
She warrants imperfection
He deserves flawless

She wants that for him
Wawnts to look at herself
In realistic light again
Harsh fluorescent reality
Not imperfection erasing
Pink glow- self induced
(How did this happen?)

She would cry
If he ever saw her. Really.
Too white misshapeness
Design flaws and peeling paint-job

There is always something though-
She feels a weird thing.
Unnameable and mystifying.
Often wishes he'd hasten with
The inevitable heart curbstomp
He has no inkling towards

She wants to be proved wrong,
Wants absolute freeing pain
Misguided
Disillusioned
Stupid.

(And she gets it, hurrah!! I wrote this a few weeks ago, and mannah has answered my cursing and swearing- all is returned to normal now. Well, as normal as anything ever is anyways.)

I got told I have a complex today- an esteem complex. But it isn't. It's just a reality. I mean, morally, you don't sell people a lemon right? You're obligated to let them know that the muffler is going to fall off at the end of the block away from the lot- to be honest with them, because if you're not honest right off the bat, you're either going to attract morons (return from my analogy), or, they're going to jump in and find out all the flaws later, and break your heart- (eg: return the car from whence it came. Possibly involve a lawsuit, etc.)

Elaugh and I went through a trial today concerning the overly large mouse I may have mentioned a few weeks ago. After ignoring the counsel of many to "cut it in half like it ain't no big deal" I just gave it to her whole. And watched her intently, ready to do something if I had to. Open snake surgery. Cut off the hind legs of the mouse. Even more misguidedly, puncture the mouse to make it more compressible. But, that apparently is what bowels are for. Ever heard a dead mouse fart? It's beautiful, like herald angels with little mini trumpets. As she slowly snerfed it down (this made up word was the only one that seemed appropriate to an eating snake) I started to panic more as the lower end of the snake pillowed out to become a round fat ass that I wasn't sure she'd be able to handle. I phoned the pet people- they told me to stop underestimating my snake, and to pull it back out if it seriously got stuck. You're not supposed to pull things out of a snake's mouth, physiologically speaking, it's a dangerous thing to do, but I realized that in lieu of an alternative, I might have to. But instead, I coached. I cheered her on, keeping eye contact with my sometimes panicky expressioned little reptile friend (ok- to clarify- this is a joke- snakes do not "express" anything) and fretted in my chair. In short, she managed it just fine, though it was a tight squeeze and probably sacked her completely for the next two days- and she probably hates me. I was doubly impressed though. It was like watching childbirth, but in reverse, as the last of the mouse bum vanished into the pink gummy orifice. If you've ever seen a cartoon of a snake with a man shape in it's belly, that's what she looked like tonight. Gotta run.



  ¶ 7:22 PM 0 comments

  Hanging the laundry, cleaning out the lint trap. A piece of bastard literature.

You piss me off so much. Your sneery smile, your know-it-all-isms, your arrogance, your generally rude manner stinking of anal cavities, with a hint of the suburban banality lurking on the edges of your shell. How can someone so smart be so stupid? I used to ask this of you, but ask myself as much and don't like the reason behind my mean spirited irrational temper tantrums. I was in denial to the answers to any questions I had regarding you though.

I feel like running around my house stomping the crap out of the ancient red linoleum, rubbed smooth by angry lonely women before me, when I think about the latest frustrating moments we've shared together. At least, they seemed frustrating until I felt blessed by something so uncharged. Just like every happy couple, we talk about theology, comic books and movies to no end. We cuddle. We don't speak. We speak of nothing. This used to bother me until I realize we don't speak because we don't have to. Nothing is forced, nothing is intense, terrifying. What about love? What about skin touching skin? What about that profound connection that somehow seemed like a flash of brilliance that quickly dimmed? It didn't dim, it just glows unflickering. I don't know the answers to these questions though either, but I find myself more welcoming of what you will grow to offer hopefully. I realize now that we're both fated to just share sparing moments with each other for what seems to be a long time, but maybe eventually it will turn into one long moment together.

I was beating myself up about this constantly.I completely know that it is a total lost cause- you're completely gone, if you were ever there at that place, and not looking back. I was sitting here, holding the phone. Holding my breath for some incredible fucking deux ex machina to make it all work anyways. The more I moped about it, the further you got from me.

