Heartbreak and Turkish Delight

"You know, I just want to hold you in my arms and tell you how sorry I am for all of the pain. I miss your love. I miss making love to you. I miss falling asleep exhausted holding you and being content. I still love you. I know I'm a troglodyte. And a buffoon and a moron. But I still think you are so beautiful. I wanted to make love to you in the middle of the night but I know you would refuse me. If we could just spend some time loving each other we both feel so much better. You're right. I'll never be a better version of me then when I had all of your love. I messed it up. I blew it. But I still love you. Even if I can't be the man I promised I was I'm still a man that can love you. Hold you. Comfort you. Provide for you. Make you laugh with a misplaced "heeeeee" and a naked ass shake. I'm no English professor. I can't quote books or movies. But I can hold you tight. And I can make your pussy smile. Forgive the crassness. I can dance. I can be silly. I can drive all night home from South Carolina. I've got better sideburns than anyone. Try to stop hating me for just a little while. Try to remember the love you used to feel."

I want to believe all these things I really do, I want these words to have meaning again. I cried when I read this, real tears of love.  I want to love you and have you love me.  But I've gotten so many texts and emails and empty promises of this nature from you.  You never fulfill your end of the deal.  You just say the pretty, hollow words and magically expect that no action need be taken.  Just purring such loveliness should make me feel so special that I will shower you with love, sex and adoration.  There was a time when that's all I ever wanted to do, and all I wanted in return was real love and honesty.  You couldn't even give me that.  Your sense of entitlement precluded it.  You wanted me put away when not in use.  "Here is your weird little room you can go to when I don't need anything from you.  Don't worry, I had my mom remove all of my ex-girlfriend's shit out of here for you."

Perhaps my obsession with all of your past lovers is not so much jealously but an obsession with who you are. You revealed so very little to me that I looked to your conquests to try to piece together just who you really are. If you are even really there. The women you were with and the people you surrounded yourself with, though most so wholly unsavory and lascivious, they still seem more real and human than you. I find myself envious of them, not because they had you or you had them for a brief moment, but because they seem free. They seem free and happy without you. I don't think they sit and pine for you like you would like to think they do.  I wonder if they ever think of you.  We know one dizzy twerp does, but in what way, I don't know.  Melodramatic drag queens just can't help themselves, I suppose.  They all seem so liberated, yet somewhat possessive of you when you approach.  That, I can't figure out.  As if fucking you for those few minutes gives them some claim to you.  I know you don't really care about them or think of them, fondly or at all.  You are so focused on yourself.  The ultimate narcissist; you think of nothing but your selfish needs.  You used to like to think of yourself as some sort of sexual monolith, roaming the land, giving busted hoes all the pleasure their blown-out twats could handle.  Like only you could give that amount of satisfaction, because you are you.  I know this is ridiculous, I know it.  But yet, these stupid reptiles, they persist.  They refuse to leave my mind.  Because each time I had any encounter with one of them, it was some sort of unbeknownst turf war, some secret, sexual battle no one let me in on.  I didn't know who you were before we met, and let's face it, I didn't know who you were after we met.  I don't know who you are now.  You are a shape-shifting, manipulative charmer.  A snake charmer.  You charmed all those other reptiles with your front-man attitude and whiskey-fueled swagger.  This lame local celebrity, whose vices overtook his talent long ago.  But they were fooled and charmed by your saccharine melody.  You must have stayed in their system too, because when you forced introductions between us it felt as if they had some claim to you that I didn't.  They were there first after all; in the dozens, no less.  I didn't feel threatened because I knew they couldn't give you what I could, but I felt strange.  There was something rather uncomfortable about each of these meetings. (And fucking inappropriate, you boor.)  And there were many, with many different women.  I had to wonder what the purpose of their ebb and flow in and out of your life was.  Did you really need that much validation? You needed to have an endless supply of women on tap to mollify those deafening feelings of inadequacy?  I guess as a hologram, you would need plenty of flesh to feel human.  But what was in it for them? That's the question I can't seem to answer.  What was it about you that they couldn't get enough of?  Perhaps if I can answer that question for them, I could answer it for myself.  Freedom lies on the far side of that answer.  Is that the basis of my obsession with these women? They were all so awful, maybe all but one, I think.  They all treated me like some uninvited interloper, that shouldn't be with such an initiated member as yourself.  I had feelings of not belonging, but as I always did, since childhood, so I didn't pay much attention.  I felt like with you, I belonged, so those other nothings didn't matter.  I felt so strong then, I thought I could slay all those dragons and demons for you or with you.  But it's been so long since I have felt strong.  I don't even remember what that is like.  I obsess about your past, much more than my own.  I simultaneously hate them and envy them.  I can't understand what you saw in most of them, they seem so vacuous and ordinary, but then again, so are you.  We both know they were just "feathers" in your cap.  They weren't real people to you, but just warm, squishy holes to stick your cock.  A face to get off on.  But how did they not know that?  Are you all that fucking stupid?  Are you all so entrenched in that bullshit ersatz rock-and-roll fantasy that you just don't care?  Am I the only one who fucking thinks this way?  I'm always the outsider; the alien.  What is human, even?  Who the fuck knows.  I still hate them.  I still hate you.  Because you are all the same.  Gross, weird reptiles grasping at straws of humanity.  And not caring a bit about what other people feel as long as you get yours.  I'm the moron for caring.  I know that.  I hate them and envy them because they seem to understand you, where I just can't.  You are all part of some elite, yet seedy club that I will never be allowed entry, nor under normal circumstances would want entry.  But I was so enamored by you.  I trusted you and believed those disgusting lies you told me.  I thought you were sincere.  I ignored all the hints at the truth.  I'm the fool.
     Trusting you is nearly impossible at this point.  Any progress we ever make is thwarted by some frivolous lie you tell.  Usually involving women and your past.  I know I have an unnatural fixation with your past, but it's difficult to consider it your past when you continue to act in that way in the present.  I thought loving you genuinely and wholeheartedly would have been enough to have you love me back, but it wasn't.  You felt entitled to me, like a prize you had won for all your hard work being a prurient cad.  I felt so used and tricked.  Now I don't know what I feel.  Distilled hatred is there; jealousy, resentment too.  Anger is always lurking just below the surface, frustration is constant, but it is the imminent threat of madness that both earns your notice and dissolves whatever could be left in our marriage.  Your manipulative and deceptive behavior has fucked with my mind to a point where I fear I can't get it back.  That is where the venom stems.  There is perpetual contention, mostly in my own head, because some part of me refuses to leave you.  I just don't fucking know why.  Why does any part of me still have latent feelings of love?  It's so painful, to love you, to be near you, to keep subjecting myself to the abuse I know will never stop.  Just for some distant memory of what love feels like, just for some faraway notion of what your touch used to mean. I am a sadomasochist and you are a narcissist; a most codependent pair.  I guess neither of us can help who we are.

