The Knight knelt, head ‘gainst the gilded hilt of his upright sword. He begged of the shrouded witch, “What must I do to find the secret to eternal life, m’lady?”
A rictus revealed teeth the color of ash as she sprinkled ground nettle and human hair into her gurgling cauldron, and she finally spoke – a pitch of voice one could almost feel, a scent of breath one could almost see – “You wish to earn it, yes?”
“Of course, m’lady.”
“Very well.” She giggled as do those who possess both secret knowledge and great insanity. “You must venture deep into the Dark Wood, through the quizzical web of the Riddle Spider, onward you shall trudge through the Swamp of Bones, up you must climb the rocky face of Memory Mountain, from the top of which you will dive into the Pools of Grand Illusion, and finally, when you have dried off in the Forest of Forgotten Towels, you will see a bush unlike any other, one that almost seems to be alive in the way you and I are alive. And though it will howl in fierce agony, you must break its branches! And when the moisture begins to form, you’ll know what to do next…”
“What, m’lady? What shall I next do? I mustn’t leave a thing up to chance.”
The flames beneath the cauldron grew brighter, lighting up her previously hidden eyes – black eyes that could see all!
“You must suckle the honey-blood from the man-brambles!”
“Oh. Suckle?”
“Like a babe, and like one you shall remain… for eternity!”
“And how? How does this honey-blood serve as an elixir – as a panacea, m’lady?”
“Well… it’s very high in antioxidants, don’t’cha know?
“Bwah-huh?”
“You can’t expect to live forever without killing a few free radicals first. DUH!”
And then they made out, as per their arrangement.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
Yeah, so this is where I grew up, babe. Not much to show or tell, but I’ll hit the sweet spots – I mean, I always do, right?
Oh! Here we go: coming up is the stop sign my boys and I used to chuck bottles and rocks at. See that big dent in the center of the O? Yeah, that was me. Levi said I couldn’t hit that bull’s-eye, but I totally did. He owed me 3 bucks and his copy of Varsity Blues for that one. I mean, it was taped off TV, but whatever. I mean, Varsity Blues is Varsity Blues, ya know?
Coming up on your left is Old Man Charleston’s mail box. We used to smash bottles and shit on that too. One time we were cruising by on our way back from a pumpkin patch, and I was like, fuck it, I’m not carving this shit, so I just totally destroyed the mailbox with it. Pumpkin got pretty fucked up too. It was so dope, babe. God, I wish you coulda seen it. I mean, fuck…
Goddamn it! I really wish you were there to see it! Sucks, but whatevs. We’ll just have to make some new memories. You, me, and the baby you’re cookin’ up.
Oh, yes! Yes! This is like the stop. The old satellite! Fuck yeah! So bomb. Every weekend, we’d come out here with beers and liquor that’d we’d all ganked from our dads – just me and the boys – and we’d sit under that little tree over there and whip our empties at Old Satty – that’s what we used to call the satellite.
I mean, sure, we’d always end up just hitting the fence. Whatever. But we never stopped trying to get one over, hoping it’d totally shatter on Old Satty.
Damn, that’s got me all sad and shit, babe. Thinking about that shit. Diggin up the past. Big Steve used to love chucking cans and bottles at Old Satty more than any of us. It was his favorite thing in the world. May he rest in Peace.
Yep, one night he threw one too many cans at Old Satty. All drunk and pissed, he stuffed a beer in one of his cargo pockets, straight up determined to get a direct hit on Old Satty, and he starts climbing the fence, right?
And we’re all like, “Do it, pussy!” And he’s like, “Fuck it! This night’s never gonna end! I’m doing it!”
He made it over, but fell on the way down. Landed on his head, fucked his neck for good, and that was it. Gone.
Every couple years me and the boys come back here and tell our favorite stories about Big Steve – oh yeah, we called him Big Steve because he had a small dick – but we all get drunk and toss empties at the fence in his honor.
Shit, babe, I want you to know how fun that shit is. I mean, I can’t invite you out with the boys, because, like, you’re a chick and it’d be weird, but… But shit, my parents can wait an extra hour or two. We’re gonna go get a bottle of Night Train, we’re gonna kill it, and I’m gonna let you do the honors of tossing your first bottle at Old Satty. You’ll finally learn so much about who I am.
Oh, right – you’re right. Well, wait: didn’t your gynochiatrist say one glass of wine occasionally wouldn’t probably do shit to the baby? I’ll drink most of it, and you can just take a couple small chugs.