And the heat waves flicker
Between you and I
You so far up ahead
Curious as to why I haven't
Caught up yet
And me
Sitting on the side of the road
A skinned heart
Bits of gravel smarting
In my wound

You're so young, and inexperienced, and it makes me smile tenderly to think of it. But then my reflection in the mirror takes on this whole new image of a girl dressed to kill, in a leather boustierre, mini-skirt and fishnet stockings- a riding crop named "Bill" hanging out of her hand. I am a hot-blooded animal called "Corruption." You best start running now, I used to think, though I knew it was the last thing you'd do. I'd have to push you off me, and not call you back for more.

I am the purveyor of moral dilemma
You just haven't realized yet.
You're so innocent
It hurts my eyes to look at you.

Appropriately jaded, it's understandable, was understandable. Still is. You thought you were as equally able to play "tired out, loved out" as I. Maybe- but I'll never really question that, it's not my right. You do have to understand that I knew the two things you lacked though. And I stomped around my house, because I knew them- and you didn't. If you'd known them, perhaps you would have seen things my way- looked my way. Either I would be incredibly stupid and choose to wait for you to gain some crucial knowlege through life experience- creating more painstaking moments for me in the meantime- or I would just give up. And I did, because I could pat your hand like a kindly old friend for the rest of your life and still be happy.

All I really want of you is some sort of feeling that we're together because you want to be there for me. Not because I'm someone you bump into occassionally, who likes to be with you, brings you places, experiences, weird food, corruption, the Outside realm. Look at me in the eyes and tell me that you can't bear to be without me- I complete you- you want to romance me, and that you love me just as I am. That you care about what I have to say, what I have to write about, what I have to show you with my hands. That you want to learn about me, because I want to learn about you. Can you do this? Because I really need you to do this.

I realized that you wanted the same thing I do, and while this caused heartbreak, I finally figured out that this was the reason we were friends and would stay friends. You wanted the same thing I did, just with someone else. I was too thickheaded to see that you can meet people with the same ideals and not necessarily have to be with them. It was just a sign that there are more people like that out there, and that maybe I shouldn't give up- maybe I should give others more credit.

Not hold them next to each other and pick off the flaws with an air gun until one target was obliterated, and one was left standing- to claim a prize that I didn't deserve.


(So I'm still standing with the profound epiphany that struck me over the head yesterday. I do love him, and I've been a terrible person to him, about him, regarding him. Things won't change, because I have always been heartfelt with him over the phone, in person- but now I will be profoundly more grateful for that then I have been, and grateful for a long due awareness of all this.)

As for you: You are one of my greatest friends, and still will be. But I'm going to have to find a new muse. Yes, you were my muse. Maybe you will continue to be, but in a different light. I hope you don't mind me using the private volumes I have amassed (creepy, I know) in poetry to do something with. They will remain nameless, though really, there never were any names. Right? ; P)

  ¶ 11:53 PM 1 comments

  Can't sleep, clowns'll eat me I'm so fucked. I can't sleep. I have to wake up at six thirty. I have eaten a whole bag of crackers in the hopes that they will tranq me, and no luck. Mind won't shut off. Exam at nine. What will become of our heroine? Heroine...maybe that's my answer.
  ¶ 2:25 AM 0 comments

  Gaunt I feel like my skin is just hanging off of me right now. The small of my back feels nice and flat (for this is my favorite part of my body with it's soft downy little sworl of hair), but I can feel my ribs. My legs feel dominated by bone, and my feet are skinny and the skin feels thin and I feel old, fragile, and susceptible to the cold. I can feel the looseness of my arms and jutting out skeleton bits. My wrists are small, and my fingers are long and skinny. I am remarkably healthy right now, smoking aside (and soon to be banished from my habitual repetoire), but I don't feel like I look it.

I've had an odd night. I feel really uncomfortable about something I got tricked into revealing, because everything was fine before. Things were happy, content and fine. And I suppose they will continue to be, because I sure as hell won't do anything to alter that- and there is comfort that the secret wasn't really a secret- unless the person is really dumb, or had lived in a cave all their life subsisting on squirrels.

Fuck I need to study, and I just can't do it. I don't even know where to begin ranting about study habits. So read my take on it in someone elses words. Ha ha.
  ¶ 12:44 AM 0 comments

  Because she knows I wouldn't. One Hundred Things you may or may not know about me.

1. I love raspberries. Anything to do with them- Je adore ! Edible or non edible things.

2. I really enjoy the simple things in life. My needs have never been complicated, nor my wants. That's why I always seem like I'm overwhelmed with complication. A pursuit of something simple always seems to explode in my face.