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

You are a fucking fraud; always have been.  A phony hologram of a human.  You're a shadow.  A nomadic phantom that belongs nowhere, yet tries to fit in everywhere.  I tried to give you a place to exist as yourself, but it wasn't good enough; not enough to make you happy, anyway.  You rejected my brand of love to the point of fucking me.  You'll never be what you claimed to be.  And I'll never be that tender and unlocked again.  Searching for something genuine is exhausting.  Nothing feels real anymore.  I haven't felt in touch for months.  I've been orbiting the stratosphere out there somewhere in the ephemeral swarth. One day bleeds into the next.  The night offers only slight solace, as the darkness settles and envelopes my thoughts as they lap and ebb in the moonlight.  I keep trying to scrub away the pain, but it just won't wash off.  My skin is raw and cracked, red and scaled, like the reptiles that got this fucked ball rolling. My mind is twisted and knotted up, it won't let go, like the gnarled, tangled roots of a mangrove, nourished by the surrounding swamp.  I can't seem to navigate any of this.  No wonder my caudate nucleus takes over much of the time, my higher functioning seems to be on Neptune somewhere, vacationing from the hurt.  I guess it just doesn't want to feel it anymore either.  There is no one on Earth to trust, perhaps it's on a one-man mission to find other forms of intelligent life.  Or at least emotionally moral ones.  Corruption, self-interest and moral bankruptcy is all that is left on this planet.  Just forgive everyone of everything, making all actions near meaningless.  Who cares if you get fucked over?  Just forgive and forget so one doesn't have to torture oneself.  Because the torturer is never an external force.  Right.  Since one cannot control others actions, it's futile to even care about them.  "You really only hurt yourself," or some such bullshit.  Fuck that.  That's horseshit that people say to someone they have fucked over to buck any sense of responsibility.  Everyone lies.  Everyone is a selfish pig bastard.  Ugh, I'm so fucking emo, man.  Just drink your troubles away, like everyone else.  Smoke yourself apathetic.  Numb yourself to everything.  Trick yourself into feigned happiness.  Because feeling things fucking sucks, punks.  People will disappoint you every God damned time.  Get with the program, fall in line, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.  I just float, barely mobile in the viscous jelly of emotion.  It once ripe with ribbons of love and romance or at least the hope thereof.  Clean and aromatic with the scent of wildflowers and wistfulness, now muddied with the stench of agony, malice and revenge; it pulls me deeper and deeper into its abyss.  The only creatures that exist at these depths are the creepy and licentious, the disgusting and deformed, those not fit for the light; the leaches, the takers.  The smash-and-grab set, eyeing all their slimy tentacles can hold.  How does one get back to the viridians and saffrons when all one can see is ink and jade.

