Brushfire Flake

Uh oh. Unease. Life and its beat are wearing thin lately. Manic doesn't even begin to describe my frame of mind. My soundtrack is off, my steps are faltering. I feel as if I'm trudging up stadium steps, ankle weights making my every step heavier. The closer to the top I get, the more impossible the journey becomes.

The weights are made of doubts. Doubts are the heaviest substance known to man. They have this terrible habit of becoming even heavier in groups of 2 or more. Which means right now, I'm basically carrying out Satan's plan for me in Hell. The motherfucker obviously has designs for an eternity of carrying a shit ton of doubts up and down the stairs of my high school's bleachers. I'm guessing he'll make the chains extra long. Because he's Satan.

On paper - hell, in my head even, life is fairly okay. Mostly, everything is a varying degree of good. Some parts are even better than good. Much better. Nearly perfect. And there's the problem. Nearly perfect isn't supposed to apply to me. Nearly perfect is supposed to remain just out of reach - I'm supposed to know what it looks like in the window, but not on my body in the dressing room. But I'm not just trying the shit on. I bought it and took it home. Now I'm staring at it, wondering how I'm supposed to make it a part of my everyday wardrobe.

Life has been so much of the same for so long. And even when it changed drastically, like I took an eraser to it and drew a bunch of new stuff in - even then, it still felt like the same life. And now? WHERE THE FUCK AM I? I feel like a part of me I had all but eliminated is back with a vengeance, but I'm feeling panicked because I'm missing other parts I've grown accustomed to. Defining parts. I don't know if I should be calling this an identity crisis, but it's certainly the closest thing I've ever had to one.

How is it even possible to be so happy with so much and still be so manicpanickednervousextraspecialcaffeinatedtothemotherfuckinghilt?

S.O.S.

Life in Technicolor

Tomorrow is rife with possibility.
Tomorrow can be whatever I choose.
Tomorrow could be the beginning of a fruitful career.
Tomorrow is the last day of my 27th year.

Significant doesn't even begin to cover it. I like to speak in riddles and confusion so that I can always maintain control - I more than need it. I have to have it. The thought of another person knowing what goes on in my attic is frightening - the only place I can truly be myself, the only place where I can store my thoughts. The thoughts nobody is ever going to know, which is just the way I want it. Rather, just the way I need it. Just the way I have to have it. But when I say that the last day of my 27th year is significant, you'll just have to take my word for it. And to give some perspective, we're talking, like, significance of a lifetime here. That kind of significance.

I miss my best friend. I don't miss her everyday anymore. I miss her at random moments, and sometimes not-so-random moments. But the times which occurred daily, usually several times a day, when I would just be suddenly overwhelmed with a memory or grief, without any provocation - those are gone. I knew she would never be totally gone, though. She isn't the first ghost I've known. When you're a child, you think you have the idea of what a ghost is pegged. And I guess in the traditional sense, you might. But now I know what ghosts really are, and that they do exist. They follow us and remind us and haunt us and make us cry and laugh and smile and curse and sigh and shake our heads or fists in frustration and grip the steering wheel while we grit our teeth and taste our tears. That gaping hole they leave is the cruelest part - like the fact that their ghost is following you isn't enough. No. You have to walk around with an empty void inside, one that drains you emotionally and physically. You hold yourself together with your arms and feel the dry burn of your eyes when your body can't cry as many tears as your heart wants to make.

So I remember all the times in my 27th year when it seemed so important. When my prerogative was matte and sloped and dangerous. When I missed her far too much. Now that I don't feel that pull, I almost miss my dedication to the grief. My unwillingness to let it go. I missed her when she was dead but living, and so my memories never faded. They stayed sharp and poignant and colorful, just like she was. Now when I think of her, I see soulless and ashen and gaunt, and my memories wash away, back and forth, in and out; remember some, forget a few, remember one, forget two. And before you know it, they're gone. She's gone. Off to join the club that never really existed, and if it did it's the saddest club and I'm glad for once to feel so young, if you follow.