3. I am so flexible it hurts sometimes. Mentally and physically. I'm certain if I exercised more, that I could touch my right buttock with my right foot all the way around. No such luck yet. Mentally- I acknowlege that I have a problem with putting myself first sometimes, and will often put myself out extreme lengths to help people, but bottom line, is I wouldn't do it unless I loved the person, OR, I just don't think about it at the time. That said, I'm much to much of a jerk to have some sort of martyr complex. I'll laugh before I pick you up off your feet. Sometimes.

4. I have a weird relationship with mathematics. Any chance I get to do some sort of problem solving is something I tackle with perverse glee. This factors in to how cheap I am. I budget either scrupulously well, or not at all and pretend like my finances are always ok. Which they are, for the mostpart.

5. If I'm angry or clogged with thoughts, I clean things. I enjoy cleaning, but not in an OCD way- just for the time for mindless work and thinking that it provides. And personal satisfaction at seeing my reflection in toilet bowls. This said, I don't like being told to clean. And I don't like people telling me how to clean.

6. I love fingerpainting and sculpture. Anything that has my hands in direct contact with a medium is orgasmic fun.

7. I collect things that glow in the dark. It could be anything as useless as a paper clip, and I'd keep it forever if it glowed in the dark.

8. Will give head for dark chocolate. I absolutely love chocolate.

9. My father's side of the family is somehow really vulnerable to addiction. Everyone in his immediate family smokes except for him. And now I do. This scares me.

10. I have something called Golden Hars Syndrome. This has made me research quarry for my entire life, because no one knows what causes it. Gamma rays or space aliens. Seriously though- I have it very minorly- people were amazed that I turned out as intelligent as I did. It took me a long time to reconcile to how different I was from other people- but now, I am sort of proud of it- it sets me apart.

11. This isn't to say that I still don't have my moments of anguish about it, but really- what is going to change? I make the best of what I got. And look at what I got.

12. I defy normalcy. I have perfect balance. I bowl lefthanded, hit righthanded, write righthanded, play volleyball left handed, switch hands in badminton, throw lefthanded- the list goes on.

13. I still climb trees. Don't tell.

14. I'm curious about everything, which gives me a short attention span.

15. I love meeting new people, to the point where I will strike up conversation with strangers several times a day. I like knowing what is on people's minds in regards to whatever they feel like talking about.

16. I don't have many secrets and I wish sometimes that people were as interested in me as I am in them. I told a friend once that "I wish people would rummage through my sock drawers, or snoop in my stuff." I wouldn't be invaded, I'd be flattered. Woe befall me if I ever have a stalker, lol.

17. I really want to have sex in a lot of strange places. A quincy being one. A crawlspace being another. Bizarre.

18. I'm vulnerable when I'm out of control of a situation, but this isn't to say that I don't enjoy being out of control sometimes. Sometimes I just feel like spinning around wildly until I smack into something and get knocked out. Not literally.

19. I'm double-jointed in my left hand.

20. I have a prosthetic ear that I throw at people constantly, when they don't appear to be listening to me.

21. I have had eighteen surgeries requiring TKO, and two that were local anesthesia. I can still count about thirteen of the IV scars.

22. I always talk about how great I am at sex, but truthfully, I think I've just gotten lucky. If you're constantly bedding down virgins, of course they think you're awesome at everything. Really, I am still sort of a naif myself.

23. I've always had this hidden explosive urge to get a Moped and just take off across the country with it- strap a typewriter to the back- and just go. A real unhealthy fascination with writer's exile, I tell you.

24. I'm in love with the idea of a tiny insignificant apartment with a fire escape to sit on, and sunlight coming in all day through one window at least, a futon, a tiny fridge, and a clanking radiator in the living room and art on walls making the space seem smaller then it really is. And warm creaky wood floors covered in braided rugs.

25. I'm a packrat. I steal hospital supplies.

26. Only Belly knows, but I'm a good singer. I used to sing karaoke quite a lot and jam with the boys in Katima-V, and thus learned that I actually had talent. I auditioned for a band once but didn't get it. I have written quite a lot of songs, but they sort of collect dust. I miss karaoke though, it was fun.

27. I can do anything I put my mind to, very well. Sometimes it might take me a little more effort to learn something, but once it's there, it's stuck for life. Like driving tractors. I will never forget how to do that.

28. I love being up high. Heights fascinate me, because I like seeing how much further into the horizon I can see. Also, there is something about regarding all the anonymous lives that hum along below that is really interesting. But I don't have a god-complex, just a "I want to know everyone's bid'ness" complex.

