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The puny and not so secret show
Jul. 30th, 2007 09:13 amSometimes I think we marry certain words already as kids, and stay together in this partially dysfunctional partnership. And I have this inkling that the world is full of kids growing up to marry the word "writer", or woo it or form a domestic partnership with it, or at least dream of casual sex with it. My problem is not my attachment to that word, but to the word "marriage"and probably also to the word "procreation".
I have tried to justify them over and over again and I keep landing in the same gut feeling.
I read a lot, more than a lot from time to time. But I have these periods, like now, when I don't like much of what I read, and this for me is a disgusting secret.
How about that: I read a lot of poetry, but I don't like it. I don't like solving your damn puzzles, pontificating on the knots of our soul, cherishing your images. (I will admit and exception to when you make me laugh or cry, but do you know how rare that is?)
So I drag myself to court and the prosecutor ask me "why?" And once more I have no real answer. In my more desperate moments I blurt out "because it makes me feel good".
Which of course isn't all that true.
It's frankly like jacking off with the wrongly sized toy. You get there, shivers and shakes, but afterward your body tells you "Dude, that was one intrusion, back to normal now please"
Once I wrote a poem about you, and some people who read it told me they thought it was about a princess in a tower. It wasn't about that at all, but these comments made me happy, feeling as if I'd just had sex with love on the side.
That's my moment of glory, no really, that's it. And lots of people don't even get that.
I'm not breaking up with you, or getting married, I don't think we'll ever have kids. Today I just wanted to say that I really don't like you. I don't like the bad anal sex, the whips and latex toys in order to create a spark. I know you cheated on me with half the world and I'm really not into watching your bastards running around.
I can't break up with you, but I can tell you honestly: You have bad breath, and that is one ugly night-gown.
I have tried to justify them over and over again and I keep landing in the same gut feeling.
I read a lot, more than a lot from time to time. But I have these periods, like now, when I don't like much of what I read, and this for me is a disgusting secret.
How about that: I read a lot of poetry, but I don't like it. I don't like solving your damn puzzles, pontificating on the knots of our soul, cherishing your images. (I will admit and exception to when you make me laugh or cry, but do you know how rare that is?)
So I drag myself to court and the prosecutor ask me "why?" And once more I have no real answer. In my more desperate moments I blurt out "because it makes me feel good".
Which of course isn't all that true.
It's frankly like jacking off with the wrongly sized toy. You get there, shivers and shakes, but afterward your body tells you "Dude, that was one intrusion, back to normal now please"
Once I wrote a poem about you, and some people who read it told me they thought it was about a princess in a tower. It wasn't about that at all, but these comments made me happy, feeling as if I'd just had sex with love on the side.
That's my moment of glory, no really, that's it. And lots of people don't even get that.
I'm not breaking up with you, or getting married, I don't think we'll ever have kids. Today I just wanted to say that I really don't like you. I don't like the bad anal sex, the whips and latex toys in order to create a spark. I know you cheated on me with half the world and I'm really not into watching your bastards running around.
I can't break up with you, but I can tell you honestly: You have bad breath, and that is one ugly night-gown.