Alright! Christ! I get it! No wine until you shit the baby out your front-butt. Damn, girl. Slow your roll. Fuckin’ buzz kill.
Oh, speaking of baby stuff, if you can do everything you can to make sure that spermazoid in your gut comes out with a dong and not roast beef curtains, I swear I’ll love you forever, because that’ll mean I can take him out with the boys one day and show him what friendship, brotherhood, and throwing shit at other shit really means in this life.
What? But, babe, we’re almost there…
Jesus! Fine! I’m pulling over, just stop screaming. Where do you think you’re going?
Get back in the car! Get back in the fucking car right fucking now!
Ah, fuck that, fuck off, and fuck you! You can walk!
Bitch.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
In addition to hating Mondays, he had never really worked a day in his life.
It was nepotistic.
He went through the days like a ghost who waits for a compliment.
The letters of his name were on the building that housed his enormous office, and his father’s name was on the building as well.
His record in court was %100 victorious.
His lunch hour appeared to vary from day to day based on when his father would call.
“Um, hello, Mr. Hobb, I’m afraid-”
“You’re afraid that the other Mr. Hobb is out to lunch? Is that what you were going to say? Out to lunch at four post meridian?”
“Actually, I have now been instructed by the young Mr. Hobb to say that The Bright-Line Kid is out to lunch.”
“Oh Moses, he realizes that isn’t a positive nick-name he’s acquired, right?”
“Of course not, Mr. Hobb.”
“Yes. Of course not. Call his cellular telephone and tell him there’s a new case for him.”
“But you said… um, well, you had mentioned to me that there would no longer be any-”
“And I wasn’t lying, Abby.”
“Oh. I see. I’ll try to contact him for you. And… are we still on for tonight?”
The Hobb & Hobb Law Firm’s growth over the last six months had led to the decision to no longer take on any low-profile cases wherein a bright-line rule was applicable, and any high profile cases of the same category could not be assigned to the Mr. Hobb, the younger.
Abigail, the receptionist, sighed for the fifth time in as many minutes and decided to let this final call go to Voice Mail:
The Bright-Line Kid is currently busy feeling way proud about his 9 consecutive wins. So leave a message and I’ll try to pencil you in between victories.
Abigail rolled her eyes for no one to see and impatiently waited to hear a beep.
The bright-line is a rule or guideline that is more or less set in stone, allowing little to no wiggle room for a context to change the ruling of a crime.
Mr. Hobb had successfully represented 9 plaintiffs who had undergone statutory rape, with a great variance in punishments ruled, though all defendants were technically guilty.
“I’m sorry to disturb you on a Monday, Mr., um, The Bright-Line Kid, but you should probably put a suit on and come in today as your father is eager to discuss the details of your next case, which he wants to go over in his office at 5:30, so if you expect to be late, I would recommend contacting him directly.”
“Fuck my life,” said The Bright-Line Kid, flipping his cell phone shut, his other hand still cradling his penis.
Inside his sink were six different, dirtied mugs that all stated: I Hate Mondays!
“Damnit, now I’m all limp – aaaarrrgghh!”
Behind the blinds was a sunny day.
He stomped the bleached hard wood floors of his large apartment with his feet as he slowly mad his way to the shower, where he would try to clear his head by way of ejaculation.
To Be Continued…
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
No one knew where such a little youngster had gotten it, but all knew that he had it.
Travis could barely cock the weighty crossbow, let alone hold it up. All the same, he walked up and down the neighborhood, slowly dragging it behind him, grunting from the effort, and threatening all of his friends.
“Toby! Gimme your marbles or I’ll shoot your wiener off!”
“Levi! Gimme those puffy stickers or I’ll shoot your butt off!”
Travis began carrying an empty pillowcase as he made his rounds, slowly filling it up with the toys of others, like a reverse-Santa, or if you will, a “Santi-thesis”.
He had become a dirty sheriff, taxing his peers, who desperately wanted to keep their wieners and butts.
Then one day, little Susie Wentworth changed everything without ever meaning to. Her stomach and chest deemed Travis’ confidence and anti-heroism to be worthy of producing and housing one hundred and one butterflies, whose figurative wings tickled her to swooning at each thought or glance that was occupied by Travis. On the day that brought justice back to the neighborhood, Susie was flat on the lawn, belly-down, legs bent at the knee with carefree feet dangling upward in the air as she scribbled the words “Mr. & Mrs. Travis” over and over, dotting his i’s with chubby, little hearts.
