that's Stella (the great dane)
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
"What lies behind us and lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
update: what lies in me is plenty. I am never ever backing down again. not from a fight like this. cz right is right, and who you want is who you want, and if you ain't quite strong enough for that well yet I got moxi to burn if you got a brain enough to bring a match
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
update: what lies in me is plenty. I am never ever backing down again. not from a fight like this. cz right is right, and who you want is who you want, and if you ain't quite strong enough for that well yet I got moxi to burn if you got a brain enough to bring a match
Thursday, September 08, 2011
All these insensitive men are actually more reactive to emotion than women, so they are genetically programmed to avoid it.
to a degree, okay, fine.....but really when push comes to shove, if you got something to say, say it
to a degree, okay, fine.....but really when push comes to shove, if you got something to say, say it
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Sunday, September 04, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I do not know how to be writing to Nobody on this blog ... that seems like an important thing to figure but I'm not sure how or why .... I dunno.... here I am this morning, alive inside my life, my mother visiting, my kids around me close each of the three (so far) orbiting at their particular distance, my career clamping down on my time... my reproductive health what it is, whatever that is, who can say?? la la la ... a man nearby to all of that but not here (yet?), stirring feelings and memories and chitchats with Mary, writing which for a change I do not leave here, that for a change I gave to Sunnie, a first between us . . . this is still what I'm listening to because it was the last gift I got, though I am trying not to listen to it over much, just a four times now, trying not to make the same mistakes, letting shit get to me too much down the bone more than it is meant to .. or is the mistake that I don't let it get to me enough? This is what I can say for sure about the last 24 hours: I talked to God; I took my girl with me and I gave the dialogue to my best gf; I told the man who is presenting himself to me that people seem to really love me or they really just do not, that anyone trying to hold a middle ground on that is driven bonkers or disappears, that my kids have been raised by the mafia of me, that you're either in or you're out with me that's how it goes for whatever reason; I took my peeps to see "30 minutes or less" and my mother laughed in that shotgun-burst style she does, like John used to too, that way that makes me laugh more than the joke itself; I listened to the rain alone, and am still doing that right now, hoping for some sleep
Thursday, August 11, 2011
"Faking It"
He says he used to know how to pray and can’t remember how any more. I tell him to try a shotgun approach. You have guns on the brain, he tells me. I glance where his gun is, wonder what it feels like, resist the urge to put my hand on it. I take one of his hands in mine, palm reading, I tell him that I think God went to pieces.
Like he failed the NCLEX and went to pieces kind of pieces?
I just think if I were God, I’d have gone to pieces by now. He smiles. I’m going to tell him a story, we take turns at that, I don’t know if it is a sad story or a happy one. There are two babies in it. I rub his palm, his wrist, the back of his hand, I switch to nails and trace the space between his elbow and his fingertips all around, top and tender underside of his forearm, slow soft scratching tracks up and down. He watches me. I watch his arm.
He tells me, You are thinking of him, this is the scratching in the Etta story.
Yes, it is, but I’m not always thinking of him.
Liar, he says.
I don’t, not always.
When was the last time he was completely gone from your mind?
He is gone from my mind more than not, I am busy if you hadn’t noticed.
I mean at times like this, I mean when you are thinking about men, he says. I have to think about that for a minute. His tone isn’t accusatory, it’s a fair question. He isn’t jealous, he hardly could be focused enough to be anything like jealous, sitting here in my hands with a new wedding ring on his left, his desire somewhat fractured. He’s just curious and has agreed to be challenging me to fix it, my ‘man problem’ and its causes, he has asked me to have “faith” ironically enough coming from the man who forgot how to pray. He has told me that he will not disappear (no matter what I say? no matter how honest?).
I tell him, There was a night a few weeks ago when a man I know went to kiss me goodnight but thought better of it but then hesitated and then kissed me on the nose and hugged me instead which he hadn’t wanted to do in the first place to say goodbye because he was covered in sweat, his shirt plastered to him, armpit hair and bandana dripping, and we laughed at our mutual awkwardness. I hugged him closer, soaking enough of his sweat into my dress to be vaguely damp all the way home, I kissed his neck and then bit him.
Bit him?
Yeah just playful, ya know, a little nibble.
What did he do?
He hummed.
Like whistled Dixie?
No, like “mmmmmmmm”.
Ha, gotcha.
