The Lovers

Like 2 blind elephants mating in a China shop without a regard for anything. But that's mostly because, well -- because they are blind. Quite a problem for the locals. The clumsy, yoke-generating mammals wrecking everything in their path (fences, gardens, homes, bridges). Were the poor creatures' affair so fragile that they couldn't wait? Could they have not waited for the arrival to their own, private paradise? Just beyond that crumbled home, and collapsed bridge. But again, they are blind. Forging ahead at a reckless speed to a place that they've managed to imagine in their equally love-struck, and equally small and precious minds.

Conversations with Boys

Location: Poor Paul's Bar on a bar stool, at the bar

Time: Roughly 11:59

A boyfriend? Nah, man. Boyfriends are for the gays now. So yeah, I'm single. No I'm not involved with anyone. What do you mean, "am I just trying to have 'fun'?" Of course I'm trying to have fun. Oh, you mean, hooking up? Like sex. Do I go around looking for dudes to bone me, is what you're asking. No, it's fine. I know that's what you mean. And you're probably asking because you need to know whether or not you need to keep half-ass flirting with me, or move on to the shot broad across the bar. She looks pretty easy She'll pretend to like it, to want it just as much as you do. She prides herself in Slut Status. You think I'm funny? That's sweet. I do like the attention.

No I suppose I'm not like other girls. Not like the other girls you try to get with, like that blonde creature over there. She doesn't know how big of a waste of time boys are yet. Wait a minute, now. I said boys. And by boys I mean, sex with boys. What do I mean by boys? Guys my age, or our age rather. Yeah, you think I go around wasting time trying to fuck 23 year old dudes? And what, watch them hump me like a puppy and his first plush squeaky toy rabbit? No, I've had good sex, and none of it involved one night stands, flings, casual dates, or college frat parties (that would be a rape-trap waiting to happen). No, I rather just wallow in my sexual frustration and return home alone. No it's not preferable. Of course the real thing is better. A real penis I guess (like those fleshy, veiny things that you keep hidden in your pocket?). But you're not it. You're not the real thing, you know what I mean? You're not what I really want. You're enough to provide me with mediocre sex, little to no oral and enough passion to buy a stick of gum. Leaving me with the pitted feeling. Slightly empty, slightly ashamed and slightly attached to you from the act of intercourse itself. I'd keep the fling going but only to eliminate that feeling of diminished value. I'd have to become a bit clingy, and you'd be obligated to entertain me so I could muster up enough confidence and worth to let you go. Or perhaps you find me too aggressive and ultimately ignore me ( because I'm a problem) until I go away. The latter is more likely. But after that severance (we both would be relieved) I could go back and do it all over again. Probably find another person just like you at this very smokey, sticky grimy bar that my friends and I go to in order to pretend we are interested in screwing bearded baby faces.

You're right, I have had a few horrible experiences and I should give people more credit, especially you. You have been engaging me this whole night. I'm still not going to sleep with you. I mean, I'm bored and lonely enough to, don't worry. Don't feel rejected too much. I'm imagining what it would be like to be in bed with you right now, even. But I know my expectations would be too high thus leaving me more disappointed than I already am with being alone. You wouldn't know what you're doing, and I have no intention of playing instructor (no, wait -- that vagina needs to be appropriately lubricated -- have you not figured out the difference between a dry pussy and a wet one? Or does it not matter enough to you to care?). I just don't have the energy level to pretend to enjoy horrible, inexperienced, rough, dry, rushed sex anymore. It's nothing against you, you just got here a little too late is all. Maybe you could blow me away with your skill level at foreplay (that weird heavy petting that feels just good enough to warrant a frustrated moan). We have no intention of forming a real relationship, so why go through all that secret shame? Why do that to yourself, I ask. Because you're trying to have some fun? Because you're trying to have a good time? I see.

Of course I want to live life to the fullest. You only live once, right? However, do you know how much paranoia sex causes to the single, sexually promiscuous girl? Pregnancy tests, doctor visits, STD testing, HIV testing, the extra number to the partner count and what it does to her reputation. The battle with insecurities, the dormant daddy issues. It goes on and on. Sex and desire and lust is a natural thing, to me. I can support that lifestyle -- if you can handle it. I know personally, I cannot. Which is just one of the many reasons why I will not sleep with you.

Oh, you just want to get to know me? This is just a casual conversation amid the dark jungle of mating calls and sexual displays? I find that hard to believe. You may be enjoying this conversation, but sex will always be at the forefront of your motivations along with every other male and female in this bar. We are an emotional, sentimental and lustful lot. Primitive, resourceful, and lonely. Everyone wants to fuck everyone.  Of course I think everyone wants to sleep with me. You  make it so easy. All a girl has to do is bat her fake eyelashes, cough up a little glitter and BAM, you're in. Literally. 

Whatever the case, like I was saying, sex with someone within our age group is a waste. Sure it's a way to gain experience. But I rather gain that experience with someone that I can call the next day and not feel like I'm being too clingy or wrestle the insecurities that I never address due to the emotional neglect from my father. How do I plan on finding someone to be with, you ask? Well I don't plan on being a celibate bitch forever, it's just not my time right now. And anyway, remember what I said about boyfriends. Boyfriends are for the gays, now. So I'll hang back while they weed out the unobtainable's. I can wait until I'm 25. I can wait that long to date a 30 year old and it not be creepy. I'm assuming they will be better at love than the rest of us at this point and time. Until then,  I'll sip on my Turbodog, smoke a few cheap cigarettes, engage in a few conversations at the bar, and return home, once again, alone and in peace.