All was quiet, save for the simple sound of the breeze brushing the blades of grass. Most other children weren’t playing outside anymore, and when they did, they left behind what precious few toys they still had to their names safely hid in chests, stashed under beds, an tucked away in attics. When Susie heard that distinct sound of that medieval metal grinding away its value on the sidewalk, her eyes darted and her heart doubled its pace.
There he stood, come to a full stop at the edge of his parents’ property. Hand held up to shield the sun, he seemed to be sizing up the day’s potential. Pickens were slim, and he had anticipated as much, which is why he put all of the confiscated toys back in the pillowcase before heading out to make his rounds, hoping that he could trick himself into believing he had made a decent haul when he carried it back home for the day. His eyes landed on Susie, whose gaze shot down to her diary again.
“What do we have here? A book?” He grumble-muttered the words to himself in a voice forced to sound so low that it would have had a cute and comical effect to any grown-up, had one heard it. “It’ll have to do,” he said and coughed, having tickled his throat with the gravel in his voice.
The minutes it took for Travis to lug the arbalest over to her side of the street was pure, anxious bliss for Susie.
“Susie, gimme that book or I’ll shoot your butt off!”
“Anything you say, Mr. Travis. But it’s a diary…FYI.”
“Just hand it over! Or I’ll shoot that pretty little face of yours right off too!”
Travis had heard a bank robber character in a movie refer to a teller’s face as pretty and little – in the movie it was a dark and sinister moment, ripe with the kind of intimidation Travis strove for, but when she heard it, Susie’s pretty and little face lit up from an inner glow whose light was reflected off two hundred and two shimmering butterfly wings.
“You… you really think I’m a pretty lady?”
Travis’ eyebrows leapt from their stern, low perch to reach a new height of horror, and he dropped both the pillowcase and the crossbow as Susie jumped to her feet in slow motion to envelope the object of her affection within her thin arms.
An odd, vulnerable, and high-pitched noise emerged from Travis’ throat before he found the time to panic properly: breaking free of her lock and running home in tears, occasionally shouting about the harmful effects of cootie exposure. Susie, too, cried. She went inside to be hushed and hugged by her parents, but she took with her the heavy, antiquated weaponry, which slowed the process down considerably.
When a calm finally put a period on the raucous scene that took place that day, children slowly emerged from their homes and rummaged through the pillow case, taking only what was rightfully theirs. The street was at peace again, and all of its younger residents offered nods, smiles, and – ultimately – respect to Susie. There was a new sheriff in town, and she cheered up when she figured out what her first order of business must be.
A doorbell rang out through the house, and Travis remained in the safety of his bedroom, playing with a frown and a toy crossbow that shot little sticks equipped with tiny orange suction cups as arrowheads.
“Travis, sweetie.” His mothers voice came with a softness through the closed door. “One of your friends is here to see you!”
Thrilled to still have a single friend after the mess he had created, he almost knocked his mother down as he raced out of his room toward the open front door, where stood little Susie Wentworth, a familiar crossbow at her side. Susie matched what Travis wagered in fear with her confidence, but instead of calling, she raised.
“Travis, gimme a smooch on the lips, or I’ll shoot your wiener and your butt off!”
17 years later, they were wed at an archery range.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
He was loath to loath (as his prior experiences with the precise emotion, as well as the surrounding ones, made him feel as though the moments that stemmed from the act had a subtractive affect on his perceived self – the opposite of the way a being’s identity is determined and re-determined by the accumulation of all moments experienced, which of course gives way to the flaw in his theory, but this fact is nitpicked and a distraction from the point: the math of self felt negative when loathing was a part of the equation, and he didn’t want to see himself disappear), but in this case he was willing to make an exception.
The brick came through the store-front window like it meant to.
It was difficult for the restaurant owner to do, but he took the leap of faith in himself and loathed whoever had thrown the brick – a task made all the easier since no one had seen the culprit. He was loathing a faceless stranger and it felt just as comfy as it did rotten.
Refunds were given to all – first to those who had glass sprinkled in their meals and drinks – and the staff were sent home early, so he could stew in his upsettedness and really savor the slow-cooked flavors as he took his time sweeping up the floors.
On the face of the brick, written in glitter on glue:
No Reason
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
It was abrupt.
And leading scientists stated in Leading Scientists magazine, “Fuck, I don’t know. Physics is nuts. I mean, its like, the science of everything. Biologists, chemists, bio-chemists – they all have it easy. So, it’s like this: we have, like, a decent grasp on the sun, but why that small explosion happened, and why it pushed us farther away from it is beyond us. But we are making advancements in time travel, so if that pans out, we’ll get Kepler up to speed on nuclear physics, put him on the project, and see if he has any insights.”