Guy Clark- Dublin Blues

The Baron of Chandler Park Revisited: Rambles and Rough Realizations

     The devastating thing I realize, is that they are fucking perfect for one another.  Completely akin.  I'm the odd man out.  That's why I can't comprehend their need to keep in touch.  I don't keep that in touch with my husband of eleven years.  Because I truly want him to be happy, and I don't feel the need to continue to interject myself in his happiness, regaling him with wistful memories from a sad, faraway past.  We are much closer than that.  Whatever it is we are, whatever bond we have, it is unspoken, and truer than any niceties we could exchange.  I made the choice to leave that relationship for a reason; there is no sense in revisiting that pain with him.  That's something we can both do on our own if we so choose.  We don't have to hurt people in the process. But not these half-witted trilobites.
     Their intermittent, but continued contact or attempts at contact is a powerful reminder that I am not of the same planet.  I am the alien.  We don't share any commonalities.  It was duplicity right from the jump.  Their contact serves the purpose of reinforcing the others illusions.  Making sure the other is still chained to the wall.  They are basically one.  They both crave the spotlight and applause.  They both desperately seek approval and validation from others in lieu of any genuine personality of their own.  It's a paper thin attempt to prove that they are someone instead of no one.  They are dull and mediocre.  Unremarkable save for the pain they cause with their egomania. I don't resemble any of the characters in this game.  I foolishly put all my stock in truth-telling and truth-seeking.   I need things to feel real; authentic.  I don't care about others approval because most aren't fit to give it.  What the hell do they know anyway? I have to be able to face myself, not anyone else.  Why would I care to seek the approval of those who don't give a fuck about how I feel in those melancholic hours of the night.  I don't need them to legitimize my work.  If they don't like it, fuck 'em.  The right people will get it.  I create for myself, not for accolades or the adoration of faceless nobodies in a crowd.  That's not how or why one makes art.  I write as a way to photosynthesize the pain that comes with being human.  With being vulnerable and honest.  I write to say things that no one has ever said or not enough people are willing to talk about it, but all part of human existence, nonetheless.
     Art is supposed to elevate; make people think and make people feel.  Art is supposed to bind us together through pure human essence.  The best art tells the truth.  It doesn't perpetuate some lame fantasy or hollow image.  True art is courage.  Art doesn't exist simply to validate some egomaniac's closeted insecurities masquerading as narcissism.  Because their Daddy didn't love them enough or maybe Mommy smothered them too much.  So, they feel the need to *prove* themselves through "art."  Calling themselves artists just to receive the spoils that inevitably come with that type of self-applied moniker.  From other illusioned dim-wits, undoubtedly.  But really, their ultimate fantasy would be to star-fuck themselves.  Could a more superlative earthly thrill be found?  Hard to beat when one is so supreme.  No wonder there is so much compulsive masterbating afoot.  They are the only ones good enough for the likes of their greatness.  Narcissism absolute.
     Not every God-damned thing is art, jackasses.  A lot of it is just transparent, attention-seeking horseshit.  "I just have to express myself."  That all important self.  Not every form of self-expression is art.  Some of it is just unadulterated neural garbage; cognitive run-off.  But most of it isn't nearly that exciting.  Most of it is just mundane banality that no one cares about or ever will care about because it's too self-absorbed to have any external interest or social value.  That's why I just write for my own sanity.  I'm not naive enough, or faux-optimistic enough to think my writing is going to have some grand fucking impact.  There are no earth-shattering revelations here.  There are just silly, schmaltzy words on page. It's just the distillation of romantic pain.  "Dodgson! We've got Dodgson here! See, nobody cares."  People are too wrapped up in their own enthralling lives to really give a shit about anyone else.  The quixotic are few.
     I used to think they were the troglodytes of the cave, but now I am not so sure.  I don't think they are even that far up the evolutionary chain.  They are merely the piceous shadows that others cast on the umbered cave wall.  Mere deceptions; only approximations of humanoids.  Solely concerned with image or persona, rather than personage.  They have no interest in those humans about them, and certainly no interest in what lies outside the cave, in the unfathomable sunlight.  They enjoy their chimerical and paltry existence.  Their projected image is all they care to know.  They love the dreamy focus of the cavern, where they can continue tricking others and fooling themselves.  Their obsidian shadows flicker hand-in-hand in the sepia-hued obscurity.

