Consider This Dismaying Observation:

My sweetest bullshit extraordinaire: its called positive assortative mating; takes one to fuck one. Sure, she's billed higher than she should be, nothing but an old, empty diamond mine, but tell that to my imagination, over which I have only sporadic control but especially not when I'm over-tired or sick; "You're such a bitch when you're [sic]..." was his own infirm susurration. Some people in this world, even the lovely people that you love, would love nothing more than the opportunity to take you apart a piece at a time. But I beat on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past, a la Gatsby, but with a significantly more interesting brain structure. Present? Ask a 7 year old to tell you all about it and have her explain what it means to be consumed while you're at it. I will say only that past performance is not a reliable indicator of future success: the financial advisers in this commercial are penniless actors. Someday, I will grab you by the collar and kiss you all I want but in the meantime we will scratch the script and rework the cast.

I'm The Martyr and I consciously approve this message.

OBO

There is a method of weaning a child from the breast called, "don't offer, don't refuse" and you do it exactly as it sounds. Of course, most babies will not naturally wean until well after their first birthday, and often times not until after their second. Weaning can be very traumatic and there are other methods but they are much less gentle. But I think to wean the older child -- and I mean the much older child -- the most effective approach is "slash and burn". So, RIP vulnerabilities. You only served to make me cry and break my thoughts beyond repair. And I don't use any drugs, so I remember everything. So I play this little game where I try to make all of the pieces fit and I can get it to work just long enough to make it really hurt. We are letting you get away with it, my blithe naivety and I. But a promise is a promise and you doubt my claim that I can do it. For you, I will. Because you are worth it.

And all of that talk about turning to stone reminds me: TLJ loves BS. Emphasis on the bullshit.

a post
a mean post
a meaningless post

Out In The Street, They Call It Murder

There are some boo-boos that Neosporin can't heal, like the blisters on my feet from walking around in platform wedges with 25 pounds on my back measuring all those places so I can collect all those the checks to put into the account that pays the satellite that delivers you: strip ping pong. I cry, I cry and I don't know why but don't worry, your acts of contrition aren't lost on me, I appreciate them, and they keep me going, like a complex carbohydrate. And I just want to find a corner or a quieter room, where our conversations don't compete for space with the endless medias and where we can really be alone with the awful sweetness of our escaping sweat. Yes, good luck (with that) and about as likely as dodging a nic from the poisoned dagger of time. So I'll raise my glass to ESP, to the second hand and its accuracy, and to the actual size of everything. Now the world's got me dizzy again and I bathe and I breathe, "Baby, come here, don't go away," but his sirens call and argue "walk this way, no walk that way." Now I've grown tired of holding this pose, so I'll remember to just be grateful for this day, like a good evangelical or whatever. And I'll just get over the things that so violate me that way we don't have to fight about them because it really isn't hard for me and fighting really is. Besides, I have yet to get any genuine happiness from a treasure dug up with a coercive shovel.

I Couldn't Have Maked It A Week.

Stop me if you've heard this one:

A guy pulls up in a bad ass AMG CL class to the pump catty corner to mine and says, "Man, it sure is expensive these days!" And then I tell him my tale of woe about how I used to drive a Jag but then my old man got laid off from the mill and we couldn't afford premium no more; nor their headlamps. Okay, that last bit was just an afterthought but you can understand my incredulity at the first part. Clean living is just the slowest way to die.

Now I have a healthy vocabulary and a damaging imagination, and, while I would never claim to be an authority on such things, the only way I can describe what I just felt with you is: religious. Just the kind of revival I so very badly needed, sans tent, pulpit and flop sweat.

But I think I did come close to fainting like they do; saying "yes" to that bright light and to the joy in being understood and to wrapping myself up in the transcendent comfort of the flush of your millennial warmth. And I am really fucking thankful to myself for not ever chemically altering the sensitivity of my dopaminergic parts. Were it that I could do those things for you. We could really set sail.

love,

your anal superstar

Ex to the Nth

Its so much less mathematic than it seems. But its still academic, basic Diophantine zoology where M=the dromedary and everyone else=the bison. And it was while my head was swimming with thoughts of evo-devo and alienation and what I might make for dinner when, from the backseat, I received a linguistic bitch slap from a 7 year old. And I don't mind saying -- it was just as painful as any bitch slap I received from an adult, linguistic or otherwise. And I know it sounds like I've been watching too much Bravo when I say that I just don't know how many more beatings my poor heart can take before it won't. Before it just gives it up. And I'm pretty sure they don't make a prosthesis.

I'd like to pat myself on the back and give myself credit for perseverance or some other word meant to mean, "knowing what you're really made of and still going on living like you aren't the camel" but, really now, what are my options? Face transplant and an eating disorder? Add that to a million bucks and a slurpee machine and I'll tattoo this for our second anniversary: "You can take your scrapbook, my good man, and shove it." Except it will be in tribal or Chinese, so I can properly assimilate into the herd.

And when he throws me that single beatific look that says, "I appreciate and respect you and I still feel like you were the rightest prettiest enabler in the whole wide room," well, I won't bite him, not even a little.

I might kick. But only because some things just make my feet want to go, go, go!

And the other one. MUST BE OBEYED. RIGHT NOW. ON PAIN OF LOUDNESS.