All of this is leading to an explanation of why I feel tomorrow is so important. I'm going to go full candid, because I'm that healthy right now. There is honesty in every word I just wrote.

• At 12:00 am, I will have traveled over a hurdle I went back and forth on the possibility of overcoming so many times, I should have coined a term in its honor. I'm not creative in that way, though, so we'll just settle for deliberation. Look, I'm not a lazy person. I'm fearful, I have a good memory, and I have limits. When all three of these buttons are activated, the probability of a smooth ride is not good. For a good portion of my 27th year, I was genuinely unsure if I would make it to see my 28th. There. I said it. I missed my friend; I was so, so tired; and believe it or not, despite having made it out alive several months ago, I was convinced that making a break would, well... break me.

So here's to my new career, one I feel excited/passionate/flattered/nervous/ready for. And here's to my life, because it's MY life. I've learned that I'm not so very fragile after all, and that ghosts don't call the shots. I do. I feel valuable for the very first time in my life - not just a feeling of value, but an actual measure of it. L'Oreal should probably pay me for what I'm about to say:

I'm worth it.

learn to fly

I've taken a lazy but necessary week-long hiatus from writing. But my knuckles have been itching to be cracked and my fingers antsy for stretching. All in preparation for the inevitable ping ping ping and the reach reach reaching they'll be performing. Like a symphony, or at least a cacophony of taps.

I used the word necessary to describe my absence, and I'm fairly confidant with my choice of adjective. I was absent because I needed to gain some perspective, and some focus. I can't keep floundering around, sitting on piles of work that I get neurotic over and can't let out of my superhuman fear grip, let alone summarize and synopsize and make copies and collate and  stuff in an envelope and address and stamp and dump in a mailbox to travel via postal mail. I got all sweaty and queasy just typing that.

But now it's time to push that to the side, to soldier through and save the queasy and sweaty for after I've done the deed. It's more than overdue, and probably why I'm having such a hard time moving on and creating something new. I need to walk away from the other project wholly satisfied with my efforts, so I can breathe easy with the knowledge that every possible avenue was covered.

And then I can do something with all of these ingredients swirling around in my head - I've been sitting on so many story ideas, so many bits and fragments of good material. I can't wait to have a free mind to explore some of those possibilities. I think it's safe to say that when I am passionate about a project, there isn't a facet of the process I don't enjoy. And because I am so trepidatious about sharing my work, I recognize my eagerness to write for what it is: a passion, a need sometimes.

I probably repeat those points too often, but I've never apologized for the fact that this "blog" is my shitty excuse for a journalistic outlet, one that is rife with opinions and feelings and quasi-musings on shit that matters to not one single person other than myself. And that's super fabulous okay with me, because as I already pointed out, I create this work for myself. I'm way too lazy to be doing it for any other reason. But then that possibility of recognition, of providing entertainment or at least fodder for discussion, it looms larger than anything else. That could be the result of having a completed project, or just because I am more susceptible to the lure of publication than I have been willing to admit.

Whatever the reason, publication is indeed the eventual goal, and I'm ready for whatever that entails. With the aid of a barf bag.

Don't let me be misunderstood

Psychological warfare is interesting. On the one hand, it's a fucking headache. Twisting acrobatics, with no set rules to speak of. On the other hand, it can be exciting and challenging. And hot.

I've never been a huge fan of game-playing. My efforts always failed (I'm transparent, yo), I never made it out unembarrassed, and I've almost always been called out when attempting it. I'm quite the gullible character, though, so it isn't hard to fuck with my head. Harmless toying used to turn problematic for me at the drop of a hat.

I don't find that to be the case anymore. Whether it's a new maturity, dealing with a different age group, or I'm just plain better at it; whatever the reason, I am now a formidable opponent. Concerning the battle of wits and wills, I am a patient woman. A very practiced amount of nonchalance and a poker face so flat you could deal a hand on it have given my old issues the boot.