Beat It or An Exercise in Restraint

Me: Hola. This is [Redacted], you know, of song renown. I see you continue to feel the need to 'keep in touch' with my husband for whatever vainglorious reason. I should have confronted you when you first decided to pop up into our relationship, uninvited and unwanted. But I was trying to keep cool, amid your juvenile nonsense. What you did was really dirty and vile. Trying to make some melodramatic scene by flying back here. I didn't *steal* anything, I'll have you know. We met, by happenstance one night; he walked in to the bar I was at, invited to do a review of a concert there. He wouldn't stop staring at me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He stared so much, that I thought he must be foreign, as he didn't seem to understand American social customs. That was pretty much all it took. We started talking after the concert and he invited me to his house that night and we both already knew. Undeniable, animalistic magnetism. We were in love. It was that simple. He certainly didn't act attached. He asked me to marry him and move in with him pretty soon after. And then you came along, whining for attention. You came in and tried to fuck up my happiness, which I just can't take too kindly to. You didn't seem to care too much about him before, but once he found someone else then all of a sudden you felt the need to interject yourself. Really cool, man. Not transparent, at all. The thing is, I'm not even mad at you. You were just doing what is in your nature to do; act like a bratty, drama queen. I'm just mad at myself, for not stepping in and nipping this in the bud, sooner. I went against my nature and said nothing, when I should have expressed myself at the time. He doesn't need nor want you in his life. He lumps you in the category with all his old, erroneous exes. It's clear you were trying to extract some kind of creepy validation from him, last night. Why, I don't know. I have to tell you, it really doesn't have some grand meaning to him. It just doesn't. He looks at it all as a waste of time. Much of it is embarrassing to him, so he doesn't like to think about it. But his interpretation shouldn't have any effect on yours, unless you *need* his approval to have your own feelings and ideas. And yeah, I did leave a mean and hilarious comment about that stupid-ass "song." Which he thought was funny too. I also wrote a scathing blog piece inspired by you, that although, explicit and quite ruthless, was met with the searing endorsement from him you so desperately seek. Not that I cared what he thought of it. If the question is how did I do it, then the answer is, by being myself. By being authentic and different and rad. Instead of being the same, like all the other dizzy, lame twerps he'd known before. Keep out of our relationship, for real. You've already done enough.

Them:  Got it. Just trying to make some peace. Admitted to my wrong doings. Apologized. If you feel the need to be nasty and hurtful after three

Years, so be it. I just wanted to see that he was happy. We've all moved on. We're all adults. And to suggest that ANY relationship with

Anyone, negative or positive is erroneous, is really just dishonest. I'm sorry you heard that awful song. I know it probably felt gross

But it looks like you got your revenge (with your blog?) I'm sorry for "liking" your husband's status. I had no intention of opening this
Can of worms. I'm glad you both have each other. Truly.

Me: You only admitted to any wrongdoing after it was brought it up. Not exactly of your own accord. So, let's step off the high horse. You didn't just "like" his status days after he posted it. You wanted it to start a conversation; talk about disingenuous. You kept saying all you wanted is to know how he was doing. That's beyond just liking a post.

     I am being honest, if that happens to be 'nasty and hurtful', then so be it, but that's how I feel. And that's how he feels. He really was embarrassed by that song when I showed it to him. He felt it reflected poorly on him. He couldn't even listen to it all the way through. I actually thought it was pretty funny. I played it for my friends. We laughed about it. My friend said it best when she lamented, "Man, at least someone wrote a song about you. No one ever wrote a song about me."

     That's how I've felt for 3 and a half years. One good turn deserves another, I guess.

     And quite frankly, I don't care how you feel about he and I. Your opinion of our relationship is irrelevant. Your relationship with him is/was irrelevant, much to your dismay. It doesn't factor into anything at all. People with over-inflated egos the size of parade floats tend to not understand that they might not matter in every God damned thing, that they aren't the center of the universe, but it's true all the same. I'm writing this to you, for me. My inaction has grated at me since this all occurred. I feel the need to tell you what you did was shitty and the way you're acting now isn't too different either.

Me:  Just slink back into the woodwork from whence you came.

Them:  Yikes. You're a frightening person.

Me:  You got that right.

Them:  Congratulations.