All that was certain was that the year would now be approximately one day longer, and the calendar would need adjustment. The King of the United States of the Americas won the UN’s raffle to see who would have the honor to intercalate the new day.
King Charles Pepsi III chose to create July 32nd, because who doesn’t like the summer? Who wouldn’t want another summer day? it was to be an international day off as it was officially a “bonus day” in the new calendar.
But his secret motives were 1) to help out Big Liquor as they were certain to see a massive increase in sales on the 31st, and 2) to manage overpopulation with a spike in o poisoning.
The former was a success, but the latter ended up being counter productive, as alcohol fuels lust, and July 32nd beat out Valentine’s day for highest number of children conceived. This totally bummed King Pepsi III out. He made plans to make the following July 31st Free Condom Day as well as make August 1st Free Plan B Day, even though he would take a lot of flack for it.
But it turned out that none of it mattered. The second July 32nd would be celebrated at all, as the nuclear blast had coated the earth with a radiation so subtle yet so powerful that everyone was dead by mid-May.
“How did you live to tell the tale?” you ask.
“Good question,” I reply. “A really good question for a corpse to ask!”
Garsh, I’m lonely.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
Vial in hand – containing what? whatever – I can see the sun’s shine tickling the surface of the town’s water supply, and I automatically recall the first time I was introduced to hate.
As most extreme emotions are born from their opposites, I had first felt love.
Every morning before we had met, I was only troubled by a consistently blissful longing for love, having heard and read so much about it. This desire instilled others: hope, a contentedness, an immersible sense of wholeness that came, paradoxically, with the awareness that something was missing.
Every morning after we had met, I caught the scent of her that lingered in the air from whatever dream my mind had just dismissed, and somewhere in this new routine a process of alchemy forged a different version of myself, one that felt an illusion of completion.
Or perhaps it was genuine, but it certainly was temporary.
Something had been overlooked when this love was produced, some admixture of rogue ingredient, and by the end, we had somehow methodically, yet not consciously, replaced every unit of love with one massive unit of hate. And now when I smell her hair and skin in my waking thoughts, it sets my stomach to boil until nauseated, begging a purge, but you cannot stick a finger down the throat of the past.
The only force of action that can be taken is for the future.
At present, I stand at the rail, overlooking the water that she’ll one day drink, as will the rest of them. The tour group long gone, I uncork the vial and toss it in. I give my eyes to the lens of the nearest security camera, and I wait to be taken away, to be arrested, to hear that the water works will be drained, will be shut down, will be reopened after examination and sterilization, but it never happens.
Now I wait to find out when I’ve officially become a murderer.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
There was a quick snip in the breeze that night, the air frigid as the ice box in a Frigidaire brand refrigerator. The skin on his hands was fraying, most of the top layer was starting to peel in places, and it was white as the snow that fell upon the old yegg as he circled the house. No light shone through any window. “Gently snoozin’, eh?” He giggled the words that floated out on the little white clouds of his breath. It was uncertain – even to him – as to whether he was referring to the house itself, or the old walnut tycoon who was certain to be somewhere inside, dreaming of youth.
Entrance to the house was easily gained through a routine motion of jimmying the lock on the back door – a not-so-tasking task whose burden was shouldered primarily by muscle memory. It would have been entirely possible that he could have even forgotten have done it already were the moment not grounded by such a stern gust of wind, which temporarily crippled his fingers, causing the bones to stiffen and the skin to bleed from the deep cracks.
A flashlight’s beam scanned the walls on the rooms, stopping only on potential decoys. The safe was found behind a painting of a large walnut. He propped the flashlight on a nearby end table to keep the safe spotlit as he went to work. He could immediately determine the year and make of the safe: a simple stethoscope job.
The inside of the house was warm, heated by a wood stove, which chewed on embers during the night. It was located not four feet to the snake-theif’s left. The contrast was initially a welcome surprise, but it was such a stark one that his hands were involuntarily shaking and shivering, trying to rid itself of he cold that remained deep inside.
It was easy for him to identify the combination with his sensitive ears, but his once-steady hands couldn’t stop the dial at the precise digits.