29. I really like plants, and wish I could have a garden to putz around in. This is hilarious, because I'm also real good at killing plants. Only about one in three ever live.

30. I've never really been romanced before. Being a silly old romantic at heart, I wish I could be, but often just end up romancing the people I'm with instead.

31. I am too sensitive and passionate for my own good. Sometimes though, I can be the totally opposite. I'll always be passionate, but sometimes I'm pretty fucking oblivious to the feelings of other people.

32. I think that I will probably smoke tea for the rest of my life, about twice or three times a year- just go on a walk with a notebook and get high somewhere on my own and enjoy the quiet of whereever I happen to be. Or be around those who provide "stimulating" discussion. I can't smoke during school very often though, because it does a number on my working memory.

33. I am in fucking love with photography. I have been itching to get into it more seriously lately- and money allowing, I will. I just have a knack for it, and I love being behind the lense, not in front of it. Ever.

34. My memory is really bad. I say this constantly, but it scares me how bad my working memory is. It has been getting better though. One thing I found, is that for some reason, my memory is amazing when I don't smoke. Must get oxygen to brain...

35. I don't like people who abuse the L- word. It really bothers me. Love is like a car in the garage. You don't have to constantly remind yourself or your significant other that there is a car parked in the garage do you? Every morning? "Honey....there's a car parked in our garage!" I mistrust meaningless repetition.

36. It may not look it, but I've been really fashion conscious since the age of like eight. Being able to buy my own clothes at thirteen was like heaven. However, I will sacrifice style for practicality at the drop of a hat. If you offered me a parka with more than one purpose, I'd buy it.

37. I hate incredibly passive people and get enraged with myself when I catch myself being stupidly passive. Love used to make me passive, and still makes me fear it (love) for the reason that I might be like that again.

38. I enjoy sewing. Consequently, my lack of time has tuned out this as a creative outlet, and turned it into more of "I must repair my clothes imperatively, or they will fall off my body. Or, in the instance of my Clash hoody, I will cry."

39. I don't like talking about myself. I constantly think I talk about myself too much to others, and it embarrasses me later when I look back at times where I inadvertently gabbed about me for what seems forever. I also never tell anyone about my personal problems- when I do, that means they've left the realm of my control, that I seriously need some advice. But otherwise, I keep it to myself or vent on my blog, finding that if left to my own devices long enough, I can usually sort them out. This exercise however, is an obviously massive exception.

40. Writing is something I love to do. The power that words have absolutely fascinates me. And true to the form of a writer, I suppose I'm quite narcisstic, because I too dream of getting published for some reason or another someday.

41. I'm not afraid of much. I mean, I get scared sometimes, but I have no concrete phobias. Sometimes I think I do, but I don't really. I can't just say, "I'm afraid of pirahnas" or something, like the rest of the world. You know what made me apprehensive when I was a kid though? Not being able to see my feet when I went swimming at the beach. Like, not when I was swimming, but when I was walking in the lake.

42. I have a cast-iron stomach. It's really hard to gross me out. When it really comes down to it, I think that I feel like I sometimes have to say, "Ewww grosss" to remain socially normal. But really.... I'll touch your herniated intestine and go, "shit that's cool" if anything.

43. When I was thirteen, I pulled 112 pages of political discourse behind the lyrics of the Chumbawumba cd and read them all (I'm fairly certain I still have them- 25 pages on Trickle Down Theory anyone?) Ok, that's boring.

44. I have lucky red transformer underwear. Only my immediate circle of friends know this. But now, the world...

45. I'm interested in taking some ballet lessons eventually. Hopefully before I become post-natal dumpy with that delightful little uterine paunch. I really love dancing though. I rock out anywhere at any time when the mood strikes me.

46. I am an extremely physically active person during the summer, when I have time and resources. I love being on the move doing anything, because it sort of satiates a little bit of wanderlust I constantly have picking away at me. Being busy distracts that.

47. I am socially awkward. Not awkward in the usual "I'm shy" manner, but awkward in that I have a complete disregard for social conduct as far as conversation goes. I'll talk about anything, if I understand it well enough. But this said, I can be smooth and social in any situation, but there are times where I plug in the music for the whole day and blot the world out. Also, I don't like making small talk. It's strained, and I'm just so much more interested in the things beneath the surface. I don't care about how your cat made a cute noise this morning. Even better, don't demonstrate it, I'm not listening. Sidenote: Any guy that makes animal noises in my general direction, or baby talks me, will get an appendage thrown at them. Or, maybe I'll thrown one of their missing testicles at them.

