Why do you all feel like you have some claim to him? Always trying to puppeteer or manipulate him. I was the only one who ever craved for him to be his own man. I wanted him to think for himself, otherwise it just doesn't count. It's not worth anything. I never wanted a farce or some skit. I want the real thing. We are connected because we are connected. We aren't connected because I say so or he says so. It's a mutual love, a braiding of our minds, bodies, and spirits. We're both all in, and boy, do people really seem to hate that. I think it forces them to look in the mirror, and they can't stand the reflection staring back at them. No one likes to be confronted with their shortcomings, especially in such a smug way. But that's still on you. No one seems to want to take any culpability for their own actions. It's tiresome. Try taking a look at yourself before spouting your delusional bullshit. You don't factor in here. You'll NEVER even come close to approximating our love. You've been bested, so fuck off. You're fucking out. Find something else to do with your time. Get a fucking hobby. I'm sure there is a limp dick somewhere in need of a swampy mouth.
I guess it's romantic to think the might of our love is such that it creates these tidal waves that crash over the people on our shore, drenching them in envy or anger, or whatever the fuck you dimwits feel. Not only is that a fucking arrogant sentiment, but that picture simply doesn't fit the frame. Because it's only the people in his realm that feel that way. None of my family and friends infantilize me the way his family and friends do him. You treat him like a real sucker. I'm not going to stand idly by while he gets steamrolled by people that are supposed to love him. Fuck that noise. He won't be a pawn in anyone's game, just like my daughter isn't, nor will anyone else from my family. They're not going to be dragged down into your mire. Whatever issues we deal with, we deal with privately because it's our own business. What goes on in our home, in our bedroom, is for us only. That's what intimacy is. He is married to me, no one else. Suck on that. I've never been good at sharing, come to think of it.
I'm writing this directly following something like five orgasms he gave me in like an hour. We just finished making love several times this afternoon. We've always had the strongest sexual connection we've both ever felt. I don't feel the need to apologize for the fiery passion we feel for one another. Fuck anybody that doesn't like it. I don't care. Our love may be mercurial, but Mercury burns white hot. We seem to have this funny way of machete-ing our own path through the dense jungle, instead of taking the tourist route. Sure, it can be arduous, but it's also packed with adventure and shared experience. I've always preferred that kind of love anyway, but it's certainly not for the faint of heart.
I fell in love with him from the first micro moment I laid eyes on him. I knew I had to know him. It was this intense drive that seconds before he walked in, just didn't seem to exist. And as it turned out, he felt that same magnetic pull in that first glance too. We were in love, immediately. His goofy, unabashed staring, his cerulean eyes piercing the night, the vermilion incandescence; it all played into the dreamlike atmosphere. Everything about that icy night was magic. It was one of those rare instances where it felt like absolutely anything was possible. Like you could direct the night on a whim, in slow motion. It was the whirlwind romance I had longed for. We both had longed for. We opened up these volcanic calderas within the other, though magnificent to behold its power and breadth, it's also a formidable force; one that doesn't take to being contained. This shit can get Sid and Nancy-esque at times, but there is something monolithic about our unique brand of love. We can't seem to pull ourselves away from one another. And it sure as hell ain't boring. It's incredibly exciting, be it positive or negative; it never lacks in titillation. It is sensory overload. It is not a marriage of comfort. In fact, most things about this relationship make me uncomfortable, so go relationships of pure desire. It has been that way since the very first night. It is intense and severe, the likes of which most people don't care to acknowledge.
It was one of those first nights we together, and we were snuggling close after making love, when "Cosmik Debris" began to play through his iPod. We both just started singing it softly, laughingly, as we both knew all the words. It was just a further reinforcement of our cosmic connection. The one that was so hard to pinpoint or articulate, was perfectly illustrated in subtle action. That's what we have that you lacked. An unspoken, robust and powerful bond that came like second nature to us. We didn't have to force any pieces to fit. It took no convincing on either part. We were drawn into each others orbit, and hurdled on an ethereal exploration to find a way to sustain a love of this magnitude. But we cull energy from its raw potency, which makes it hard for you Earthlings to compete. We're juicing on transcendental steroids. And we've got no room on the ship for any cosmic refuse.
Post Script:
I'm a little perplexed as to why you would read my stupid literary blog as a means to check up on him. If you cared so much about his well-being, like you said, then wouldn't you just contact him, directly? Nothing stopped you from doing that before. Why the fuck would I have to be the conduit between you star-crossed lovers? Unless, of course, you don't actually give a shit about him, and you're just surfacing to drum up trouble. And, believe me, if it's trouble you're looking for, you certainly came to the right place, Ratchet-face.
Also, I think you are afraid to contact him, quite frankly, because you know you will be rebuffed, (not to mention screamed at.) Then you can no longer fool yourself into believing what you had was so meaningful. Because he sure doesn't think so. He barely cared about it. He barely remembers it! It was a seedy blur of cheap thrills and self-medication. He cheated on you. A lot. He got high, all the time. And when he wasn't getting high, he was drinking. He said, just last night, he was relieved when you would go off to take pictures all the time, for your burgeoning, ahem, "modeling career,'' because it would give him a fucking break from how annoying he found you.
Apparently, he wasn't alone in that; his whole family hated you. They were more than happy to tell me that every chance they got. Which made me feel weird. They're still sore about you pawing through their artifacts at the family museum! But to be fair, they were going to hate anyone getting close to their "baby." I have to think you are in collusion with them somehow, but know this, if they put you up to it, they are simply using you. Because they had nothing, and I mean nothing, but terrible things to say about you, completely unsolicited. But to be fair to them, I tend to agree with that assessment. Slimy, selfish assholes of a feather, I suppose.
Maybe you should bone up on your acting chops, rather than concerning yourself with me and my husband. Because I've seen your "work," and frankly, it leaves something to be desired. Namely: desire. You've given me the distinct displeasure of being simultaneously gut-wrenchingly disgusted, and mind-numbingly bored. That's quite a feat, man! I've seen more erotic episodes of Mama's Family. Admittedly, I don't know that much about producing pornography, but aren't you supposed to turn up the heat in those things? Not dial it back to "middle-aged guy pokes his ugly old lady after work on a random Tuesday." Yeesh. You were dull from jumpstreet. Also, if you have to film sex for it to be exciting, you're, uh, doing it wrong. But whatever distracts the focus from that face!
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