And I did not think of John then (not consciously anyway), I thought only that my friend’s sweat smelled like Guinness and he didn’t taste nearly as salty as I would have anticipated.
Wow, you go to hell for thoughts that x-rated.
Shut up, I laugh.
Armpit hair, that’s hot shit.
I think it is hot shit, actually. I switch to his left hand, fingerpads to fingerpads, palm to palm…
What is the story?
O right, there are two babies, both dead.
Good so far.
Both were killed by their mothers.
How?
One against the pavement, I say. His whole body tenses, he exhales, I smell smoke, he wants a cigarette. Don’t, I say gently. I put my face in his left palm.
My hand is not the size of your grandfather’s, he says.
No. And this one doesn’t smell like smoke.
Your nose is cold.
My nose is always cold.
Means you’re healthy.
Only if you’re a nurse for dogs, I’m pretty sure.
And what about the other baby?
You have babies on the brain, I say.
Yes, I do.
The other one had trisomy13, the mother had to terminate.
Is there a plot to this story at all?
Not really, there is a woman on a couch mapping the forearm of a man with babies on the brain, and so in her own mind are babies now too, dead ones, and he tells her to have more faith and she tells him this story…about a woman who very much wanted a baby, though she already had a severely disabled child at home, her heart was not full enough.
Okay…
The other mother who smashed her baby had had more than enough to contend with already as well, a mind full of voices, more people than were not even real (and we both know how challenging is the world of actual people already, right?)
I guess so.
So the babies are lost, the hearts and minds of the mothers stay too full of what only leaves them wanting for sweetness – with me so far?
Yes, I think so.
And the mother who loses the trisomy13 baby, she wakes up from the termination and the first thing she does is sip apple juice and the first thing she says “that is so good” about the sweetness of the juice – that’s a prayer.
I see…I don’t mean to be critical, but telling stories like that one might have something to do with why you never get any, he says, amused.
Well, first of all, I’m not trying to ‘get any’, this is fake – remember?
Right.
Second of all, it’s not me who has dead babies on the brain, generally speaking.
I’ll give you that.
So I’m just trying to be accommodating.
You did say you like to be accommodating, I remember that now.
Yes.
And how long do I just sit here and let you do this?, he asks. It’s him who is being accommodating, to be fair. This is fake and somewhere there is a vegan dietician waiting for him and I don’t actually know how to read palms very well. I can tell if he has a moon line, if lines that indicate a propensity towards madness are present, if they intertwine with intuition, if he can understand people too well, to a disturbing degree (the same thing that made God go to pieces).
This is backwards, I say.
How?
The scratching, caressing, the memorizing of extremities, it comes last not first. First kisses come first and usually except for the fact that they’re FIRSTs, they’re unremarkable, and that’s a pity if you think about it, I lecture. To have mapped his left arm, sitting to his right and facing him, is an awkward slant to hold. I am wearing boots because he thinks they are silly and so he makes a not-smiling smiley face when he sees them. A yoga skirt, waistband turned over low across my hips. I hike it slightly and slide into a straddle across his lap. It would be better, I say, if first kisses were both remarkable and firsts, so that they wouldn’t be like any other first kisses that you ever have with anybody else, so that they’d be unlike any others that the other person has had either.......but still not stupidly weird, like underwater or upside down because that would just be dumb.
He laughs, says maybe just the boots are enough to make this one unique but he can’t kiss me of course.
Of course not, I’m just discussing the concept, and besides “a-straddle” wouldn’t be our first kiss even if we were going to have one. I’d have to think up something completely peculiar to our situation, totally unique to you.
And this isn’t unique?- You’ve straddled men not in a position to do anything about it often, have you?
Metaphorically I’ve done so way too many times. Literally only once, a first kiss that has yet to be topped.
You’ve got it bad, always thinking of him.
Not always, but his genius in sitting in that armless chair, well let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate that more in retrospect.
He looks at me. I can’t, he says softly.
You’re not doing anything, this is just show and tell, this is how it was, I tell him. Both our voices are tinged with sadnesses. I’ve run my hands up his biceps, my fingers tracing his jaw and throat, I am smelling him, my hair is in his face, he takes the end of a curl between his lips. Did you know that if you have curly hair you can tell when your lover is sick of you?, I ask. He doesn’t answer me, he is breathing very evenly in a way that I wonder if he does when he senses impending crisis. When you are new and have some value, your hair is glorious, your lover puts his face into it, he plays with it when you open his pants with your teeth, he tugs at it to wake you up…then one day, it tickles his nose, it bugs him, he moves his face away from it, and that is the day you should leave him (if you can stand to) because he is done with you, I explain.