Me:  Yeah, it's better to just take shit from people. That's the way.

Them:  Your blood pressure is probably higher than mine is right now

Me:  Ha. Or maybe I feel pretty good. Like relieved.

Them:  I'm glad you got all that out. I'm sure you feel better.

Me:  Yeah, I'm sure you do.

Me:  It's okay to go around acting like an ass, fucking with people's relationships, but it's not okay to call them out on it. I see.

Them:  I'm sorry, [Redacted]

I'm sorry I hurt you

I was naive and wanted closure.

Not an excuse. But still, it's what I was thinking at the time

I was wrong

I've been wanting to apologize for years

Me:  Yeah, I just don't buy that. Because you just would have already. Without prompting. You wanted closure, but it seems you didn't get it, because you contacted him several times after. I think you wanted a little more than closure. You wanted to involve yourself in something that no longer involved you. If I could go back and do it again, I would have talked to you face-to-face, woman-to-woman. Which I think would have benefited all parties involved. Instead, I trusted people around me, that I shouldn't have. I went against what I felt in my heart was the right thing, and it had a monumental cost. It's never felt quite right since. Because I didn't do what I knew was the right thing. And that's on me. The apologies don't matter either, because it won't change the past. It only works to relieve you of some onus of responsibility, which I can't quite accept either. I never knew him or even of him before the night I met him. I never knew you or the other bit players in this farce either. It was all new to me. So, I was thrust into something unaware, while everyone else was playing out some antique storyline around me. That's what it felt like anyway. Like I said, you did what it was in your nature to do, I get it. It was still hurtful, but I understand it. That's why I'm honestly not mad at you. But I do have a couple years of bitter resentment and invective to burn off. I saw my chance, and I took it this time. The other players involved, were much more scheming, and that I won't ever understand. But you need to know what you did had a serious impact. But it doesn't matter all that much now, as long as you don't try to involve yourself anymore in our marriage. I hear California is really the most. Make the most of it. Take 'er easy.

Post Script: Is apathy really better than hate? Honestly? At least hate is human.  At least it is something as opposed to nothing.  It is presence as opposed to absence.  Apathy is for sociopaths and robots.  And feigned concern is for closeted sociopaths, i.e. textbook narcissists. Those dim troglodytes who feel they have learned all there is to know.  Gods among men, really.  Enlightening us all with their shadowy wisdom.  Faux-optimism, pseudo-intellectualism, misplaced sexuality, and the condemnation of any negative emotion.  That's the ultimate delusion.  Scoffing in the face of hundreds of thousands years of evolution because the cave-dwellers know best.  Don't be mad, don't be mean, don't hate...  It's like saying, 'don't feel half of your feelings.'  Hate is the misunderstood loner in the back of the class.  Hate wears a leather jacket and doesn't give a shit.  Hate is often confused with anger. But true hate is more latent, pervasive, and substantial.  Hate can be very passive.  Anger is aggressive; very active.  Hate usually takes the rap for ignorance or madness, but it's wildly different.  Hate's too cool to make its own case.  Hate just hangs around, smoking cigarettes, making flippant comments in between puffs.  Hate only steps in when absolutely necessary.  Hate can protect when used judiciously.  Hate can be very rational; frighteningly so.  Sometimes hate is warranted, but hate takes balls.  Hate isn't for everyone.  Hate is an acquired taste.

     If Artificial Intelligence exists in certain robots, does Artificial Stupidity (A.S.), or more accurately, Artificial Serial Stupidity (A.S.S.) exist in some android human models? Holographic humanoids with all the working parts, but no emotion nor intelligence of any kind.  No real sense of humanity.  These supposed humans fool many.

Post Post Script: The ruin we've caused forces the cool steel to my temple; the soft, mist-colored memories of those primrose days dares me to pull the trigger. We collect sadnesses like old baseball cards, gathering dust in the attic of our mind, waiting for them to be worth something someday. But do they ever really increase in value? Or do they just take up precious space...
The old piano melody refuses to leave, maybe I don't want it to. I held on so tightly, but it all slipped through my fingers, nonetheless.

