I have met more complete duds via online dating than I have actually come across in real life. The issue is not that I have a problem attracting men, but that I tend to be attracted to all of the wrong ones. So like so many eligible women, I have sunk to the somewhat humiliating low of paying for an online dating service. Many of my girlfriends have done it and plenty of guys have their own nightmare stories to tell. And if there is one common theme, it is that bad dates are as abundant as apples in the online dating world, despite the gleeful testimonials of glossy strangers. For a young, attractive woman, online dating should be a breeze. It’s not. When inundated with emails from every guy you’ve seen at the grocery store that you tacitly rated a 3 on a 10 point scale- it’s not really easy to get stoked about meeting anyone. But then- as if he were a beacon of light, there appears your online hunk- his profile is great: He can spell, he has a sense of humor, and there are no pictures of him holding up guns or posing ostentatiously by a sports car. So you put yourself out there. You exchange a few emails. You exchange numbers. And finally . . . you meet. He’s not like his picture, his voice is shrill and annoying and he smells like a flea collar. Talk about anti-climactic. What were you thinking? You power through the date, maintaining a forced positive attitude and a polite manner- which he misconstrues as genuine interest. Oblivious of your body language, he leans in for an awkward, slobbery kiss. And you paid 35 dollars a month for this service? Some women even go so far as to accept a second date- a move triggered by their sheer disappointment and looming desperation. We thought this one was it. Boy, were we wrong. But we keep doing it, hoping, holding out- running home and checking our email for a sliver of an ego boost- the one we get from the average looking guy who “winks” at us via internet. What the hell is an online wink, anyway? And what do I do with that?
In a conversation with two of my girlfriends, I observed that typically, women join online dating services out of depression or desperation- whereas men join the same services in an attempt to lure multiple women into the bedroom. A match made in heaven? Hardly. Granted, there are exceptions to the rule- there always are- but it’s all too disappointing when you meet up with these earnest types only to discover that the chemistry between you is reminiscent of a date you had in the eighth grade.
Bad Dates
The Usual Suspects
The Overly Confident Hunk/Moron
He’s hot. He knows it. He likes talking about himself. A lot. While out with him, you can’t seem to hold his attention, as his eyes move across the room, checking out waitresses while vapidly explaining to you his goal of going from “personal trainer” to “gym owner”. He tries to use your name in conversation, but gets it wrong, calling you “Ashley” instead of Alice. You’re wondering what his penis looks like, but you can’t seem to stand listening to him long enough to want to find out. He text messages you a week later at three in the morning.
The Socially Awkward Success Story
He’s spent so much time honing his craft that he forgot that women existed. He has the sexual I.Q. of a fifteen-year-old. When you meet, he’s so nervous that it is displaced onto you- and the two of you stumble awkwardly through conversation, until an entire bottle of wine later, you’re drunk- and you “accidentally” sleep with him.
The Kid
He’s not your usual type- but he’s so darn cute, you take a chance. He picks you up in his Toyota Camry and takes you to a bar. You drink and flirt, admiring his boyish charm. He takes you back to his place. There is a poster of Bob Marley on the wall and a collection of Maxims in the bathroom. Don’t do it, girl.
The Guy Who Thinks He’s Funny
You silently wonder if he has prepared talking points in advance as he rambles on, amused with himself, pausing to chuckle and look to you for acknowledgement. You politely laugh and he keeps going, encouraged. He tries to include the waiter in the conversation, awkwardly making inappropriate jokes and smiling so big that you can see his dental work. You wonder if he is on drugs then notice that he is sweating profusely. If you have to have more than three drinks to tolerate your date’s presence- it’s not going to work out.
First Date Etiquette:
Signs to tell when you should just cut your losses and bail
• He shows up to the date wearing a jean jacket
• He brings sex into the conversation but refers to it as “intercourse”
• On the first date, he reads aloud a poem to you that he has written himself. About you.
• He comes very close to getting into a fight while navigating through the bar/restaurant.
• He attempts to sing to you.
• He shows up drunk, but thinks you don’t notice.