So, you put your lovers to this test, straddle them, don’t let them move, rub them down, kiss their throats and wait to see if they sneeze?
I’m not kissing your throat, I’m sniffing it, I’m inspecting your supra sternal notch.
Ah yes, the notch, your favorite body part on the last boy toy.
I wish you’d quit saying that, every man in the world with a job used to be a student at some point, that doesn’t make everyone I might straddle a ‘boy toy’.
Uh huh.
And probably the notch would have been his first kiss, but I never kissed him, so he wasn’t my anything.
True enough, I’m just teasing.
And nobody said anything about not being allowed to move, my lover just would not, he could have.
So he would sit here, while you ran your fingernails up and down and…
I sit up, my ass melting warmly deeper into his lap, I take his hands, put them on my hips. He’d do that, put his hands on my hips, I say. I look into his eyes. He gets a firmer grip on my hips and shifts my weight off of him. (And now I’m afraid he is angry with me. I am sorry. I don’t want him not to like me anymore.) He puts two fingers to my notch, and with his fingers held there he pushes me backwards onto the couch and lies down on top of me. He sniffs me. I giggle.
How do you like it?
Okay, stop.
No, he says, sniffing my neck, pressing his weight down. I laugh, lift my hips to lock against his, my skirt high on my thighs. Those boots are so stupid.
I can take them off.
No no, it’s fine Cowgirl, he says, smiling and sniffing downward, his face to my tits through my shirt.
This is feeling less fake by the second, I say.
Shut up, it’s about time someone turned this around on you, were you a bloodhound in your last life or what? He lifts my shirt and makes sniffing noises against my belly. I’m ticklish, squealing, pushing him away. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to flat out tickle the shit out of you, he threatens.
Noooo, stop!
Shut up, stop moving.
No.
He presses his fingers into my ribs.
SQUEAL, okay okay!
He takes his hands away, shifts his weight onto his knees between mine, keeps his face above my stomach, puts his hands on my thighs, pushes my skirt up. He looks very serious, very clinical, staring down my torso, pulls the waistband of my panties an inch lower. You don’t have a single stretchmark, he notes.
I have a small one, right hip.
He looks, looks closer. I can feel his breathing, slow and even, warm breezes. And then he kisses me, once, firmly and sweetly, through the lace of my fake-date panties, at the base of the pyramidalis muscle. He sits up, extends a hand, I take it, he pulls me up to a sitting position. I take a deep shaky breath.
That’s my new favorite first kiss, I say.
I really need a cigarette, he replies.
Understandable, don’t let me keep you.
I’m trying not to.
I laugh, Yeah cuz you’re not a stray dog ya know, you’ve got a license and everything.
I know!
He says he used to know how to pray and can’t remember how any more. I tell him to try a shotgun approach. You have guns on the brain, he tells me. I glance where his gun is, wonder what it feels like, resist the urge to put my hand on it. I take one of his hands in mine, palm reading, I tell him that I think God went to pieces.
Like he failed the NCLEX and went to pieces kind of pieces?
I just think if I were God, I’d have gone to pieces by now. He smiles. I’m going to tell him a story, we take turns at that, I don’t know if it is a sad story or a happy one. There are two babies in it. I rub his palm, his wrist, the back of his hand, I switch to nails and trace the space between his elbow and his fingertips all around, top and tender underside of his forearm, slow soft scratching tracks up and down. He watches me. I watch his arm.
He tells me, You are thinking of him, this is the scratching in the Etta story.
Yes, it is, but I’m not always thinking of him.
Liar, he says.
I don’t, not always.
When was the last time he was completely gone from your mind?
He is gone from my mind more than not, I am busy if you hadn’t noticed.
I mean at times like this, I mean when you are thinking about men, he says. I have to think about that for a minute. His tone isn’t accusatory, it’s a fair question. He isn’t jealous, he hardly could be focused enough to be anything like jealous, sitting here in my hands with a new wedding ring on his left, his desire somewhat fractured. He’s just curious and has agreed to be challenging me to fix it, my ‘man problem’ and its causes, he has asked me to have “faith” ironically enough coming from the man who forgot how to pray. He has told me that he will not disappear (no matter what I say? no matter how honest?).
