23 February 2016

Over Here

His girlfriend is his homescreen.

She's pretty.

I didn't intend to see the pic.
There's an orchid on my dining room table, a recently new acquisition. I wouldn't grow a plant under normal circumstances; but this was a gift that I've resigned myself to being in charge of, so the orchid falls under my gaze upon regular intervals out of sheer spite. I walked to the kitchen to get a whiskey glass, as had become apropos to the situation. My feet glided on the smooth floor a millisecond faster than normal, my pussy-like reflexes being heightened at the time, and I spun quicker than my controlled grace typically demonstrates.
Picture a godamn five-year-old being a ballerina.
In the midst of a smile-filled twirl, my eyes were drawn to the orchid just as the cellphone on the table glowed to life; the backlight illuminating her already bright cheeks, their caramel color bringing to mind the sweetest of sugar.
She's quite pretty.

I'm rather certain there's some bullshit psychology that explains exactly how I got here, despite my adamant protests of not knowing how I got here.

My superpower would be Justification of My Actions.

I've been confused for so long over what constitutes emotional achievements and how to appease the society gods of interpersonal relationships. Marriage worked really well for me, I swelled with pride and fat. Mostly fat. Ick. Even way back before my Women's Studies degree, there was something about the patriarchal construct of  the modern definition of marriage that made me swell up.
Divorce looked better on me, way less fat. No fucking pride whatsoever, though. I learned a lot about loyalty when I had none. And it's surprising how cheap you can feel when you pay for everything. Also strange, the people that come out of the woodwork to stick their dick in you when you lose a few pounds and a husband.

Fuck, the stupid shit that I did would sell movies. And arrest warrants in Minnesota. It feels like I've barely payed the penance for those crimes and it's already time to commit more. Even way back before my American Studies degree, there was something about the plutocracy that made me want to rebel against the societal definitions of moral behavior.

In all honesty, I've had but one person that I've leaned on throughout the years, and the only reason he survived the knife I stuck in his side was because I knew enough first aid to patch him up after I stabbed him. I didn't want my kid to grow up without a dad; and say what you will about the big guy, he's one hell of a man in my book to be good at that.
But my outlook on dedication changed after the divorce, as you would expect. You'd have to read my earlier heart-wrenching tales of discovering infidelity, his hating of my dead brother, and lack of desire to cosplay as a single wizard to understand the full expanse of my heartache. Even after all that, I really have my heart set on growing old in the Appalachians until Stu finds me dead some morning after drinking. That's as close to retirement planning as I've gotten. But until then, I'm going to keep getting up and going to work.

I spend my days just trying to find stuff to do until bedtime.

Relationships have never been part of the stuff I do. When you know who you plan to die with, it matters very little who you spend your life with. I've tried a few here and there. The young ones fall in love a lot faster than I anticipated. I grew out of that phase real fucking fast. The old ones are way too demanding, with their "babe" and their "enlarged prostate." The ones that are my age don't understand why I have the life experience of the latter but yet still refuse to take off the wizard robes while we fuck.

Godamnit, why did she have to be fucking pretty.

It was one of those things.
You know, those stuff and things.
That happen.
Unintentionally random that slipped into a feel good before I knew it. Like a shocker, but if shocker actually meant "once a week." It was ideal for me, of course; I'm just passing time until Stu gets over his humping-the-leg phase. In fact, I've made it relatively clear with a decade of tattoos and inappropriate comments, that I have absolutely nothing to offer. If, for whatever reason, a person was able to laugh at my comments and/or appreciate my tattoos, I used the phrase "meaningless sex" as often as I could in everyday conversation to establish a baseline.
I was even like a half a dozen in before someone gut-punched me with the girlfriend.
You know, the pretty one.

I make no apologies, except for that one on facebook for appearing to be such a hipster. I'm not looking for a thing, I don't need any stuff; I'm good on both stuff and things. I offer no explanation of my retirement plans to the people that I meet; I hardly think that would be normal. I'm rather aggressive, and demanding. Offensive. Crass. You know what, let's stop with the adjectives. A crafty cunt like myself could go on all day. Even way back before my History degree, there was something about the oligarchy of decorum that made me want to stick a finger in the ass of society.
Here's the thing about being so outwardly unrestricted: I anticipate that when I do engage, it is with others as open as myself.
I think I deserve heads up about pretty girlfriends.
My insecurity isn't strong enough for this, guy who is apparently trying to stick it in my ass.

So here I am.
It's Monday/Tuesday.
Today he giggled.
I must be funny.
Because there's no fucking way I'm that pretty.

As far as sidepieces go, I'm conducting research, feel free to email me your experiences at banjosboobsbooze@gmail.com