The odious scenes flash and stomp through my mind, unchecked. They sear my synapses, they cloud judgement; they tear flesh from the bone. They are wicked and wild; unrelenting. Carnal images of you leading this perverse, devil-may-care lifestyle, full of arrogance and lacking in shame. Coke-fueled sexual rampages, sweat-drenched nights of non-stop partying and self-congratulation. Libations, pills, and potions; heaving bodies, skin-slapping-skin, fusing into a sorcerous elixir that made nights seem like they could last forever. So much cheap pleasure to be had, so many trashy delights. Feeling indomitable atop your hometown hero's throne, gazing upon an infinite sea of cum dumpsters and possibilities. Maybe it's the hopefulness I envy and hate. So many doors to choose from, so many avenues to cruise; you could have felt like the master of your own destiny, you bothered to think at all.
How can a real person ever live up to this candy-land level of hype? Part Sodom, part Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, and totally illusory. This ceaseless parade of "aspiring" actresses, singers, models and HPV, (I really can't stress aspiring enough, here) to whom reality is this esoteric concept. Your fantasy bleeding into my reality. You traded in your laundry list of flighty bimbos, with their melodramatic vexations for a ball-busting, wistful writer, with a genuinely fucked up mind and increasingly fucked up disposition. You even managed to find a writer that doesn't deal in fiction; one with a particular penchant for holding everything and everyone up to the light for inspection and criticism. I can't understand it; it doesn't make any sense. Why did you feel the need to get involved with me? Did you simply run out of fantasy dates? Did you grow tired of the vacuous bit-players and their used, cavernous twats? Your weirdo sex acts couldn't get you off any longer, so you had to move to sadism? Did you just want to see someone tremble under your boot heel like your Teutonic kinfolk? You had to destroy something real this time, to satisfy that insatiable appetite for excitement in your warped, desensitized mind. You needed to keep hustling for that higher high in face of the looming emptiness.
Sometimes the thoughts are more specialized, and somehow darker. I have this nightmarish recurring thought of you and her having fucking sing-songs 'round the piano, and shit. I imagine you are both simultaneously recalling this dreamy, fond memory in soft focus and bathed in incandescence. Like a catchy tune plays on the radio and you exchange excited knowing glances and race to the piano, where you inherently know the melody and her the lyrics and spontaneous music erupts. Or you accompanying her while she screeches out Victorian Christmas carols like Good King Wenceslas and shit, where you change some of the words to fit in your repugnant pet names for one another in an effort to be cutesy. "My Poodsie last looked out, on the Feast of Stephan..." God, I don't even have to imagine the cringe-worthy "Baby, It's Cold Outside" one. Eewww. That shit would be insufferable even if I wasn't once in love with one of the offending parties. Ugh. Jesus Christ. It's those kind of thoughts that make me want to drive my car into the lake.
It's because I realize this idea that you both exist on the same exact plane. This plane for mediocre, bordering-on-terrible people who have been lied to by their parents their whole lives about how wonderful they are. It's so unbearable for me to envision; this person, that is like this fragment. This person that is this mere shadow of me, could somehow be better for you. Any of them, really. They're all interchangeable. They could somehow make you happier. And more than that, they could somehow be happier with you and your pungent brand of sleaze. They are more right for you than I because you are so much the same as them. Your kind exists in abundance.
That's the toughest pill to swallow; feeling so alone, when it all was once at our fingertips. Realizing that we are universes away from one another, when for the briefest moment of time it felt like we were swirling above the terrestrial sphere, riding this celestial tidal wave, only allowing the inhabitants of earth mere glimpses of our being. You could never reach that fantastic apogee with any of those squalid prevaricators. That was no more than virtual fantasy. What we had was so sacred, it was so protected, it was so powerful; glorious. But then just like that, you strayed from the astral chariot; fell through the nebulous ether, and back to the hellish soil. I went searching for you, but you were no where to be found. All that was left was this dirty, slimy facsimile of the universal partner I once tangled souls with. It was like some corporeal thief had stolen your body to provide vessel for his terrible deeds. This puking, vile reptile by comparison. I can't make it up to that golden chariot alone. No one can. Love, camaraderie, companionship, passion, those are the shared conduits up that impossible precipice. So, I am left to wander down here, searching for this lover that I fear doesn't even exist any more. Sentenced to a futile quest.
I'm perplexed as to why this would give you some sense of relief. There is nothing of the sort written in those words. Like, I get that you were *trying* to be acerbic, but that only works if you fully understand the content and proceed to state the opposite of how you actually feel. Your comment clearly demonstrates that you did not understand the piece. But then again, you are a halfwit. So not all that shocking.
ReplyDelete