I tell him, There was a night a few weeks ago when a man I know went to kiss me goodnight but thought better of it but then hesitated and then kissed me on the nose and hugged me instead which he hadn’t wanted to do in the first place to say goodbye because he was covered in sweat, his shirt plastered to him, armpit hair and bandana dripping, and we laughed at our mutual awkwardness. I hugged him closer, soaking enough of his sweat into my dress to be vaguely damp all the way home, I kissed his neck and then bit him.
Bit him?
Yeah just playful, ya know, a little nibble.
What did he do?
He hummed.
Like whistled Dixie?
No, like “mmmmmmmm”.
Ha, gotcha.
And I did not think of John then (not consciously anyway), I thought only that my friend’s sweat smelled like Guinness and he didn’t taste nearly as salty as I would have anticipated.
Wow, you go to hell for thoughts that x-rated.
Shut up, I laugh.
Armpit hair, that’s hot shit.
I think it is hot shit, actually. I switch to his left hand, fingerpads to fingerpads, palm to palm…
What is the story?
O right, there are two babies, both dead.
Good so far.
Both were killed by their mothers.
How?
One against the pavement, I say. His whole body tenses, he exhales, I smell smoke, he wants a cigarette. Don’t, I say gently. I put my face in his left palm.
My hand is not the size of your grandfather’s, he says.
No. And this one doesn’t smell like smoke.
Your nose is cold.
My nose is always cold.
Means you’re healthy.
Only if you’re a nurse for dogs, I’m pretty sure.
And what about the other baby?
You have babies on the brain, I say.
Yes, I do.
The other one had trisomy13, the mother had to terminate.
Is there a plot to this story at all?
Not really, there is a woman on a couch mapping the forearm of a man with babies on the brain, and so in her own mind are babies now too, dead ones, and he tells her to have more faith and she tells him this story…about a woman who very much wanted a baby, though she already had a severely disabled child at home, her heart was not full enough.
Okay…
The other mother who smashed her baby had had more than enough to contend with already as well, a mind full of voices, more people than were not even real (and we both know how challenging is the world of actual people already, right?)
I guess so.
So the babies are lost, the hearts and minds of the mothers stay too full of what only leaves them wanting for sweetness – with me so far?
Yes, I think so.
And the mother who loses the trisomy13 baby, she wakes up from the termination and the first thing she does is sip apple juice and the first thing she says “that is so good” about the sweetness of the juice – that’s a prayer.
I see…I don’t mean to be critical, but telling stories like that one might have something to do with why you never get any, he says, amused.
Well, first of all, I’m not trying to ‘get any’, this is fake – remember?
Right.
Second of all, it’s not me who has dead babies on the brain, generally speaking.
I’ll give you that.
So I’m just trying to be accommodating.
You did say you like to be accommodating, I remember that now.
Yes.
And how long do I just sit here and let you do this?, he asks. It’s him who is being accommodating, to be fair. This is fake and somewhere there is a vegan dietician waiting for him and I don’t actually know how to read palms very well. I can tell if he has a moon line, if lines that indicate a propensity towards madness are present, if they intertwine with intuition, if he can understand people too well, to a disturbing degree (the same thing that made God go to pieces).
This is backwards, I say.
How?
The scratching, caressing, the memorizing of extremities, it comes last not first. First kisses come first and usually except for the fact that they’re FIRSTs, they’re unremarkable, and that’s a pity if you think about it, I lecture. To have mapped his left arm, sitting to his right and facing him, is an awkward slant to hold. I am wearing boots because he thinks they are silly and so he makes a not-smiling smiley face when he sees them. A yoga skirt, waistband turned over low across my hips. I hike it slightly and slide into a straddle across his lap. It would be better, I say, if first kisses were both remarkable and firsts, so that they wouldn’t be like any other first kisses that you ever have with anybody else, so that they’d be unlike any others that the other person has had either.......but still not stupidly weird, like underwater or upside down because that would just be dumb.
He laughs, says maybe just the boots are enough to make this one unique but he can’t kiss me of course.
Of course not, I’m just discussing the concept, and besides “a-straddle” wouldn’t be our first kiss even if we were going to have one. I’d have to think up something completely peculiar to our situation, totally unique to you.
