19.Jan.2004
ouch.
--
let's just say the blow was a little closer to home than that.
My impatient, devilish spirit:
We had a minor pseudo-altercation that resulted in my warm and inviting shoulder turning cold. He expressed his desire for getting into shape; I personally worship all of the strange and beautiful flaws of him every moment I'm handed the opportunity, to the best of my current abilities, which, admittedly, doesn't say much at all. Indifference turned slightly on the heel of calloused bitterness when I stated, after a moment of him poking and prodding, "Well, go for it. Girls go silly for rock-solid abs and long hair."
I imitated a scenario, pregnant with a swarm of my disdain toward benighted women crowding around his abdomen, completely unable to appreciate the very brain of him.
I'm having issues with bending myself competitively backwards to a society comprised primarily of bipedal empty attics. I am also largely hypocritical. Since I've been losing weight, people I should never, ever talk to have taken to calling me at one in the morning when I've conveniently left my cell-phone in another room, but, who didn't see that predictable season premier coming?
He smirked and stated, "Someone sounds bitter."
I said brazenly, self-preservation and decorum a pile of cellulite on my bathroom floor, "Of course I'm bitter."
I said, "You're mine."
I said, "Plein et simple."
He retorted beautifully, "I'm not the one wearing the collar."
Brief flash-back. Gardenia, California, 1998. Steve C. My collared mistressism. Domination and submission relationship. Questionably high age gap. Drugs and deprecation. Emotional fission finally transpired when he left me for someone more fucked up and submissive and moved to Oregon. I was young and a mess. He was old and a wreck. He loved everyone that catered to his childish caprice. I beheld no capacity to understand. Blindsight is 20-20.
A comment like that immediately reduces one by years and splits their atoms on a Pacific Beach, somewhere very far away from self-worth.
"Thanks, Steve," I said to him, the present him, finally. "You let me know how Oregon turns out."
I had a fuck-you in my central nervous system for the rest of the night. I'm quite sure I possibly still do. Fuck you, dearly, indeed.
--
These testosterone-packed glory-monsters will be the death of me.
So, I'm his fan girl, his no-night-special, his peace-fog, mayhap have been since the first time we met. It's the air of my veneration, but, maybe I need a break from its one-sided ardor.
I'm his advice girl, a distraction from my own adolescent imago, a writer for a different script, and maybe I have no feeling about it, either way.
Thankfully, I'm this guy's nothing, because I didn't answer the phone.
I'm unusually devoted to those I've slammed against. However, I've been smashing cycles with sledgehammers for the past six months or so, a commencing third-ventricle transgression, I surmise. The only bonds and limitations I know of at this current juncture consist of leather and safe-words.
Though I'm aware he would never intentionally stir the wrong brew of my passion, as I truly believe we have more respect for each other than that, it never ceased to irk me terribly. Trail your chilly fingers against that laceration once more, and I swear I'll sever your carotid artery with my incisors, your idiosyncratic beauty bestirred or not.
--
There are other things outside of this, here. Music, music titles, money, domesticism, skirts, working hours, James Spader sex dreams, European-banned prostitution (whatever shall we do?), neo-conservatives continue to spawn, rock music continues to decline, society continues to acerbate me, and I'm fresh out of fabric softener.
--
time & machine