• He can’t stop talking about his ex girlfriend.
• He acts like a cheapskate, telling you that he would prefer it if you didn’t order anything on the menu that was “too pricey”.
• He looks you over and mutters something under his breath.
Excuses to use in order to bail:
• With a worried expression, frantically whisper to him that you just got your period and need to leave. If you’re bold, smash a ketchup packet in your hand and show him the “blood” on your hands. He’ll never call again. Two birds with one stone.
• Have a friend text you mid-date to check in. If it is going poorly, pretend like that friend is stranded and needs you to come pick her up from the E.R. If he calls later, act is if there was a tragedy and that you’re too distraught to talk.
• Fake a panic attack. It takes skill, but it will send him running.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
A Rat Tale
A Rat Tale
Business in the front, party in the back. So goes the typical phrase associated with the still ever popular mullet hairstyle- but we seem to have forgotten about the more elusive hair trend that we have come to know as the "rat tail".
What on earth possesses men (or women for that matter) to don something referred to as a RAT TAIL? What could that one tiny, ratty strand of hair possibly do to increase your sex appeal? Then again, perhaps it's not a matter of sex appeal, but indeed a matter of practicality, functionality, or even good luck. I have made a list of the possible alternative uses of the rat tail to better understand why anyone - white trash wild-man, Jedi knight, or helpless child- might want to adorn his head with such a coif.
Uses of the rat tail
1. A type of "feathery-tickler" sex toy
2. A secret antenna, worn by aliens disguised as trailer inhabitants or pseudo rockers in skinny jeans.
3. An ancient talisman used to ward off wild boars or raccoons that might drink one's Michelob.
4. As a dream catcher of sorts..
5. As a louse catcher of sorts. Maybe it's a bridge for those pesky lice to use to cross over to a swirling mess of back fur.
6. An actual tail...to be pulled when the wearer is misbehaving.
7. An apparatus to use for basting barbeque sauce onto meats while grilling.
8. A make shift tooth-brush. If the hair is bristly enough, which it likely is, then depending on the length of the tail, this could prove to be quite convenient for the wild-man on the go.
9. A source of strength tailored for today's busy lifestyle. Much like Samson, the wearer of the rat tail draws strength from his long hair, but doesn't have the time or patience to care for a billowing mane, and therefore only keeps a strand of the long tresses in tact.
10. A safety-rope used to save people from drowning. But ow. That's gotta hurt.
I think that chronicles just about every imaginable use of "the tail" that I can fathom. But please, if you know of any others...enlighten me.
P.S. For any actual rats that are reading this and are quite perplexed, then riddle me this: How are you reading?
Business in the front, party in the back. So goes the typical phrase associated with the still ever popular mullet hairstyle- but we seem to have forgotten about the more elusive hair trend that we have come to know as the "rat tail".
What on earth possesses men (or women for that matter) to don something referred to as a RAT TAIL? What could that one tiny, ratty strand of hair possibly do to increase your sex appeal? Then again, perhaps it's not a matter of sex appeal, but indeed a matter of practicality, functionality, or even good luck. I have made a list of the possible alternative uses of the rat tail to better understand why anyone - white trash wild-man, Jedi knight, or helpless child- might want to adorn his head with such a coif.
Uses of the rat tail
1. A type of "feathery-tickler" sex toy
2. A secret antenna, worn by aliens disguised as trailer inhabitants or pseudo rockers in skinny jeans.
3. An ancient talisman used to ward off wild boars or raccoons that might drink one's Michelob.
4. As a dream catcher of sorts..
5. As a louse catcher of sorts. Maybe it's a bridge for those pesky lice to use to cross over to a swirling mess of back fur.
6. An actual tail...to be pulled when the wearer is misbehaving.
7. An apparatus to use for basting barbeque sauce onto meats while grilling.
8. A make shift tooth-brush. If the hair is bristly enough, which it likely is, then depending on the length of the tail, this could prove to be quite convenient for the wild-man on the go.