And this isn’t unique?- You’ve straddled men not in a position to do anything about it often, have you?
Metaphorically I’ve done so way too many times. Literally only once, a first kiss that has yet to be topped.
You’ve got it bad, always thinking of him.
Not always, but his genius in sitting in that armless chair, well let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate that more in retrospect.
He looks at me. I can’t, he says softly.
You’re not doing anything, this is just show and tell, this is how it was, I tell him. Both our voices are tinged with sadnesses. I’ve run my hands up his biceps, my fingers tracing his jaw and throat, I am smelling him, my hair is in his face, he takes the end of a curl between his lips. Did you know that if you have curly hair you can tell when your lover is sick of you?, I ask. He doesn’t answer me, he is breathing very evenly in a way that I wonder if he does when he senses impending crisis. When you are new and have some value, your hair is glorious, your lover puts his face into it, he plays with it when you open his pants with your teeth, he tugs at it to wake you up…then one day, it tickles his nose, it bugs him, he moves his face away from it, and that is the day you should leave him (if you can stand to) because he is done with you, I explain.
So, you put your lovers to this test, straddle them, don’t let them move, rub them down, kiss their throats and wait to see if they sneeze?
I’m not kissing your throat, I’m sniffing it, I’m inspecting your supra sternal notch.
Ah yes, the notch, your favorite body part on the last boy toy.
I wish you’d quit saying that, every man in the world with a job used to be a student at some point, that doesn’t make everyone I might straddle a ‘boy toy’.
Uh huh.
And probably the notch would have been his first kiss, but I never kissed him, so he wasn’t my anything.
True enough, I’m just teasing.
And nobody said anything about not being allowed to move, my lover just would not, he could have.
So he would sit here, while you ran your fingernails up and down and…
I sit up, my ass melting warmly deeper into his lap, I take his hands, put them on my hips. He’d do that, put his hands on my hips, I say. I look into his eyes. He gets a firmer grip on my hips and shifts my weight off of him. (And now I’m afraid he is angry with me. I am sorry. I don’t want him not to like me anymore.) He puts two fingers to my notch, and with his fingers held there he pushes me backwards onto the couch and lies down on top of me. He sniffs me. I giggle.
How do you like it?
Okay, stop.
No, he says, sniffing my neck, pressing his weight down. I laugh, lift my hips to lock against his, my skirt high on my thighs. Those boots are so stupid.
I can take them off.
No no, it’s fine Cowgirl, he says, smiling and sniffing downward, his face to my tits through my shirt.
This is feeling less fake by the second, I say.
Shut up, it’s about time someone turned this around on you, were you a bloodhound in your last life or what? He lifts my shirt and makes sniffing noises against my belly. I’m ticklish, squealing, pushing him away. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to flat out tickle the shit out of you, he threatens.
Noooo, stop!
Shut up, stop moving.
No.
He presses his fingers into my ribs.
SQUEAL, okay okay!
He takes his hands away, shifts his weight onto his knees between mine, keeps his face above my stomach, puts his hands on my thighs, pushes my skirt up. He looks very serious, very clinical, staring down my torso, pulls the waistband of my panties an inch lower. You don’t have a single stretchmark, he notes.
I have a small one, right hip.
He looks, looks closer. I can feel his breathing, slow and even, warm breezes. And then he kisses me, once, firmly and sweetly, through the lace of my fake-date panties, at the base of the pyramidalis muscle. He sits up, extends a hand, I take it, he pulls me up to a sitting position. I take a deep shaky breath.
That’s my new favorite first kiss, I say.
I really need a cigarette, he replies.
Understandable, don’t let me keep you.
I’m trying not to.
I laugh, Yeah cuz you’re not a stray dog ya know, you’ve got a license and everything.
I know!
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
what's up?
nothing good. (tell me a story)
ya know those chin straps?
(headtilt)
like it's a dildo attached to your face.
ok...
I gotta friend, we go out and he wears one to the bar.
hahahahahahah wtf? hahahah that's pretty brilliant. in a really fucked up kinda way.
yeah it's amazing how well it works too.
really?
yeah he wears it with a 'I heart fat chicks' tshirt and everybody wants to talk to him.
hahahahahahahahaha....
nothing good. (tell me a story)
ya know those chin straps?
(headtilt)
like it's a dildo attached to your face.
ok...
