07.Sep.2004
a sucker's dream.
--
six months off for bad behavior.
It means something consuming to argue with me.
I tell some beast of a heart-torn boy about this over breakfast at a Denny's, that, in order to have an altercation with me, it involves bloodshed and fucking.
"So, have we just had it out?" he inquired as I bit salaciously on onion rings.
"Oh, no, honey," I muttered. "In order to have it out, someone has to lose a limb in a sexual incident."
Later, after we drove around my old neighborhood and stopped off at a 7-11 for Americanized vanilla cappuccino, I said, sauntering imposingly to his car, swaying my hips,
"So, are we going to go back to my house to fuck or what?"
--
We had it out.
--
Being encompassingly, unconventionally beautiful is a bastard of an encumbrance to me. When I was younger, I always loathed spindly beauties. Now that I'm a spindly piece of fuck, I'm perplexed by the progression of my ever-stagnant love life. I can walk into a room with boys and they all fall silent. Their girlfriends inevitably wind up detesting me. Friendships, textual and otherwise, transatlantic or not, have ended predicated on this, because women are convinced I'm worthless and out for the emotional blood of them.
What this does to me is humbling at worst. My reaction is to crawl into my abandoned bed and sleep for fortnights. I don't want to deal with it; I wish to call back those cronyships that ended based on another woman's insecurity. I'm turning into Depeche Mode's "Walking in My Shoes".
--
So, we had it out. It was athletic and cathartic. We discussed how important it is for me to physically hand my body to a boy. He didn't wish to sexually advance if it meant our friendship would suffer. I told him that we don't have a friendship, and we had it out.
Afterwards, he peered at his skin in the mirror and murmured, "You owe me flesh."
I asked, "What?"
He elucidated, "Pieces of my flesh are somewhere in your bed and blankets."
He showed me bits where he started bleeding, and I quietly ran my tongue over the lacerations on his back.
He left nervously following dawn; I told him to go to bed, as he had work in the central morning. I closed the door behind him and curled into a subconscious that was disturbed by nothing but future revelations.
Now, I merely crave Asian food.
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I miss Lily. Lily, if you still come around, let me know. I miss you. You would be simultaneously proud and disappointed in all of my cells.
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time & machine