9. A source of strength tailored for today's busy lifestyle. Much like Samson, the wearer of the rat tail draws strength from his long hair, but doesn't have the time or patience to care for a billowing mane, and therefore only keeps a strand of the long tresses in tact.
10. A safety-rope used to save people from drowning. But ow. That's gotta hurt.
I think that chronicles just about every imaginable use of "the tail" that I can fathom. But please, if you know of any others...enlighten me.
P.S. For any actual rats that are reading this and are quite perplexed, then riddle me this: How are you reading?
The Birdcage
The Birdcage
She sang at night, facing the windows, dreaming of flight. I always thought her sad as her somber little tune would echo throughout my bones, though I knew I couldn’t release her. She was my captive, my muse- the very reason I existed. And then one day her song was over. Now I stand here, an empty vessel, wishing for some bright creature to replace her.
She sang at night, facing the windows, dreaming of flight. I always thought her sad as her somber little tune would echo throughout my bones, though I knew I couldn’t release her. She was my captive, my muse- the very reason I existed. And then one day her song was over. Now I stand here, an empty vessel, wishing for some bright creature to replace her.
Creative Writing Sample
The arid heat hit her in the face as she stepped out into the desert air. Straightening herself and smoothing her hair, she hailed a Taxi. The cab drove up slowly and a man stepped out and took her bags.
"How long you in town for"? The cab driver was a friendly looking older man, probably a local. Madison eyed him, uninterested in conversation.
"Don’t know." She sighed and sat back in her seat, watching the scenery glide by effortlessly. It had been years since she’d been home. Home. What a foreign word. It was hardly home anymore. With Chelsea gone now, there was nothing left to come home to. After the accident, Madison had moved to the East coast for a new start, leaving her sister behind to pick up the pieces of the decaying life her parents had left behind. She shouldn’t have gone. She told herself a million times that she’d come home eventually, mend the damage, keep her sister company...but now it was too late. She stifled another sigh and closed her eyes.
Madison awoke to the faint buzzing of the hotel television. The blue light flickered across the room, casting eerie shadows. She flipped on the light and grabbed her half empty glass of now watered down vodka. The clear liquid provided that familiar pleasant burn as she sucked the last of it down. Vodka was her drink. It was clear, straight to the point, got the job done. She was a no- nonsense drunk, always had been. Raising herself up, Madison leaned over and reached for the curtains, revealing a sparkling view of the Las Vegas Strip. There had always been something comforting to her about all of those twinkling, vibrant lights. They were alive, full of impending surprises...they held that glimmer of hope that drew in fools from all corners of the earth, all hoping to catch a bit of that glory, that shimmer. Idiots. She sat back again, rubbing her temples.
A shitty impressionist painting hung on the pepto bismol pink wall in front of her. The decorator should have been shot, she thought, no one could have gotten a restful night in a stink hole like this. It was a moderately priced casino hotel that boasted one of the Strip’s best buffets. Madison hated buffets, they were a cess pool of germs and depression. As if she needed more reasons to kill herself.
She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. What she really needed was some good coke. Maybe then she could do something with herself, go out and find the first hopeless moron she saw and sleep with him. Madison had a string of devoted admirers, but the word "Love" had never really been in her vocabulary. She didn’t trust it, it wasn’t real. Men were all the same stinking, breast obsessed cretins. Women were emotionally unstable head-cases. There was no point. Sex at least didn’t pretend to be something that it wasn’t. Sex was her friend, and it worked fine. Chelsea had been a born romantic. The sisters were polar opposites. Sweet, optimistic little Chelsea. Clearly, she had been everyone’s favorite. Why the hell wouldn’t she have been? She just hadn’t seen the world’s dirty laundry like Madison had. She was innocent, untouched by the filth of society. Her suicide had been hard to swallow. Madison didn’t understand how a creature so seemingly bright could have been as tortured as she. It pissed her off, frankly. She had checked out without even an inkling of a goodbye, the little shit. Madison inhaled the smoke greedily, sucking the life out of the cigarette, as if it would save her own. Maybe at least it’d give her cancer and end it all.