I gotta friend, we go out and he wears one to the bar.
hahahahahahah wtf? hahahah that's pretty brilliant. in a really fucked up kinda way.
yeah it's amazing how well it works too.
really?
yeah he wears it with a 'I heart fat chicks' tshirt and everybody wants to talk to him.
hahahahahahahahaha....
Hail
That’s still all you know of that, isn’t it?
I keep meaning to learn it, then I forget.
Lame.
I know, sorry.
Sorry sorry sorry, you know how many times I hear that a day?
I can only imagine.
So how you been? Like, for instance, how was yesterday?
I had a bad day. You know about that already?
There was a ‘disturbance in the force’.
That guy deserved it.
Dick cancer?
Hey that was bullshit, no man would go to a doctor for any reason and get a shrink referral rather than a blood test whatever, they only do that shit to women.
Dick cancer virus that’ll effect the need for mass partial dick removals for across the male human genome?
I might have overreacted a little.
A dick eating virus for which there will be no cure, only ineffectual insensitive counseling and antidepressants that suppress orgasms as a side-effect?
Ok, ok, that might have been a slightly disproportionate response on my part.
Plus, you’re not even seriously ill, and you know it, or you’d be here praying about that, which you aren’t, cz you know damn well you’ve just been doing too many shots of southern comfort and self-pity. Unhealthy is not the same thing as sick.
I’m not sick, that’s good to hear, I just spent $600 on herbal vitamins..
Don’t change the subject. We’ve talked about this.
I know.
I’m very nearly about to give you a shrink referral.
That’s not nice, not very forgiving.
You went home, wrote the human genome dick curse down to bind it (which you know I have mixed feelings about that magic shit anyway), then noted the date to all your witchy friends so that when cancer strikes dicks across the globe, you get personal credit. And you’re not even sorry, not even a little bit.
I’m sorry we’re talking about it, does that count for anything?
Then among other things, you bitched out that friend of yours over there, who by the way is right now looking through the church for the Hail Mary prayer, HA HEM.
Sigh, ok, I’m sorry about that, but
But – do you have any idea how often hear ‘I’m sorry BUT’?
But cmon, they fight over utterly nothing all the time – here I am, the way I am, and there they are still screwing nearly every day after 10 years whatever it is, then they start threatening to divorce each other over…what the hell was that even over?
Sooo, you’re not sorry about that either.
Siiiiigh, ok, yes I’m at least half sorry, they do have issues, it’s not my place, blablabla. Ok?
You are so lame today.
I AM sorry that I am lame, yes indeedy.
Guess that’ll have to be good enough. Say some friggin Hail Mary’s why dontcha?
How many?
Let’s be realistic: One.
Ok.
So, you’re here to discuss the polish boy.
You know? How do you know him?
None of your business.
It’s not dead hookers is it?
(stoney stare)
(pause) What’s a missalette? (falls open, Matthew 8:17, for the sick)
Go to church once in a while and you’d know.
So yeah, for the sick whatever, so you know him from ambulance driving days?
You know damn well he hates that term, why are you being passive aggressive?
I have no idea.
What do you want to talk about?
No idea. I really have no idea, but since you know him already and know Everything why don’t you fill me in on what I might want to talk about.
No.
Siiiiigh. Okay. So. Anyway, so we have this fake boyfriend scheme to godsmack Tony with basically…
Yup. Fake married boyfriend to upset the notmarried notboyfriend and maybe the other married notboyfriend too in order to get over the notofficialnowexboyfriend (before you kill him with your self-defense sonic booms, talk about “not very nice”) – you keep us entertained up here, I’ll give you that. That’s about as ass backwards as a woman born with a decent ass and curly hair can be in man-getting.
I’m gifted in ass backwards.
Great job, solid house, blessed womb, and I even let you keep the magic wand…
Ha, “blessed womb”, your Catholic phrasing cracks me up.
(stoney stare)
I KNOW, I know, ok?
Do you know? Cz I don’t know if the butthead from Wisconsin episode of South Park being your favorite quite amounts to self-awareness.
Siiiigh. I don’t know what am I worried about…I guess…thing is, it’s nice to have him around all of a sudden, he’s funny, his stories are KILLER and you know how much I love that, and I think it’s very healthy psychologically, the relationship discussions, him being at the front end and me being shat-out on the other of the whole marriage thing, it’s a useful counter perspective typa deal.