That isn't to say I'm a huge fan of the game, either. In all honesty, it's still manipulation with a capital 'M', no matter how you try to spin it. However innocent or exciting it may be, there is still a line being crossed in regard to the level of respect one earns and deserves in the relationship. You are still forsaking a transparent honesty that is so rare to find in a partner - for this specific reason, of course. Because as I've already said, there is an allure and seduction associated with head games. Power struggles can be like fully clothed sex if the right sparring partner is involved.

I've got games on the brain today for obvious reasons. There is a baiting attempt taking place as I type this. As I mentioned, I can dish it just as well as anyone else, but my patience is unusually thin today. Also taking into consideration the fact that an extremely new relationship should rarely warrant the use of game-playing as a communication tactic, today's thoughts have come to an inevitable conclusion:

what is and what should never be

There is definitely a reason for my lack of creative output as of late. I can't concentrate for shit. My current employment situation actually facilitates a writing-heavy schedule. I've toyed with the idea of setting a daily itinerary for myself, like Stephen King. I've never tried it, and I've had my fair share issues with writer's block, so...

Recently it's been easy to write from a personal perspective. My pen is overflowing. But fiction-wise, I can't even settle on a plot overview - the smallest of blips is wrong, the cadence is off or it's just plain idiotic. Something that goes along with that inability to find a groove is a bruised ego - and hurt pride often results in quitters never winning. Or something like that.

Fiction is scary. For a prideful person, I've been shockingly willing to admit when I'm scared of something lately. And fiction is something that has always spooked me - I'm sure I'm not the only fan of putting pen to page who gets so immersed that I fail to recognize when I've fucked up. And speaking from experience, one of the worst feelings in the world is to spend several months constructing something that needs to be completely disassembled, or at least retooled. It's frightening. Nightmares are actually had. Plus, I'm out of practice. My efforts are awkward and noisy.

While I'm untangling my web of doubt, I think I'll make note of some things which make me nauseous these days. Either I've been there too much, or we've all been taken there too much.
The following is a list of things which I have forbidden (no trespassing, violators will be shot) from making an appearance in my future works:

1. low-top Chucks
2. typewriters
3. libraries
4. The Smiths
5. owls
6. photography
7. vampires
8. love triangles
9. politics
10. freckles

It Just Is

Three, oh, it's a magic number. Yeah it is. It's a magic number.

I love you. Three words. End. Three letters. See what I did there? I love you was the beginning of my marriage. Before marriage even existed, expressions of love were exchanged. Vows were declared. The beginning held so much promise, those 3 words meant so much. And now, the opposite is true. The circle outside the marriage is what holds promise. Those 3 letters mean everything.

Today crept up on me. It would have been my 10-year wedding anniversary. In a way, it's hard to believe we made it so close. Then of course my mind travels to all of the sleeplessness, the crushing pressure, the anger and resentment and fighting. And then - you guessed it. It's hard to believe we made it so far.

You know those films, or those story lines on TV - the ones that depict a one-night stand which results in a happily ever after? Hey. Fuck that. The reason you're seeing a happily ever after ending is because you're only seeing the end of the beginning. The actual relationship, and all it entails, is yet to come.

I noticed the other day that what I perceived to be a habit developed recently was actually something I've been doing my whole life. Simply put, nobody ever ends up living up to the hype, or even more simply put, nobody is ever quite good enough. Because I carry around an unfortunate air of superiority, one that I mostly keep to myself and learned long ago how to mask, my admiration of others is limited. If I admit to admiring something, it's a sure bet I'm telling the truth. It's a definite benefit for those who know me, and alos the only way I can justify my ego - I make amends by always trying to give recognition of my company's attributes. It gives everyone the warm and fuzzies, and nobody's ego is damaged. I can't control my thoughts, but I can apologize for them in subtle ways.