What Are You Crying For or The Baron of Chandler Park

   Why do I keep letting you back in?  I am such a fucking fool for you.  You've made a fool of me, countless times.  Is that what love is?  A bullshit roller coaster of pain and contempt?  Someone once told me, "You've already bought the ticket, you might as well take the ride."  I took the ride; I want off.  I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why do I keep falling for this wolf-in-sheep's clothing routine? A couple of crocodile tears roll down your otherwise robotic face and my vulnerability and emotions are manipulated.  A few well-placed, but phony apologies are uttered and I am supposed to come running back into your arms as if nothing happened.  You think there are no long-term psychological or emotional effects.  You think everything you do, no matter how egregious, will be forgiven as soon as you flash that impish smile.  Your smile is as fake as your teeth.  Also, being a dozen years my senior doesn't exactly lend itself to your attempts at a Peter Pan style boyhood.  You're looking for a mother, not a wife. Certainly not a partner nor an equal.  I don't have a mother's love for you.  No one could be as hopelessly and disgustingly devoted to you as that.  No one else stands a chance.  I'm sorry I'm not going to worship you.  You are not the second coming of Christ.  I don't recognize your status as a supreme deity.  I'm not going to snivel at your over-sized feet.  That's for your sycophantic mother to do.  Let your parents continue their brainwashing.  You'll get to be the dutiful soldier you dreamed of being, after all; the Manchurian Candidate.  "I hope you get the star treatment. You deserve it!" You want a fan, a parishioner, a groupie, not a real woman.  You blew your chances at earning my respect.  Your egomania and your fucked-up family has made you more monster than man.

    You are an ornamental windsock, capable of nothing but flopping back and forth in the breeze.  You're as ineffectual as you are incorrigible. Or maybe you are actually an evil, cruel beast only parading as an ineffectual nebbish. Eh. Maybe that's giving you undue credit.  Just like your mother! I hope all your bullshit was worth it.  I hope it was worth smashing someone elses heart over. I hope it was worth steamrolling our happiness.  I hope it was worth bulldozing a family.  I hope it was worth all the pain you caused.  I would say you have to live with that guilt, but that would necessitate a conscience, which we both know you don't possess.  Keep making your bullshit lists that you'll never adhere to.  Keep writing bullshit letters that no one will take to heart. Except me, your biggest chump.  You lured me in with your oily cons, and quickly began smashing me under your boot heels to keep me in line.  It's kind of hard to forget the past when you current behavior is so reminiscent of it.  You're lack of self-respect is astounding.  It's not surprising you have no respect for me.  Don't you stand for anything?  Don't you care about anything beyond yourself?  You really have no moral fiber, do you?  You're more than pathetic, you are apathetic.

     What kind of fucked up dream is it to want to be known as some great jazz musician, yet the only part you've managed to master is that of the depraved, egomaniacal low-life?  You spent so much time partaking in the seedy nightlife of the music scene that you forgot to write any actual music.  That's showbiz, I guess. Shouldn't being a decent human being come first?  I guess I'm just not big enough of an asshole to be even a mediocre success.  It must suck to have only slept your way to the middle.  Keep blaming drugs and alcohol for all your behavior, so you never have to take even the slightest bantam shred of responsibility.  You should have those miscreants that forced those drugs on you arrested.  I think your unwavering, and true personality, stone-cold sober, is vile, repellent and downright pathological.  Keep miming effort, keep praying you'll become a better person.  It really seems to be working for you.  You are nothing but a sad conman.  You fell into an age-old trap; you started to believe your own hype.  It's not surprising that you have chosen to surround yourself with scumbags.  As a sorry consolation to yourself, you say indignantly, "At least I'm not that bad."  Well, sir, I am here to tell you, you are that bad. You're the worst. You've toyed with someone's love for over three years and the best excuse you have is, "Uh, I didn't mean to."  No one accidentally does something for over three years.  You fancy yourself some sort of pornographic Valentino, but you can barely satisfy one woman, let alone some ridiculous gaggle.  My complex sexual desires are clearly out of your debased, yet amateurish wheelhouse. Prepackaged, manufactured pseudo-sexuality is all your paltry mind can fathom. Monkey see, monkey do mimicry isn't sexuality. Even referring to you as any manner of mammal is giving you too much credit. You and your army of reptilian skanks can go fuck yourselves into oblivion.  Face it, you suck as a person. You are a compulsive and habitual liar, you break every promise you make, and you always put yourself first even when a situation has nothing to do with you.  Your needs are paramount as a reigning god, after all. 
   
     I know you'll never live up to the lies you told me, time and time again.  You've caused me pain after pain.  That's why you are in the highly uncomfortable situation you are in now.  It's lonely at the top, mother fucker! Your ass must hurt from perching on that throne all day. Supreme world problems. Amirite?  No one likes the taste of their own medicine.  It's a bitter pill to swallow, asshole.  Choke on it.  Maybe now you can finally get a sense of the devastation you've caused.  Your actions and lack thereof have fucking consequences.  You are responsible for the dissolving of a marriage and a person.  You wanted to play big shot, how did that turn out for you?  Was marriage everything you dreamed of? Was abusing your wife always part of the plan or just something you thought up on the fly? Where is your diary entry for that?
   