Madison truthfully didn’t really want to die. She didn’t know why, her life was shit. She had no real friends aside from Tom, her neurotic and very much gay roommate. She didn’t like living alone, and that was probably the only reason she hadn’t strangled him. He was the kind of fag who never stopped talking. At times Madison could be equally loquacious. If she’d had a few glasses of wine she’d strip off her shoes and dance barefoot in her living room, Tom giggling like a maniac, swaying alongside her. Deep down, Madison wasn’t as bitter as she tried to be, but her negativity was the only thing that kept her alive, as far as she was concerned. She reasoned that if she stopped feeling, then she wouldn’t ever have to be sad, angry...hurt...she could just glide through her existence, devil may care, and things would be just fine. It wasn’t working out.
"How long you in town for"? The cab driver was a friendly looking older man, probably a local. Madison eyed him, uninterested in conversation.
"Don’t know." She sighed and sat back in her seat, watching the scenery glide by effortlessly. It had been years since she’d been home. Home. What a foreign word. It was hardly home anymore. With Chelsea gone now, there was nothing left to come home to. After the accident, Madison had moved to the East coast for a new start, leaving her sister behind to pick up the pieces of the decaying life her parents had left behind. She shouldn’t have gone. She told herself a million times that she’d come home eventually, mend the damage, keep her sister company...but now it was too late. She stifled another sigh and closed her eyes.
Madison awoke to the faint buzzing of the hotel television. The blue light flickered across the room, casting eerie shadows. She flipped on the light and grabbed her half empty glass of now watered down vodka. The clear liquid provided that familiar pleasant burn as she sucked the last of it down. Vodka was her drink. It was clear, straight to the point, got the job done. She was a no- nonsense drunk, always had been. Raising herself up, Madison leaned over and reached for the curtains, revealing a sparkling view of the Las Vegas Strip. There had always been something comforting to her about all of those twinkling, vibrant lights. They were alive, full of impending surprises...they held that glimmer of hope that drew in fools from all corners of the earth, all hoping to catch a bit of that glory, that shimmer. Idiots. She sat back again, rubbing her temples.
A shitty impressionist painting hung on the pepto bismol pink wall in front of her. The decorator should have been shot, she thought, no one could have gotten a restful night in a stink hole like this. It was a moderately priced casino hotel that boasted one of the Strip’s best buffets. Madison hated buffets, they were a cess pool of germs and depression. As if she needed more reasons to kill herself.
She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. What she really needed was some good coke. Maybe then she could do something with herself, go out and find the first hopeless moron she saw and sleep with him. Madison had a string of devoted admirers, but the word "Love" had never really been in her vocabulary. She didn’t trust it, it wasn’t real. Men were all the same stinking, breast obsessed cretins. Women were emotionally unstable head-cases. There was no point. Sex at least didn’t pretend to be something that it wasn’t. Sex was her friend, and it worked fine. Chelsea had been a born romantic. The sisters were polar opposites. Sweet, optimistic little Chelsea. Clearly, she had been everyone’s favorite. Why the hell wouldn’t she have been? She just hadn’t seen the world’s dirty laundry like Madison had. She was innocent, untouched by the filth of society. Her suicide had been hard to swallow. Madison didn’t understand how a creature so seemingly bright could have been as tortured as she. It pissed her off, frankly. She had checked out without even an inkling of a goodbye, the little shit. Madison inhaled the smoke greedily, sucking the life out of the cigarette, as if it would save her own. Maybe at least it’d give her cancer and end it all.