48. I don't try hard enough at anything. I am only possessed to put lots of effort into things or people that I love. I realize this is terrible, but it will be a life-long quest to come out of being an underachiever I'm told. I'm getting better then I was though.

49. I completely abhor makeup. I get the impression that people think I'm a slob sometimes because I don't wear it, but honestly, the thought of covering my face with that goop to be socially conforming and hence "attractive", just completely repulses me. The first time I ever (and hopefully last) wore it, was for my highschool graduation, I shit you not.

50. It is hard for me to fall in love, but when I do, I fall damn hard.

51. I'm a pacifist. If I got cornered in a dark alley however, I could also defend myself mightily. And I know that I make lots of tough girl talk, but I would never raise my hand against anyone. Seriously. Punching my friends is excluded from this though (by the way, I've figured out the reason I do that is because words fail me at the moment someone teases me).

52. I don't think I'm very modest, but I try. Which is why I've only written fifty-four of these, as opposed to 100. Plus, I like to be mysterious, though really, everyone is mysterious forever. I don't ever want to seem predictable though either. Solid, but spontaneous.

53. I'm constantly waiting for something to happen. I notice everything around me happening to other people that seems extraordinary to me, though not necessarily them. And the stupid thing is that there is always something happening to me. I suppose what I'm really waiting for constantly are profound moments to occur in my day- waiting for something to happen that I couldn't possibly write about that I'd just have to keep in my head and treasure for ever.

54. Inexplicably attracted to cynical and slightly egotistical people. It sounds so bad to say it, like we're awful people, but these people, in my mind, are the best people.


  ¶ 9:22 PM 0 comments

  "The joys of exfoliation..." (I wrote this a few months ago for Nanowrimo. Just felt like sharing. Disclaimer- lewd content!)
_________________________________________

I should get my head examined...

I reluctantly reach forward and unluck the door, all whilst curling the waistband of my grungy blue sweats over one roll so you can't see the pink underwear.

I am greeted by the pointy face akin to satan...cheshire (sp?) grin spreading to your bony cheeks as you clomp into the threshold with your skinny, slightly taller frame- wearing those boots that you wore when we were fifteen that I despised. I still despise them. You could afford better, but you think they look macho. They don't. Your grin is turning lugubrious as your eyes wander down my body, ripped teeshirt showing the undercurve of my breasts, and the dank hip hugging sweats. I can't help but smile at that greasy look as you take off your blue parka- the notion that you think you're hot shit. You're not, but I let you think you are. It's better that way- you're more inclined to show off things you think you know how to do.

"Hey sexy..."

Hello dick.

"Hey, quick get in here before the neighbors see..."

But I try not to think too far ahead as your small hands encircle my waist and pull me close for "the intent eye stare," before moving in for the kiss. Some disillusionment is imperative for this to be enjoyable. Your hands skim down my waist and caress my bottom, and you push me gently to the wall and slide your palm up my shirt. My body is a traitor, but I'd known it would betray me as soon as I woke up restless yesterday.

My id had disobeyed my thinking process as I picked up the phone and dialed you. Told you a time. Mind screamed at me : you are a weak stupid girl- control your fucking hormones for once- just say no to convenience- yes to meaningful. Id jumped back in and declared, "meaningful prospects are overrated and impossible- they're not here. In the now. We and he are in the now."

Told you a place. Cringed at your disgusting way of putting things. "Booty call" makes my life into a rap video- and me without my velvet sweatsuit.

We move into my bedroom, onto the hard bed. Things are progressing well. Your shirt falls like a plastic bag to the wind, revealing your crucifixion body. You don't like to be called Jesus, but apart from your face of nefarious origin, you look the part, and suddenly religion enters the bedroom as I think of things I know not of- I wonder if I go to hell simply for not believing.

You've gained a little weight, which is nice. As you lay back on the bed the power struggle begins. You don't like being out of control, but neither do I- it is like a physically intimate fight, to see who can subordinate the other the most. Neither of us will ever admit to needing someone else to each other, admit that we want to be used.

"You're such a bitch," you breath down my neck as I slowly undo your belt and change my mind halfway through. Retaliation is imminent and my shirt dissappears into the folds of the blankets. Subdued. Subordinated. But not conquered, and I come back swinging, render you helpless with useful oral administrations with the sole purpose of cutting to the chase. Your foreplay annoys me, and bores me. The "hot shit" complex kicks in and that idea of "the longer I dwell in one specific erogenous zone, the steadily more turned on she will get," takes some sort of eternal root in your mind.

