Christian: I just want everything.
Me: Hahaha. I remember those days. Then, I’d go on purges and throw everything out. I hate too much stuff. It just weighs you down.
Christian: No, beautiful. It weighs YOU down — and by that, I mean phsycially, when you have to leave at 2 in the morning because of a crazed group of men, dressed as spanish conquistadors, show up to claim your vagina in the name of Spain.
Christian: For those of us that don’t move more than the folds of fat on an average american housewife trying to lean belly-dancing, it just goes in the basement.
Me: Do they have a flag?
Me: It must be THIS BIG to claim this land!
This monogamy thing isn’t working out for me.
I’ve never faltered from it, because it, like all things, is a commitment.
But, I find myself actually dreaming of a polyamorous lifestyle.
Plus, my partner is forever unfaithful, and being noble for the sake of nobility feels silly, after a while.
Amidst today’s chaos, I completely forgot to note that we’ve gone on Atkins. Stephen’s post…
…inspired us to get back in our suits. Of course, my vinyl Harley costume was made for a tiny (size 2?) body. But, I look forward to something like this.
It’s easy, it’s healthy, and it’s cheaper than a $1500 bacon nasal drip.
Hello, world. I’m back from my sudden hiatus. That was a terrible sickness.
Though…I’m not entirely sure whether I feel completely healed, or I just can’t stand to spend another day in bed and watch the chaos unfold around me.
We have, however, established that this is why Max loves dad best.
I’m starting to hate Facebook. Every antihero of my bad_sex tales (and they are legion) has sent me a friends request.
“Hi, remember that time that I chomped your vagina like a cannibal and you never spoke to me again? Would you like to like my page so I can show my parents how likable I am?”
Dude. If I thought I had the power to recreate the blog community that existed ten…even five years ago, I would devote all my time to that.
What the fuck, god?
We can wax poetic for decades, but the second we turn eyes to the axis upon which our emotions turn, our tongues betray us and fall down the towering staircase of babbling idiocy like meaty Slinkies.
Oh, how I would love to tell my muses how I feel.
Is it so impossible, to tell someone that they had a profound effect on your life?
Wouldn’t I like to hear such things? Wouldn’t I be touched?
Very much so – I carry those experiences close to my heart. Certainly, it is the smallest favor I can do to bestow a similar gift upon the people who have so affected me.
So then, why does the telling of such a feeling come out like “I want to roll up your dryer lint and use it as ben wa balls?”
We live in a world so devoid of poetry that poetry sounds alternatively trite and insincere, or obsessive and insane. Either way, it is a foreign tongue to the Everyman. And you cannot simplify what is closest to your heart, dirty it with slang and apathy, pass it off like everything else on the street. What have we, then, but writers who are ultimately distanced from everyone but other writers, but others familiar in their own tongue, themselves pressed by emotions and affairs of their own.
You, all the people I love, you will never know what I really meant to say.
And my writer friends, I feel your pain and share your heartache.
No comedian is afraid to laugh at themselves.
That’s my beloved friend, Russ.
Now, he’s ex-military, working on Pearl Harbor, trying to mask the pains of multiple sclerosis.
19 years ago, he was my first punk friend and the target of my intense infatuation.
Now, I love Russ because he is smart, sensitive, powerful, funny, and talented.
Then, I loved Russ because we lived in Wonderbreadecticut and even the help’s children weren’t allowed mohawks. He wore sunglasses at night and that was awesome.
I was like an Elvis groupie, trying to keep it all inside.
I got my first job so that I could listen to him play.
I cut my hair short and dyed it black to impress him.
To appreciate that, know that I have cut my hair short twice in my life. Russ was the first time. The second time was when my only blood sibling passed away.
I’ve never dyed it black again.
I would have died if he knew how I felt.
Because I was a young girl. Because I had no idea what to do with my feelings. I was pretending that I was Poison Ivy but was unable to imagine the depth of emotion required to actually be it.
So, of course, my best friend – Meghan – invited him over to her house (while I was there) and told him (while I was out of the room).
He promptly walked into the room where I was buckling the ankle strap to my high heels and offered a hand to help me to my feet. I felt terrible; women always took so long to get ready and-
As I took his hand, he hoisted me to my feet and kissed me – deeply.
All of that Elvis groupie that I’d been keeping inside burst inside my head like fireworks. As a thousand teenage girls screamed in a cacophonous din in my ears, I yelped and lunged backward in surprise…over the side of Meghan’s bed and directly into her cat’s litter box – ass first.
Up until that point, that was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.
I communicated something to that effect, like “that was the worst thing to ever happen to me,” forgetting to note that I was talking about my ass in the litter box and not the kiss.
The events following that moment are a blur, but I’m pretty sure I hid in a bathroom for a while.
Russ joined the military. I went on to date a series of hapless idiots and build a bad_sex library.
The moral of the story is about fearlessness. Everybody always asks where it comes from. Fearlessness is born when the fear of shame is crushed under the wisdom of lost opportunity.