In all of his anti-career he had been in and out and on his way home, whichever roadside motel that may be for the night, but his hands – under the embrace of the elements – were failing him, and fast, which slowed his process down and called for it to be repeatedly repeated. An attempt to rub his weary hands stemmed a sensation of dry skin brusquely brushing other dry skin triggered a series of cringes.
On the verge of crying and admitting defeat, he breathed with depth and tried once more.
Left, right, left, left, right.
On the final turn to the right, he held his breath in and pulled the reigns on the pace, hoping to hear that divine click.
The door swung open, and the old yegg let himself weep the painful tears of miserable accomplishment. He gazed upon the loot, and his eye lids met their limits as they revealed the size and shape of his eyeballs to no one.
Inside lay waiting a pair of thick wool gloves, a do-it-yourself home manicure kit, and a five tube assortment of hand creams and botanical ointments.
He knew then and there that this was the big retirement score.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
Leonard lounges around the house, atop the fridge, the couch arms, shelves, and any thing else he can make into a comfy anti-perch, his belly fat languidly spilling out over the edge-most part of this or that. I feed him. He sleeps. I watch Television programs with vapid characters. He obsesses about my odoriferous shoes. I pet him, and his air of indifference is only broken by the rumble of involuntary purring. I bring home a date, and he becomes someone else.
I love my Leonard, but sometimes I need the company of a real man – nothing that could ever compare or even have a chance to compete with the depth and longevity of the arrangement that Leo and I share as cat and level-one cat lady, but an occasional someone who can reply verbally rather than merely meow and who might be willing to lend a hot, engorged phallus to fill my moist void for at least a few minutes, maybe more. It doesn’t really matter if my body makes a joy-bomb go off or not. It doesn’t even matter if I enjoy it at all. What matters is that I can have the peace of mind, knowing that someone was inside me at least once a year. If I don’t hit that quota, I graduate to a level-two cat lady.
This year, my gentleman suitor sits on the sofa, and while I fetch him something to drink (red wine and Sprite), Leonard is surely preparing to stand on the man’s lap to dig his claws into his slacks, and possibly flesh, while facing away, sticking his tight little butt hole in the man’s direction.
I come back with two fizzing, plastic champagne flutes in one hand and a new plant-mister in the other. My handsome stranger looks kind of adorable making that nauseated grimace while staring into the brown sinkhole Leonard has put on display. I pump two quick squirts of water at Leonard, and he leaps off the man’s thigh, looking back at me to question my integrity. I want to mouth the words, so sorry, to my beloved, but I know that Rick, or Rich, or Dirk, or whatever his name is, will probably be looking at me. And he is. He seems grateful.
We semi-snuggle, doing lots of contact flirting like touching shoulders and thighs as if it’s a way of basic gesturing. We finish our spritzers – or Sprite-zers, as I like to call them – so I ask him, “Care for another one, big boy?” I immediately feel self-conscious about calling him “big boy” but the red wine that prompted that silly utterance is the same thing that helps me roll with it.
“Got anything stronger?”
“Um, I could make the ratio more in favor of the wine?”
He snaps, points, and smiles before saying, “You read my mind. And…” – he leans in for odd, drunken emphasis here – “…you red my wine.”
“Hmm?”
“You put the red in my wine, babe.” He slouches back, pleased with himself.
I push out a giggle that sounds more like a guffaw that got slapped around, and I try to sound horny when I say, “Coming right up!” I move fast in the kitchen, because I realize I left the plant-mister on the coffee table. When I come back out, Leonard is hacking up a hairball on so-and-so’s lap. I drop the flutes and rush over, stomping to scare Leo away, who immediately rushes away, then around me to lick up the spilled Sprite-zer. I swat the hairball off the guy’s crotch and apologize, verging on tears as I sit.
He smiles and says, “Hey now – if I didn’t know any better, you were trying to cop a feel there.” He smiles, lids drawn half over his eyes, drunk, more of a light-weight than me.
I notice there is a small bulge in his black jeans, and I hesitantly start to rub him through his pants. He’s closing his eyes, moaning like a woman. And I shrug, thinking this should be easy enough. I fuck his mouth with my tongue, because I read in a magazine that guys like girls who are aggressive. So we’re on the couch, totes making out, and I put my hands on his back, pulling him toward me, making him make me lie down on the couch. I unbuckle his belt and don’t bother waiting for him to futz with my bra. I take it off, hoping he’ll take that as a cue to remove my shirt.
He starts feeling up under my shirt, knocking the loose bra around. Oh well.