(stoney stare)
Siiiigh. I don’t know! I guess I don’t want to get too attached, it makes me nervous to be glad to hear from him mid drunk golf game, that’s awesome and I could use some new friend energy and, and, I dunno…
How do you spell his name?
What?
How do you spell his name?
Don’t you know?
(stoney stare)
I don’t know, it’s something polish, starts with an M ends in an I. or a Y. No, I’m almost sure it’s an I.
You’ve known him for years, still can’t spell his name, but are afraid you’re getting too attached?
That’s still all you know of that, isn’t it?
I keep meaning to learn it, then I forget.
Lame.
I know, sorry.
Sorry sorry sorry, you know how many times I hear that a day?
I can only imagine.
So how you been? Like, for instance, how was yesterday?
I had a bad day. You know about that already?
There was a ‘disturbance in the force’.
That guy deserved it.
Dick cancer?
Hey that was bullshit, no man would go to a doctor for any reason and get a shrink referral rather than a blood test whatever, they only do that shit to women.
Dick cancer virus that’ll effect the need for mass partial dick removals for across the male human genome?
I might have overreacted a little.
A dick eating virus for which there will be no cure, only ineffectual insensitive counseling and antidepressants that suppress orgasms as a side-effect?
Ok, ok, that might have been a slightly disproportionate response on my part.
Plus, you’re not even seriously ill, and you know it, or you’d be here praying about that, which you aren’t, cz you know damn well you’ve just been doing too many shots of southern comfort and self-pity. Unhealthy is not the same thing as sick.
I’m not sick, that’s good to hear, I just spent $600 on herbal vitamins..
Don’t change the subject. We’ve talked about this.
I know.
I’m very nearly about to give you a shrink referral.
That’s not nice, not very forgiving.
You went home, wrote the human genome dick curse down to bind it (which you know I have mixed feelings about that magic shit anyway), then noted the date to all your witchy friends so that when cancer strikes dicks across the globe, you get personal credit. And you’re not even sorry, not even a little bit.
I’m sorry we’re talking about it, does that count for anything?
Then among other things, you bitched out that friend of yours over there, who by the way is right now looking through the church for the Hail Mary prayer, HA HEM.
Sigh, ok, I’m sorry about that, but
But – do you have any idea how often hear ‘I’m sorry BUT’?
But cmon, they fight over utterly nothing all the time – here I am, the way I am, and there they are still screwing nearly every day after 10 years whatever it is, then they start threatening to divorce each other over…what the hell was that even over?
Sooo, you’re not sorry about that either.
Siiiiigh, ok, yes I’m at least half sorry, they do have issues, it’s not my place, blablabla. Ok?
You are so lame today.
I AM sorry that I am lame, yes indeedy.
Guess that’ll have to be good enough. Say some friggin Hail Mary’s why dontcha?
How many?
Let’s be realistic: One.
Ok.
So, you’re here to discuss the polish boy.
You know? How do you know him?
None of your business.
It’s not dead hookers is it?
(stoney stare)
(pause) What’s a missalette? (falls open, Matthew 8:17, for the sick)
Go to church once in a while and you’d know.
So yeah, for the sick whatever, so you know him from ambulance driving days?
You know damn well he hates that term, why are you being passive aggressive?
I have no idea.
What do you want to talk about?
No idea. I really have no idea, but since you know him already and know Everything why don’t you fill me in on what I might want to talk about.
No.
Siiiiigh. Okay. So. Anyway, so we have this fake boyfriend scheme to godsmack Tony with basically…
Yup. Fake married boyfriend to upset the notmarried notboyfriend and maybe the other married notboyfriend too in order to get over the notofficialnowexboyfriend (before you kill him with your self-defense sonic booms, talk about “not very nice”) – you keep us entertained up here, I’ll give you that. That’s about as ass backwards as a woman born with a decent ass and curly hair can be in man-getting.
I’m gifted in ass backwards.
Great job, solid house, blessed womb, and I even let you keep the magic wand…
Ha, “blessed womb”, your Catholic phrasing cracks me up.
(stoney stare)
I KNOW, I know, ok?
Do you know? Cz I don’t know if the butthead from Wisconsin episode of South Park being your favorite quite amounts to self-awareness.
Siiiigh. I don’t know what am I worried about…I guess…thing is, it’s nice to have him around all of a sudden, he’s funny, his stories are KILLER and you know how much I love that, and I think it’s very healthy psychologically, the relationship discussions, him being at the front end and me being shat-out on the other of the whole marriage thing, it’s a useful counter perspective typa deal.