You dumb fuck. If only you knew that complex was so completely indicative of how much you doubt your performance. What? Less work later with your insubstantial endowment? Not that size matters, but if nothing else matters with you, at least something should. So, I'll pick on the dick.

Always interested in this unique idea that all favors must be returned, my self-serving plans are thwarted for the moment as you stick your face in between my legs. It helps, but once again- too long, too long. Hotshot complex has some orgasm quotas you feel you must meet every step of the way.

Whoa...what are you doing there?

I sit up. You've just licked my anus. Gross.

I moon, "come here..." I wipe your face off with your black Iron Maiden teeshirt, and you- thinking that transitional administrations are necessary for fear of a turn-off (Oh, we are so far past that...) trail your fingers on the inside of my thigh. I turn the charm crank to the red-zone and nibble on your ear while pushing you onto your back. The condom under my pillow has not been dislodged and I slip it on you while you're pre-occupied with my breasts. Again.

Caution: drugs will make even the best attempt at an erection flaccid and floppy at best.

The sex itself is not good- though serviceable. Right after you come, I do the hardest kegel I can. You squeal like a pig and push me off you. I laugh, and you call me a whore from the bathroom. I notice that you run like an old decrepit and hobbling man.

Serves you right for licking my asshole. Asshole.

You phone me an hour after your departure, from your car. I am relieved to have gotten you out of the house so quickly- usually you want to stay for pillow talk about your girlfriend (you deny that she left you months ago, screaming your worthlessness from the front yard and breaking your television with a frying pan- after cracking every single dvd that you owned in half by hand and throwing them in the bathtub of water you were stoned in at the time). I admire her, but used to tell you that she was a nutcase to make you feel better.

"Hey, I think some of my cash may have fallen out of my pocket when we were fucking."
"So?"
"Well, I just phoned you to tell you not to worry about it. You can keep it. Hey, phone me again eh? I'll come over anytime you want me to- ha, get it? Come ov-." I hang up the phone, and shake my head in disgust.

I used to think about all the literature I'd read that didn't really constitute as literature, after a time like this, that dictated that girls that did this sort of thing usually were feeling devoid of something after it, before it, or felt exceedingly dirty about it in general. I'd read all these tired old rehashings of "I felt like scrubbing every inch of my first four layers of skin off, to purge him from me- I felt so dirty." It sounded so terrible, like not having love with sex was going to be the undoing of any innocent young girl. And probably once it was- the awfulness that seemed to plague them seemed so raw that it scared me initially. I held my want for experience in. I was like, "this male rejection sounds terrible. Probably gonna happen to me. Take note: This happens to all girls if they don't find love. SOS pad exfoliation, or death by pink lady bic. Oh the melodrama of the non-commital, non entertaining sexual encounter."

As I sit by the phone, I find the only thing that enters my mind, is what I should make for supper. I'm an old hat at this by now. I broke your heart once, a long time ago, in the pre-battle times, in my impressionistic youthful times- always vowing to be the masher, and not the mashee. I've broken a lot of hearts, but yours was the first- and I wonder if I didn't get cheated of the victory because I let you into my bed many years later.

What eventually happens is that I get tired of the game. I get tired of cleaning up after my mistakes, doing damage control in messy situations. I do never call you again. You were the first and almost the last. The Russian was the last- an unprecedented moment accounted for by an infirm mind, something I wonder about everytime I start jonesing about for a lay -if my mind is sound, my judgement reasonable. It is, but there is always some unforseen consequence for me, whether it be about my health, my finances, or the lack of traction under my sneakers that may suddenly appear.

I derive a wonderful concept one day- a concept playfully dubbed "the boy sabbatical panties," that ultimately gets me out of trouble. I write only what inspires me, or spells me out, or makes me want to love, in the intimate creases, folds and seams of white cotton knickers tie-dyed in all the harsh colors of my personality. Vowing only to be with a man who reads them word for word, understanding the meaning behind the conquest before probing into my deep space.

And months pass. Sometimes I am so frustrated that I scream into my pillow. Ask my fingers for the instructions they know naught of, or gaze wishfully at strangers. Pretend to be purest of pure while thinking slimy earthy smelling thoughts and tangy tastes. The only thing that makes my year long now, is what I have gone so long without.

People are already crazy in July- if something major happened in July, it would just tip the scale completely and chaos would erupt. I do not think people pray in July either though. Summer is for sinning baby.

  ¶ 9:01 PM 0 comments