Then there’s the crash of thick glass. We both turn to see Leo is on an end table, a vase my grandmother gave me broken beneath it. I’m furious and sad and more alone than I’ve ever been without that heirloom, but I can’t let it slow me down. This night is bigger than that. It has to be.
“Do you need to clean that up?”
I shake my head, pointing my nose down, trying to look irresistible, but I can feel the skin around my left eye twitching. I say, “Take off your pants and show me your sausage link,” and then I throw up in my mouth a little, swallow it, and lick my lips. I peel off my shirt and start rubbing my boobs, pushing them around like I saw someone do in a pornographic motion picture I accidentally ordered at a hotel once. My suitor’s boner peeks through the flap in his boxers. I want to seem excited even though I’m dry as an 80 year-old paraplegic nun, so I say, “Ay-yi-yi”, imitating Anita from West Side Story, soon realizing that it was a little over the top, but he looks like he’s battling a bashful feeling with a lusty one, so I guess it worked.
We keep trading looks, until he finally works up to courage to ask with a thin voice, “Would you mind… maybe…” before he can ask for me to suckle on his penis, Leo roars and pounces on it, trying to use the guy’s thing as a small scratching post.
I cover my mouth while the guy shrieks, slapping Leo in the head, hard. My baby scurries away, making pained meows.
“Fuck, fuck – what the fuck!” He looks horrified, holding his crotch, a little blood on his hands.
“It’s okay! It’s okay! We’ll give it an ice bath and it will be good as new!”
“Fuck you, lady! Do you understand what just happened? This is my baby boy! This is my heart’s heart! This is my fucking livelihood!”
“Wait – you’re a prostitute? Because I only have cash….”
“No! I… I guess I don’t know what livelihood means, but: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! It hurts!” He’s shaking as he gently pulls his pants back up.
And I panic and start tugging them back down hard, making him groan, but the wrong kind. I plead with him, “C’mon, please, don’t do that! Just pop it in real quick! Just the tip! Just enough to break the streak!”
“No, you crazy bitch!”
“Please! Just give me a taste of your juicy beef tip!” I puke on myself and a little bit on him. I don’t know why I keep referring to his penis as edible meats, considering I’m a vegetarian.
“Oh! Gross! She’s gross! She’s… ICKY!” He says this pointing at me, refusing to refer to me in the first person anymore.
He rushes out to the door, opens it, and slams it shut. And I’m still screaming after him, laying in my own vomit, “Come back and fuck me in my vagina hole, you pansy-basket!”
I’m defeated.
Miserable.
A level-two cat lady.
Leonard creeps up on me and starts lapping at my vomit with his cute little tongue. My lips smile, despite my eyes dripping tears. And I pet him.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward
Inside the longing that comes with any capacity for thought within the wandering mind is the surprise of how short the period of time is that managed to conjure the longing.
Short term longing.
It takes only so long for a longing to occur, seeming both wholly unique from every other yearn as well as part of the same long narrative – one black pearl on the same string.
But I’ve been quite long-winded on the topic of longing, considering this is not about big, blanket longing – rather, this is about the nostalgia of the dream versus the cold, stinging fact of the reality, and how longing for one makes the other seemingly impossible to endure.
Sighs abound, this is a story about a girl.
It’s a story about many girls, but really, it’s a bout one girl: the perfect girl – who, by the way, does not exist, except before she’s met.
I’ve not known plenty of girls who were perfect merely because I’ve not known them. And I leave you to wonder: do these girls become lose perfection upon meeting someone like myself, who is so imperfect that there is no alternative to the quality rubbing off on them, ruining them? Or do I let the presumption of the perfection of another fester, projections on mysteries that lead me to believe a girl might be perfect – a reality only to be broken upon knowing them, knowing otherwise?
That said, most girls I’ve met and longed for are perfect, but for a version of me that does not exist. And this sad fact leaves me bedridden sometimes, even when I’m out and about.
My mind’s abusive marriage with my heart has the two of them indefinitely bedridden. Both require a divorce to get up, but their mutual weakness – the bulk of what they have in common – keep them together, reliant, codependent, and ultimately embittered. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ll be forcing their wrinkled, nonexistent hands to turn the pages of a photo album filled with snapshots of sunny days that never took place.
The rest of my body carries this sickly couple through the days like a chubby redheaded toddler carries a lucky rabbit’s foot through a garden.
As the old, married couple inside weep in unison, I try to dry their tears with smoke. And now, sitting here, putting the cigarette out, I understand: this is not a story, but it’s a story about a guy.
Backward <> Forward
Wordsward