Madison truthfully didn’t really want to die. She didn’t know why, her life was shit. She had no real friends aside from Tom, her neurotic and very much gay roommate. She didn’t like living alone, and that was probably the only reason she hadn’t strangled him. He was the kind of fag who never stopped talking. At times Madison could be equally loquacious. If she’d had a few glasses of wine she’d strip off her shoes and dance barefoot in her living room, Tom giggling like a maniac, swaying alongside her. Deep down, Madison wasn’t as bitter as she tried to be, but her negativity was the only thing that kept her alive, as far as she was concerned. She reasoned that if she stopped feeling, then she wouldn’t ever have to be sad, angry...hurt...she could just glide through her existence, devil may care, and things would be just fine. It wasn’t working out.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
While at the grocery store checkout the other day, I saw something that inspired me. Displayed among the gossip magazines was a book entitled “The Tuscan Tycoon’s Pregnant Housekeeper” It was a romance novel. What the fuck is going on there? There is a staggeringly enormous market for this sort of book- a reality that not only amuses me to no end, but also makes me fear for the future of humanity.
When your story revolves around a “werewolf cop”, do you take yourself seriously as a writer?
Let’s look at a few popular titles, shall we?
I shit you not, these are actual titles of books generating actual revenue.
“Flirtini with disaster”. That’s right. “Flirtini”, as in the popular cocktail, not the verb. What a clever little play on words. Yet not. . . not at all.
“Things that go bump in the night” Come on, seriously? If I saw someone reading that on a plane, I might just have to piss my pants.
“Samantha and the Detective” Hmmm. . . I wonder what that one’s about? Let’s see . . .
“”Detective Hayden Tanner hates reporters, especially when they interfere with a police investigation. So why is he so drawn to saucy reporter Samantha Halliwell when she does nothing but interfere with his current investigation of a college student`s murder? And why does Samantha continue to provoke him when he's already made good on his promise and put her over his knee her for getting in his way? Perhaps because despite her dislike for authority figures, she finds the handsome detective's willingness to take her in hand surprisingly sexy.
But despite his repeated warnings and over the knee spankings, Samantha continues to investigate the murder heedless of the danger, putting not only her future with Hayden in jeopardy but her very life as the killer closes in on her.”
“Over the knee spankings”. Awesome.
“Kilt Worthy”.
“ Peering at the world from behind her camera lens, "Plain Jane" Parker is stunned to see a handsome hunk wearing a kilt as he confidently strolls down a busy Seattle street. Her dormant libido roars to life even before their eyes meet. Aroused and intrigued, she tosses aside her usual caution and follows when Logan MacLaren beckons for a delightfully sinful one-night stand.
Logan is an exceptionally talented lover, wielding the abundant sword he sports beneath his plaid to deliver unparalleled pleasures. He reminds her to trust her instincts after reality proves they're a more perfect fit than either imagined.
Then Logan drops his bombshell: He's traveled through time to find her and wants her to stay with him forever...in medieval Scotland. Did Jane just have the most erotic sex of her life with a delusional crazy man, or is it truly possible for her one-night stand to last forever?”
Ahhh yes. . . the old one night stand with the man from ancient Scotland. Because that happens all the time. Wield that abundant sword, Logan. I’m sure many a lonely Jane’s libido has “roared to life” whilst reading the steamy pages of this little delight.
“A White Cougar Christmas” Don’t be fooled. This book isn’t about an older divorcee looking for some action, it’s about an actual cougar-woman. I found it in the “shapeshifter” category. Yes. There is an entire category. I think I just came.
There is also an entire category devoted to “Interracial” romance, where I found this little gem:
“Oh How the Mighty are Ballin’” Yes. Yes. Yes.
I think it’s high time I got on the ball- huh? As an experiment, I want to try this. Give me any scenario, any characters, and I will write a short romantic novella around your specifications. You name it, I’ll do it. Hilarity will naturally ensue.
Vignettes Part IV
It was a testament to her own instability that a smile on a dog could conjure her tears. It was the naked simplicity of its apparent joy that really got to her. If only life could be so simple, she thought.
Fumbling for his lost keys, his hand swept wide, falling upon something unfamiliar. Upon retrieving the object, he realized, to his dismay, that it was a condom. Like a swift kick in the testicles, the tiny piece of latex rendered him impotent for the rest of the week. It certainly hadn’t been his.
She thought of him that day while sitting at the stoplight. It was only then, in her idle moments, now, that he would drift back to haunt her, forcing her to imagine what could have been, had only the timing been different. She wondered if he was doing the same. He wasn’t. The light turned green, and she drove on, blinking him away.