     Don't ever forget how wonderful you are.  And talented and handsome and better than everyone in every way.  And nothing you could ever do could hurt anyone because just to be in your presence is an honor.  Just to be allowed a whiff of your shit; a delight. To be hurt by the likes of a great man such as yourself; simply a treat. To be made to feel meaningless and insignificant by such an unrivaled idol; a holiday. Everyday's a holiday on Primrose Lane with you, honey.

     When you first called yourself the Baron of Chandler Park, I thought you were kidding. But I soon realized, you sincerely, and laughably thought of yourself that way. But now, I get it. I can see it, it's just a minor misspelling that was causing the confusion. You are the Barren of Chandler Park. You are Barren of emotion, you are Barren of kindness, you are Barren of empathy, you are Barren of honesty, you are Barren of intelligence. You are Barren of so many things, but especially Barren of true and romantic love. You haven't any idea what that even means. You certainly are royalty, alright. I mean it. The King! You'll surely go down in the history books as world-class. A world-class asshole. Suck a thousand dicks.

The Misinformation of Langston Hughes: Part Deux

A chance meeting across a parking lot...
     I pulled in visibly excited over the great parking space I nabbed.  How pathetic.  Feeling stimulated over something so fucking dull.  Like an old man with no more purpose.  How did my life shrivel to this point?  I used to have weird fun. I used to experience strange parts of the night.  I used to have stories to write.  But it was that parking spot that opened the door.  Perhaps I had a right to be aroused.  Because, as I headed from the spot across the expanse of the loaded lot, I saw him, immediately.  There was Langston's Hughes' foot soldier in the flesh.  He pantomimed shielding his face from the sun with his hand against his further receded hairline, though it was fully night.  I don't know if it was arousal I felt when I saw him.  It was almost like part of me expected to see him.  On some plane, I must have felt him.  I managed to play it cool, maybe too cool.  He hugged me, warmly.  We chatted mindlessly while dodging cars speeding down the alleyway.  He said we should get together sometime, I told him he had my number...We talked for a few minutes more, but I could feel myself pulling slightly away.  Instead of hugging him goodbye, I just sort of slid into the night.  But he grabbed my arm.  Somewhat tenderly; longingly, somewhat commandingly.  That subtle and authoritative touch turned me on more than many of the combined sexual encounters I've had lately.  It was just a taste of the mind fuck I had been hungering for.  It was forceful, yet sensual.  And all it took was a powerful hand wrapped around my slender, exposed forearm.  The memory of that touch carried me through the night.  I realized I wanted more.  The night didn't quite feel electric, the way it does when I know something is bound to happen, but it did hold the possibility open.  I remembered what it felt like to hunt down those electric nights.  And to trap big game.  This minion of Mr. Hughes was my marlin.  I hooked him, I reeled him in, and let's take this metaphor all the way into the station: I mounted him.
     My brother told me I had a wild look in my eye, when I finally met up with him further down the street.  I felt wild, I felt feral again.  I was charged knowing that I hadn't lost those unpredictable parts of myself.  They were still there, they were just laying in wait, deep under the glacial ice.