So I have this problem with men. I find myself attracted to many of them. I find myself intellectually stimulated by some of them. But I find myself completely enamored with none of them. Actually, that's not true. From afar there are lots of possibles. Except everyone knows the concept. The closer you edge, the more you see, the farther a person falls. But sometimes I feel as if I'm experiencing a more severe version of this - I am scathingly critical, which is problematic, and mean, if I'm telling the truth. At least it makes me feel that way, though I try not to let my mean show. To put it as ineloquently as possible, it's pretty fucking exhausting holding my bitch inside all the time. But I can never muster respect for anyone who lives their life open and scathingly critical like that, and I want to be deserving of respect.

So while I search for something that most likely doesn't exist, freshly diagnosed with Sex and the City Syndrome (the inability to realize one's own flaws demand a less critical view of men), I hope that I'll earn respect. I'm a Charlotte, so I'll remain sweet and kind and self-deprecating. And on the inside, I'll be cackling and side-eyeing and bitch-glaring. The idea, though, has nothing to do with me and my inner workings, and everything to do with what my respect will earn. It's my hope that eventually, my capacity to respect, coupled with my need for it, will result in something I should have been looking for a long time ago.

My wedding anniversary today is pretty symbolic. Thinking of it in terms of time passed, a decade is a large chunk of life. But maybe I should just keep my snark to myself and look at it like this - in my late twenties, I'm still young. *fingers crossed* I still have a lot of life left to live. But at a decently young age, I've learned a lesson there is NO way I'll ever forget. I will never, ever again waste a decade of my life on something that my instincts are red-alerting. And that's all I'd like to say on that subject for now.

Ten years. *screams*

Okay. So on the official end of a decade-long failed experiment, I choose to put it to rest. Goodbye, resentment of time wasted. Farewell, feelings of self-loathing and failure. I will no longer refer to you in any capacity. I will find new things to write about, and better things to talk about. My mourning period is over.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of a new decade.

chicks for free

Money is the root of all that's evil. I wouldn't say that's true. I maybe wouldn't say it's untrue, either. Money is just another one of those commodities, one of those dreaded things, which we feel tethered to. How could we not? Money's boundaries, its limits, those points when its reach ceases to exist - well, those stopped existing, too. Our society values money more than any other commodity. In the world.

It feeds us, clothes us, puts a roof over our heads. You know the drill. But what happens when we don't have enough of it? Or, in contrast, what becomes of us when we have too much? No example is needed here. Money - that damned currency, it changes everyone. It's very rare for someone to fall exactly in the realm of comfortable and stable, with no desire to earn more money. We are a pitiful species, with no regard for our own well-being. More is always desirable. What we have is never quite enough. We flaunt what we have in an effort to feel superior, wreaking havoc on our own and one another's psyches in the process.

And I haven't even touched the topic of inflation, nor do I want to. It sickens me. The cost of fucking everything these days is a direct result of the bullies in control of our economy and their moreMOREMORE attitude. And the very worst part? The more expensive things become - the more these assholes pad their wallets, the more we want it.

knot comes loose

By a certain age, or at least by adulthood, one understands what it means to consummate a marriage. What eludes most of us is that when a marriage ends, the single life will eventually need to be consummated. And it’s possible, probable even, that there are others who feel as I do: the first fuck is truly the shutting of one door and opening of another. It’s questionable whether those who have been unfaithful in their unions feel the same deepness of impact as those of us with clean records, but I suppose they probably do.

Whether it be a random hookup, a regular booty call, or a new relationship; they really all mean the same thing: THE END and THE BEGINNING.

For myself, it’s been an incredibly exhilarating ride. It’s a good possibility that because I was so young when I married, letting loose, exploring options, and encountering the pleasures of the single life is tantamount to my continuing evolution. It definitely feels that way.

I feel new, and I feel older, if that’s allowed. It’s incredibly tricky balancing it - the constant need to be frugal/cautious/weary, always warring with this deep need for social contact and physical proximity to others. I want to keep my children safe, comfortable, and happy. I want to flirtdrinksmokefucklaughplay.