The dappled sunlight cascaded over her in short little bursts, the warmth a welcome contrast to the damp cold of the forest air. She didn’t know why she’d come all the way out here. She had just started walking. Alone, probably miles from her original destination, she looked up through the thick blanket of trees and wondered if anyone would notice she was gone.
A fucking dollar. Her soul, her dignity, her innocence, gone. For a dollar. Swallowing hard, she pushed away her dark thoughts and smiled brightly at the man. He’d never even know her real name.
Tears were not something he had ever wished for, but at this moment, nothing else seemed as quenching.
Fumbling for his lost keys, his hand swept wide, falling upon something unfamiliar. Upon retrieving the object, he realized, to his dismay, that it was a condom. Like a swift kick in the testicles, the tiny piece of latex rendered him impotent for the rest of the week. It certainly hadn’t been his.
She thought of him that day while sitting at the stoplight. It was only then, in her idle moments, now, that he would drift back to haunt her, forcing her to imagine what could have been, had only the timing been different. She wondered if he was doing the same. He wasn’t. The light turned green, and she drove on, blinking him away.
The dappled sunlight cascaded over her in short little bursts, the warmth a welcome contrast to the damp cold of the forest air. She didn’t know why she’d come all the way out here. She had just started walking. Alone, probably miles from her original destination, she looked up through the thick blanket of trees and wondered if anyone would notice she was gone.
A fucking dollar. Her soul, her dignity, her innocence, gone. For a dollar. Swallowing hard, she pushed away her dark thoughts and smiled brightly at the man. He’d never even know her real name.
Tears were not something he had ever wished for, but at this moment, nothing else seemed as quenching.
Vignettes Part III
A breeze lightly whispered past her, a caress so gentle it made her feel as though all her fragile bones would break within her. All sweetness would fade eventually, leaving her weak in its wake, grasping for another taste. Happiness wasn’t something she could count on. Gritting her teeth, she grasped the dirt in her hands, letting it fall slowly through her fingertips. This wasn’t her first time around. All the things she loved would leave her.
Give me a chance, she thought. Just give me a chance. Looking up at the sky, she wondered what she’d done wrong.
Broken plans, broken dreams and a swiftly decaying spirit, he walked along the water’s edge, taking in all the beauty of the late spring afternoon. Why he could not just be satisfied with that simplicity alone was beyond him. Desire was his downfall.
A rough patch was something most people encountered. This sort of thing was expected. The traditional highs and lows of a lifetime were accepted, endured. Her experience had proven to be different. There had been no ‘highs’. Never did she soar with joy, never did her tears mark anything other than sorrow and occasional exasperation. But thinking of this, a flicker of a wry smile emerged on her stained lips. Life. What a bitch.
Coming to, his head roared with an ache so fierce he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples. He stood up dizzily, tripping over the noose still tied to his neck. He looked up. There was now a gaping hole in the ceiling. Of course. He sighed, found a nearby chair, and fumbled for a cigarette. Persistence really never was his thing.
Mid sentence, she watched his gaze travel predictably away from her eyes and it hit her that he wasn’t really listening. All they wanted to do was fuck, fuck, fuck her until her eyes bulged from her skull. They couldn’t see beyond her tits into her soul- she knew it- but somehow all of that was better than nothing.
When the sight of daylight makes you shudder, you have a legitimate problem. Of this he was well aware, though finding the root, let alone the cure for his affliction was entirely beyond him. Ask for help? The mere thought made his chest feel heavy. This was his burden. It was all he knew.
As she stared down at the kaleidescopic shards of newly shattered glass at her feet, hands still shaking with the thrill of destruction, she let out an exasperated laugh, realizing she’d be the only one to clean it all up.
He slumped into the velvety cushions and stared up at the ceiling, fluorescent lights flickering, as if searching there for a worthy explanation. “Give me a genuinely happy person,” he began, “and have them sit in a cold and barren room for a day-alone. They will emerge changed. Now have them imagine a lifetime of the same. That’s looking through my eyes.”