A Scheduled Meeting in a Coffee Shop
     What the hell did I think I was doing anyway? Meeting the erstwhile sexual monolith, that I immortalized so many years ago, at the coffee shop.  Part of me thought he wouldn't even show; a would-be relieved part. The other part of me wanted that part to be so magnificently wrong. It was. He was there even before I.  With his fucking Fonzi leather jacket and casual grey thermal Henley. I know someone with that exact Henley, I thought.  He was so inviting and easy to be around.  It felt familial. He held his money together with a novelty-sized paperclip. He was so polite to the waitstaff. He asked if I was vegan or vegetarian. He said he was vegetarian/pescetarian then proceeded to order a sausage, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. We sat down.  I couldn't stop staring at the five-or-so grey hairs that peppered his sideburns.  Like everything about him, it was a hint at something deeper, something more arcane; undiscovered.  A stray strawberry seed perched upon his left canine lent a vulnerability, rendering him merely human. We talked for over three hours, about everything and nothing.  He left me feeling fully energized whereas I usually feel drained. I felt my whole body abuzz with a marathon energy I hadn't felt in a long while. I felt good. He is amiable, thoughtful, and engaging, yet mysterious. I thought seeing him again after all this time might shatter the mystique I had romanticized over the years, but instead more questions remain than answers. I know he has a darker side. Because I've seen it. No one is that commanding during sex without some diabolical nature.  He wasn't quite rough, but he was very dominant. Which is the ultimate sensual experience for me. It wasn't an act either, or some insecure front. It was coming from an organic, yet sinister place within him. There is also the matter of the proposed threesome text message which I naively misinterpreted until he expounded upon it further during foreplay in his bed. There were seemingly no traces of that side at the coffee shop. I remember nearly everything about that faraway night, even the aforementioned menage a trois suggestion that I conveniently whitewash from my rose-tinted chimera. The way the fire was already crackling, the way the candles were somehow pre-lit in the bedroom. The 90's R & B blasting so loud you could hear from the street.  The banter full of pretense. And when he finally kissed me in front of that white leather couch. The smell of weed and cognac on his breath. It coalesced to an earthy heat that I couldn't get enough of. I wanted  to experience every part he was willing to offer. The way he grabbed my hair to move me where he wanted. It was like he anticipated my every appetite. And the single most erotic exploit I've ever experienced; when he pulled out of me to come all over my lower stomach so dangerously close, and then he just collapsed on top of me in satisfied exhaustion. With no regard whatsoever for the streaks of come amidst us. It was that moment that made it so sensually gratifying. He was completely in the moment. He had given himself over fully to the experience.  It was so entirely stimulating. The intertwining of our bodies throughout the rest of the night made for such a rich, voluptuous experience. One that I had to immortalize in my writing.
     It would become one of the pieces I am most proud of.  It's so raw, vivid and real. It would become a memory bathed in amber and vermilion. One that I would recall when I felt uninspired and unexcited and bored with the trappings of wifedom and motherhood. I had some exotic experiences once. Something to look back on. Something ripe, and juicy; a perfect fruit waiting to be plucked. Something worth writing about. I was young and wild and free. Is tasting freedom worth the price of admission? Do I want the juice of that fruit running down my chin once more?  I certainly want to remain untamed, but at what level does happiness lay?  Responsibilities and obligations are the chains that bind us. They end up defining us.  It's experiential quicksand.  Man-eating is only fun for so long; it was the power I was addicted to, not the men. I fed off them until I was drunk with power. I don't know what state I left them in, but they always came back for another bite. Perhaps they liked the subtle subjugation or perhaps they erroneously thought they could wrangle, then tame me.  I really haven't an idea what those men think of me or if they even do, but I do think of them from time to time. And I recall what it was like to feel in control.

The Misinformation of Langston Hughes or Sweet, Vengeful Immortalization (Part One)

Psychotic Episode in 4/4 Time: Jizzalyn

     She winces just a little as the semen lands in thick streaks across her distorted face.  Its briny stench and searing heat freeze in her grotesque contortions, momentarily. Her burly, largish nose heaves and gulps air as her too-widely-set-apart eyes snap closed. She has been branded by yet another foul-smelling nobody.  Not beautiful by any means, leathery and older-looking than her years, she needs to do anything she can to keep a man interested. Blowing guys while they record it POV-style, with their iPhone, seems to fulfill, however briefly, a need in her, for validation, for applause, for something human, something remotely interesting in an otherwise dull existence. Her used up body and insipid sex is all she can offer to the world at this point; pedestrian and unremarkable.  She sucks and fucks just to feel the warmth of a man for those few minutes, to feel like she belongs, even if it is in the sewer. The finished masterpieces have the sexual appeal of a Nazi propaganda film, but with none of Goebbels' production value.  As the unimaginative, feckless men shoot their vile loads on the caricature of a gargoyle that passes for her face, they are already plotting their exit.  They have wrestled on their skinny jeans and made for the door before she can even unglue their rancid seed from her eyes.  By the time she forces her glassy, piscine orbs open, they will have already left.  She will be alone again, to wade in pile of rapidly cooling sperm.

      She wasn't always so monstrous.  Like many other Midwestern girls, what she lacked in talent she made up for in delusion.  But when life didn't fulfill the fairytale she was promised, she soon grew jaded and increasingly desperate for approval and celebrity.  Once the demons of envy, vanity, and lust took over, her exterior began to steadily match her interior.  Just a few sagging fuck holes was all she had left to realize her fleeting dream. So, she'll clean herself up the best she can tonight; running a near-toothless comb through her hair, trying to scrub the smell of stale cum out of her skin, and shakily applying a raunchy shade of vermilion lipstick to her dry and creased lips, so she can stumble her way to the nearest bar to play out this repugnant farce once again.