Stubborn Bull

He has things to hide now. She knows it, in the same way he senses her vague secrets. Who is he texting? Who is she texting? Why does she come home late from work? Why isn't he here when she gets home from work? Love can make you psychic, but they are too ashamed of the failure to really listen to the answers, or really care to. What did it matter now. A person wants to feel valued, and they were too bitter to provide that reassurance to one another. Other people can provide it, in a limited way. A very limited, but effective way. Also, in a horridly depressing way -- most likely. But she sabotaged it all, he sabotaged it some, and now, well, co-living in an empty space? What's worse for her is that she has no place of refuge but the bathroom stall on the fifth floor of her work. Not many women use it, not many people on the floor. There she can emotionally wreck herself on the toilet, blow her nose, wipe the runny mascara, and pull herself together for another 4 hours, or 2, or hour and a half. Today she did not last 4 hours.

Eyes swollen, tired, wet, and heavy hidden within the jungle of beige cubicles. Grateful for the cubicles.Grateful for the job. Grateful for the release of emotion that has finally swelled so high, even she, the stubborn bull, couldn't contain it. She was worried about her lack of emotion over the last few months. She can put up a wall so high she can barely see over the top of it. All to stay  to "hang in there." However, now that she was being told to do so with contrived compassion from him, she could do nothing more but imagine taking a metal baseball bat to his Gibson SG. She clearly needs time to release the residual bitterness from the months leading up to the fall out. As for now, she knows that it is time to rebuild. Not so much the wall, but the foundation for a stable home. A stable woman, girl, and being -- on top of the hill where the wildflowers are.

435 West Park Avenue

West Park Avenue was supposed to be about that next step. You know the feeling of that step. It's the one that's supposed to be the natural reaction to the events thus far in your life. The step that is supposed to be a positive progression to the next step after that, though unknown. Which, is fine, because you finally made it to this point in your life that you wanted, that seemed right, that warranted genuine excitement and the absolute adornment of life itself. Love, love, love -- love love love (yes, that is a Heartbreak Kid reference). High hopes, solid expectations, full, unconditional trust of someone else, and most importantly, of yourself. Then, things fall, unexpectedly, to shit.

We loved each other, of course it made sense to move into a decrepitly charming house right off sorority row: 435 West Park Avenue. Front porch, virtually no inside insulation or ventilation, hammock, car port, half-sized fridge, mold. The mold. What a foreboding foreshadow of what was to come.  I've scrubbed that mold infested ceiling countless times. I risked becoming blind, the ammonia soaked skin, the breathing of poison and unnatural fumes. But it always came back. It never really went away.

Looking back, we could have always done more. Always. But we never do, do we? Because deep inside our thoughts is the truth. The truth is that I knew I could never really scrub it away. I knew it would always come back because we kept up the same habits, and did nothing to prevent it. Instead, we just kept the door closed, the window locked and payed no attention to the lack of a ventilation fan. The steam was the only thing that kept us warm during the winter. What more could I have done with that mold? So much more I assume, whatever "more" really means. I finally quit trying, and now it looms over me during ever shower and routine powdering of the nose. I'm bitter at that mold.

A relationship obviously takes more than love and trust. It takes a monstrous amount of effort.. Effort in all realms. In ours -- too personal to name here. I think we gave it our all. I think that's all that matters. But, again, "more" could have always been done, and sometimes lovers resent the other for being forced to do such a thing.

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435 West Park Avenue served her part. She did all that she could do. She couldn't do anything more, because she's a house. But we could have. We had the ability to stop the mold from forming, but we didn't do anything about, did we? Like it was something out of our control, some blackness that left us helpless, and even left us severely empty of compassion.So it goes (yes, that is a Slaughterhouse Five reference).

At Peace, Before Renewal

She sat cross-legged facing the water at a quiet park. Huffing and wired just minutes before, she walked briskly, anxious to move and let go of all the nervous energy. The water, trees, and wind calmed her in the early evening of Spring.

She closed her eyes and dreamed. The wind stopped. The air became neutral and light. The buzzing of the cars and cicadas silenced. She was now standing at the place that once stood a home fit and strong. A place that housed a little girl slurping up marinara noodles with dirty fingernails. The heart of her that once was scared and rooted with innocence. The history of heartbreak and violence tortured and destroyed what was left of any those past roots. Now, there was only a field of wild flowers. Wild weeds and tall grass sprouting through every square foot of old grass and cracked concrete. She didn't know what to do with them. Pesky and meaningless the wild flowers were, but beautiful in their own right. She hadn't a clue what to rebuild on the once solid foundation -- or how.

Something told her to leave the wild flowers be for now, to leave the ground to renew and be replenished. The home may be gone and everything she once knew with it, but the wild growth of the earth was there. Her heart will relish in those new wild roots, for better and for worse. For happiness, and sadness, she will rebuild. There will be inspiration. There will be trust again and strength. She will move forward slowly with each sunset, with each sunrise, with each horrendous storm. But for now, she will rest where the wild flowers grow. She will breathe lightly again, ready for renewal.