(stoney stare)
Siiiigh. I don’t know! I guess I don’t want to get too attached, it makes me nervous to be glad to hear from him mid drunk golf game, that’s awesome and I could use some new friend energy and, and, I dunno…
How do you spell his name?
What?
How do you spell his name?
Don’t you kno
w?
(stoney stare)
I don’t know, it’s something polish, starts with an M ends in an I. or a Y. No, I’m almost sure it’s an I.
You’ve known him for years, still can’t spell his name, but are afraid you’re getting too attached?
Isn’t there something in the bible about ‘what’s in a name’?
That’s Shakespeare dumbass.
Whatever. Ok. I see your point, it’s just that..it’s just that there’s something under the jokes. Something I don’t want to lose.
What is it under the jokes?
I’m having those dreams again all of a sudden, where I wake up panicked I’m losing the baby but there is no friggin baby Mare, I’m sick of these dreams…I’m swimming in lakes, I wake up and I can smell the water still and feel silt to my shins, I mean the water feels good. But the drowning
What is it under the jokes? Say it.
I think he’s got the same last sentence as me, or something close.
There ya go.
What does he have to be remorseful for?
None of your business. Go ahead. Get attached.
Really? Just like that? Cz I was gonna promise not to fuck him if I can keep him, no problemo….
I didn’t say you could keep him, he’s not a stray dog, I said to go ahead and get attached. Be happy to hear from him. Knock yourself out.
But that might suck.
Sweetie, of course it is going to suck, you’re mortal whether you like it or not, herbs or not, magic or not, and that means that sooner or later, every and anything you come in here and pray about is going to suck. That’s why the prayer you never learn goes the way it goes. Maybe an ambulance driver can help you out with accepting that reality, he’s traveled the route of it a few times.
Okay…
Look at me.
(eyes closed. ‘in prayer’)
Look at me.
What?
No sonic booming at him. Not now, and not later, not ever, regardless. Not if he disappears today, not if he drives you half-crazy not-disappearing, or anything in between. Got it?
Okay.
I’m serious, you’re not going to be allowed to get away with it, so don’t even think about it. The Greek needs all the help of kicks to the head he can get, and although even you probably won’t be able to get through to him in that bunker of his, you and any other women are free to boom all you want. The ambulance driver, no.
What other women?
None of your business.
Hrrmph. Okay.
And more herbs, less southern comfort.
Okay okay okay.
That’s Shakespeare dumbass.
Whatever. Ok. I see your point, it’s just that..it’s just that there’s something under the jokes. Something I don’t want to lose.
What is it under the jokes?
I’m having those dreams again all of a sudden, where I wake up panicked I’m losing the baby but there is no friggin baby Mare, I’m sick of these dreams…I’m swimming in lakes, I wake up and I can smell the water still and feel silt to my shins, I mean the water feels good. But the drowning
What is it under the jokes? Say it.
I think he’s got the same last sentence as me, or something close.
There ya go.
What does he have to be remorseful for?
None of your business. Go ahead. Get attached.
Really? Just like that? Cz I was gonna promise not to fuck him if I can keep him, no problemo….
I didn’t say you could keep him, he’s not a stray dog, I said to go ahead and get attached. Be happy to hear from him. Knock yourself out.
But that might suck.
Sweetie, of course it is going to suck, you’re mortal whether you like it or not, herbs or not, magic or not, and that means that sooner or later, every and anything you come in here and pray about is going to suck. That’s why the prayer you never learn goes the way it goes. Maybe an ambulance driver can help you out with accepting that reality, he’s traveled the route of it a few times.
Okay…
Look at me.
(eyes closed. ‘in prayer’)
Look at me.
What?
No sonic booming at him. Not now, and not later, not ever, regardless. Not if he disappears today, not if he drives you half-crazy not-disappearing, or anything in between. Got it?
Okay.
I’m serious, you’re not going to be allowed to get away with it, so don’t even think about it. The Greek needs all the help of kicks to the head he can get, and although even you probably won’t be able to get through to him in that bunker of his, you and any other women are free to boom all you want. The ambulance driver, no.
What other women?
None of your business.
Hrrmph. Okay.
And more herbs, less southern comfort.
Okay okay okay.
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