Furrowing his brow, the doctor’s robotic reply was, “I see”. He didn’t’.
He stood there, lanky and wavering like a reed in the wind as he watched her small form fade from sight, her perfume still lingering, a layer of sweetness shrouding his gloom. Breathing it in, he tried to comprehend how he’d pushed her away.
It was guttural, it was human, it was release. Taking a raspy breath, she tried it again, throwing her head back and giving into the raw energy of her emotions. Later that day, when the police knocked at her door to investigate the commotion, embarrassed, she concocted a lie.
He never understood people’s preoccupation with hugs; why the nurses felt the need to press their warm breasts against his feeble chest-as if that act would do anything other than remind him of the fact that he would never genuinely share that closeness with another human being.
Picking up where he left off would be the most rational thing to do in light of his most recent fiasco, but he couldn’t fathom a life of normalcy without the crutch of his vice. Bargaining with himself once again, he breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the familiar pleasant burn of his addiction coursing through his veins.
Give me a chance, she thought. Just give me a chance. Looking up at the sky, she wondered what she’d done wrong.
Broken plans, broken dreams and a swiftly decaying spirit, he walked along the water’s edge, taking in all the beauty of the late spring afternoon. Why he could not just be satisfied with that simplicity alone was beyond him. Desire was his downfall.
A rough patch was something most people encountered. This sort of thing was expected. The traditional highs and lows of a lifetime were accepted, endured. Her experience had proven to be different. There had been no ‘highs’. Never did she soar with joy, never did her tears mark anything other than sorrow and occasional exasperation. But thinking of this, a flicker of a wry smile emerged on her stained lips. Life. What a bitch.
Coming to, his head roared with an ache so fierce he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples. He stood up dizzily, tripping over the noose still tied to his neck. He looked up. There was now a gaping hole in the ceiling. Of course. He sighed, found a nearby chair, and fumbled for a cigarette. Persistence really never was his thing.
Mid sentence, she watched his gaze travel predictably away from her eyes and it hit her that he wasn’t really listening. All they wanted to do was fuck, fuck, fuck her until her eyes bulged from her skull. They couldn’t see beyond her tits into her soul- she knew it- but somehow all of that was better than nothing.
When the sight of daylight makes you shudder, you have a legitimate problem. Of this he was well aware, though finding the root, let alone the cure for his affliction was entirely beyond him. Ask for help? The mere thought made his chest feel heavy. This was his burden. It was all he knew.
As she stared down at the kaleidescopic shards of newly shattered glass at her feet, hands still shaking with the thrill of destruction, she let out an exasperated laugh, realizing she’d be the only one to clean it all up.
He slumped into the velvety cushions and stared up at the ceiling, fluorescent lights flickering, as if searching there for a worthy explanation. “Give me a genuinely happy person,” he began, “and have them sit in a cold and barren room for a day-alone. They will emerge changed. Now have them imagine a lifetime of the same. That’s looking through my eyes.”
Furrowing his brow, the doctor’s robotic reply was, “I see”. He didn’t’.
He stood there, lanky and wavering like a reed in the wind as he watched her small form fade from sight, her perfume still lingering, a layer of sweetness shrouding his gloom. Breathing it in, he tried to comprehend how he’d pushed her away.
It was guttural, it was human, it was release. Taking a raspy breath, she tried it again, throwing her head back and giving into the raw energy of her emotions. Later that day, when the police knocked at her door to investigate the commotion, embarrassed, she concocted a lie.
He never understood people’s preoccupation with hugs; why the nurses felt the need to press their warm breasts against his feeble chest-as if that act would do anything other than remind him of the fact that he would never genuinely share that closeness with another human being.
Picking up where he left off would be the most rational thing to do in light of his most recent fiasco, but he couldn’t fathom a life of normalcy without the crutch of his vice. Bargaining with himself once again, he breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the familiar pleasant burn of his addiction coursing through his veins.
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