I’m fascinated with the concept of what I’ve done to myself. My head is screaming sometimes, “HOW COULD YOU?” And really, how could I? How could I waste 10 YEARS simply trying? What an exhausting trip it’s been, and my battle wounds are plentiful. Yes, I “heart” my children. They are the most important beings on this earth. But when I look around, I know I’ve missed so much. I can’t help but feel regret for what I never had.

One of the best tricks I’ve learned over the years, and one that any self-respecting grown-ass adult knows, is that accepting what’s presented to you by life and rolling with the punches is one of the most valuable skills you can have. Mellowing out and DEALing are finely honed skills for some of us.

So I’ll quietly say a prayer for those lost opportunities, and put a pretty smile on my face. Then I’ll continue to explore new avenues and experiences, and any flirtdrinksmokefucklaughplaying which might or might not occur will be something to enjoy.

And always, always remember: CHOOSING A LIFE PARTNER AT 16 IS STUPID. REPEAT: ST-U-PID. Don’t do it. Fundamentally, as humans, we change. We evolve and develop our personas and keep finding new things out about ourselves. Not only that, but we also mature at different rates. So the husband or wife you thought you knew 12 years ago is now a total stranger.

Oh, the humanity.

catch and release

For a fully grown adult, I have very little life experience. And for someone who has facilitated the birth of several children and endured a decade-long marriage, I have even less. Experience shouldn’t really be a factor, anyway. But it is. Oh, is it ever.

Dating. I’ve decided that one of the most overused phrases in the English language, Can’t Live With it, Can’t Live Without it, most definitively applies to dating. Who knew I was such a commitment-phobe? The last time I had to juggle prospects, I was wondering if my prom dress was too slutty (SPOILER: it was). And now I find myself desperate to find flaws in every single one of them. Why? Why, if deep down what I really want is companionship, do I constantly look for reasons to cross them off the list?

Because self esteem, that’s why. Outwardly, I am locked and loaded, fully owning my physicality and my smile, ready to banter back and forth with the best of them. But on the inside. On the inside I’m still that bruised, scarred creature. I’m still waiting for someone to tell me that I’m as __insertinsultingadjectivehere__ as I always believed.

I never noticed how much I thought to myself, and said out loud for that matter, “I’m a bad person.” It wasn’t as if I would just lay it down, clumsily like that with no preamble. But I would (and still do, shhh) use it as an excuse for almost everything. So I convinced myself it was an excuse. I convinced myself that I was constantly fucking up and doing so much wrong that a generalized excuse like, “I’m a bad person.” worked really well. Except I never realized just how easy it is to convince yourself it’s true.

How quickly and steadfastly I fell into it. One moment in life, I’m the friend who can’t comprehend how a girlfriend would stay with a guy who abused her. I was the independent finger-snapper. And I met a boy who made me think if I was worth anything, he would want me more. If I did everything right, which never happened because “I’m a bad person.” (truth: human), then I would be everything he wanted and I should have been. Fuck, is that an unhealthy way to live your life.

Apologizing constantly for things that don’t even matter, things that I didn’t even fuck up. Using sex as a way to get the things I desperately needed, things that were never given to me because I should have never been with this person. And so after a very short time of living like this, living like I needed to make up for my failings EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY, I retreated into a cave, never to come out again.

Just kidding! Here I am. I’m back. I crawled out of that tiny, dank, oppressive darkness. And now I’m blinking in the sunlight, pale and unsure of how to proceed. Do I listen to my instincts and seek out companionship, all the while knowing how easily I could repeat my past? Or do I suit up and deal with the pressure, however long it lasts, weathering a storm I’ve never been strong enough to deal with before? I would go for some sort of witty pun, or a bait-and-switch here. It’s my last line. But I guess all I’ve got is this:


I don’t know.

the piano has been drinking

I'm lying in the middle of a road, and the carnage is thick - the dead are many.

And now I'm sitting in an automobile (a super shitty one) at a four-way stop. I choose. I finally get to. I pick which way I go from here, which path is most desirable. Or, if I'm smart, the safest route.

Speaking of routes. This intersection I'm sitting at is fairly interesting. Each road unwinds in a different direction, and none intersect at any other point. Just right here. Right where I am.

To the North lies a road lined in pines. It leads to soft faces, sweet air, warm clothes and bodies in closets.

Leading East is the dirt road which becomes cobblestone, rolling toward an electric city full of musicians, politicians, and disappointment.

The road descending South hasn't got much to offer visually; but its charisma, strength, and perfectly generic appeal are quite enticing. Easy.

And then there's the path leading West. Vast, pushy, and incredibly enough, perplexing as it is: appealing yet unappealing, always showing its true colors under a veil of perception. There are signs everywhere about what a terrible road leads West.

My analytic yet dyslexic brain is screaming 'East', but I'm headed West. Because though I'm sure East is the right direction, there's a roadblock. A fucking cow in the middle of the road, to be precise. But every step of the way, this Western avenue is becoming more inhabited by scary signs of decaying life, withered and dry in its loneliness. The South never sounded so appealing. I turn backward, considering the possibility of a change in course.

But then I can smell them. The pines. They're fresh - earthy and sweet. My smile is instant. My dimple is showing. It's infections. I can see them all smiling, too. All of the unseen bodies inside the closets of the North. But all I can feel is my own, because I'm vibrating. So I wander there, down that road. To the North. Regretfully I look East once more. Fucking cow's still there.

vaches sur une toile

Let me paint you a picture. Say your entire life, the only food you wanted or were allowed to eat was chocolate ice cream. I mean, you ate

SO

M
U
C
H

chocolate ice cream, on so many occasions, that you even perfected ways to enjoy it. You had discovered special methods to not only eat but savor your ice cream, making it seemingly impossible for another food (even if you were allowed to have it) to satisfy you equally.

And then. One dark and stormy weekend, all of the chocolate cows contracted a mysterious computer virus and were dead within 36 hours. Whatever will you do? No chocolate cows = no chocolate milk = no chocolate ice cream. Truly, I guess you’re fucked.

Because imagine knowing you need sustenance to survive, but after near-perfecting your enjoyment of chocolate ice cream; of making consuming it an almost orgasmic and wholly satisfying experience, the act of eating anything else would seem dauntingly dismal.

What’s a girl in a world without chocolate cows to do?

gimme some truth

Today seems like a great day to discuss some truths. I spent a long time being okay with lying. Any sort of lying, really. Lying to get out of trouble? I wrote the book. Lying to control how one sees me? I deserve an Academy Award. Lying to myself? Mastered by the age of 4. So, if one had observed me over the years, I'm pretty sure I probably appeared to be some sort of LYING LIAR. Because I was.

And then, out of nowhere, I saw myself from the outside, looking in. Do you know what I saw? A LYING LIAR, that's what. Someone who desperately wanted control, but only managed to hold onto something superficially resembling it. In my attempts to put my life on lock down, I had careened out of the stratosphere. I had become an adult physically, but my emotional development was retarded. On the outside, I was a wife and mother in her early twenties. But on the inside, I had never matured past the age of 12.

I know it can be difficult, even after one has seen themselves for what they really are, to change. It can be nearly impossible, really, because not only do we come to rely on behaviors and habits, but we also tend to shy away from incredibly difficult internal conflict. It's why the word denial was created. But a funny thing happened when it finally clicked - when I finally saw what I had become. I ran from it like I was scared. And frankly, I was scared. Scared of becoming like my mother, or like all of the other degenerate bottom-feeders who lie to get through life.

I stopped avoiding the truth. That was my first goal. I knew why I had been furiously clutching rose-colored glasses to my eyes. Childhood can really fuck a person up, and it's a lot easier to pretend everything is great and swell than to face a truth we know will bring us to our knees. But finally addressing reality was exactly what I needed to begin my journey, for lack of a less cliched phrase. Self-acceptance is a long, winding road, and honesty with oneself is the first step. Fact.

This newfound honesty was both refreshing and disarming. In the beginning, you just want to keep lying. Almost more than before. Where it once felt like habit, it now felt like an addiction. But I could also see what my truths were constructing. I was slowly building a foundation. Of control. In my effort to rid myself of dishonesty, I had discovered a secret to self-control. When you don't have lies to hide behind, you begin to avoid dangerous situations. Because in a dangerous situation (speaking in very broad terms here), the truth will often earn consequences. We are not perfect, and mistakes will be made. If we put ourselves in safe situations, and surround ourselves with people who will accept our mistakes and move on, only asking that we learn from them, honesty becomes the easier option. I like easy options.

Of course, just as one would expect, after forcing myself long enough to tell the truth no matter what, I stopped trying. It just came naturally. And I breathed a humongous sigh of relief, because between you, me, and the rest of  the interwebs, I was starting to worry that I didn't have it in me. That I came from a LYING LIAR and would only ever be a LYING LIAR. But I'm not. I'm just me, and that's the truth.

How come you never go there

To err is to be human. I’m pretty sure this extends to vulnerability, as well. We convince ourselves we know better. We tell ourselves we have a handle on a situation, that we’re mentally prepared despite knowing we’re weak. We expose ourselves to consequence, and pain. When I put it that way, I can’t help but wonder how we can be so stupid. But when I put it in context; when I ask myself why we do it, then I know.

We do it because we want things. It’s always about desire, even if what we desire is in more abstract terms. Desire is what motivates us. Always. A desire to take care of those we love. A want to better ourselves. A need for self-preservation, and sometimes self-destruction. It’s all the same when you attribute our drive to those desires. Simply put, we strive and exist in the moment, just to get what we want. And we leave ourselves unguarded, reaching and straining, working for that thing. That thing we don’t have yet.

But it’s not even about why we’re vulnerable. It’s about why we continue to leave ourselves vulnerable, for whatever undetermined amount of time, simply in the name of achieving a goal or fulfilling some possibly stupid, probably never-ending desire. A desire that experience has taught isn‘t realistically in the cards. A desire that has resulted in relentless punishment, left countless war wounds. We go back for more, time and again, and it renders us about as useful as a lemming. Following blindly toward our goal, we never really believe, no matter how much we attempt to perma-slap it into our psyche, that we can live without it.

Why. The. Fuck. Do. We. Do. This.

I assume it’s pretty clear I’m speaking of myself. And my desire is abstract. It isn’t a tangible thing, a person, or even a goal. It’s something I’ve always seen come easily to others, as if they aren’t even trying. So I search myself up and down, in and out, trying to figure out what I’m missing, and how I can fix it. It isn’t hard to fool me into thinking I’m one of them. That I have what they have, and I just haven’t been able to show it yet. They make it easy for me. They momentarily convince me that I do, in fact, have it. But I’ve been betrayed by the physical side of life - forever doomed to be seen as a conquest, with my inside apparently never living up to my outside.

So then they take it all away. They remind me that I‘m not a part of the club. That if I’m so goddamned concerned with preserving my dignity, I must not have it after all. Taking it slow? What is this language you speak? Pssshhh. Slow is for kids. Now kindly drop your panties.

And there you have it. I desire to be seen as a person, rather than a sexual object. I’ve spent a lifetime being a sexual object. Can’t I be seen as a person? I mean, I would even take a post as a sexual person, if only I could stop being an object. I do not exist as a plaything for those who see me as such, but somehow I can’t seem to break that mold. Why can’t an adult human being want to talk to another adult human being, to simply enjoy their company, content with the knowledge that sex is a possibility in the future? My body isn’t something to be coaxed out of its shell, literally, for some asshole’s momentary shits and giggles. Why does it always have to be about the right now?

I’ll tell you why - for the same reason I’m beating myself up. Because we want things. Like I said. It’s all relative.