A smidgen of anxiety kicks in, as I remember Tawny Kitaen almost fucked up the hood of two classic cars, and now David Coverdale’s lame ass song is stuck in my head for the better part of a day, I fear.
Seriously, Dave? “Just another heart in need of rescue, Waiting on love’s sweet charity?”. Why don’t you just tuck your dick between your legs when you sing it? Ah, fuck. Now, this glam shit song is seared into my head.
And would somebody tell that bimbo already to get the fuck off those Jags? Nobody gives a shit that you think you are hot; these are American classic cars we are talking about — show some respect.
Anyhoo. Mr. TRD is in a bizarre reflection mode that sucks balls to be in, unfurling my proverbial dick from between my own two legs, while I repair a broken heart with a goddamn keyboard as a scalpel.
I now find myself asking so many questions, but I don’t really give two shits what the answers are, which is weird, because I am consumed in the asking.
I ask, “What was I doing last May?”. You know, before the skies turned orange? Before you — ever existed — in my world? Was I happy? Was I, content? Is content something I should shoot for again? When does normalcy resume, and when will I stop sounding like a giant fucking pussy every single time I sit down at my computer, which is pretty much always? Do I even want ‘content’? That sounds just like another word for ‘giving up’.
The answer, to that first question — though like I said, I don’t really care — it is that last May, I was playing cat and mouse via Post with the touchy ladies of Tumblr. If I am boasting, which I tend to do sometimes, I was doing so with sinister precision, as 3K followers found my blog in the first month back.
Mr. Pick of Litter; this shit was just too easy for me.
Words, funneled at you all and then the backstory just made you shift in your seats. A beard you say? No way? And really, hazel eyes too? Wait, an executive? Um, so…
“You are dangerous, Sir”.
Thank You. Would it help to know that I am actually far better with my hands and mouth than I am with my words?
Shift again. Go ahead, Miss Touchy Reader. Yeah, it’s true.
You know this very well, don’t you, My Love?
Back then, a dangerous wordsmith in the development, just dangling a thick, hard, veiny and well-groomed carrot right in front of your fucking aching souls as I asked you all, who the fuck is your Huckleberry? And then you, my little one, stepped forward and said, “When?”.
I said, “how does yesterday sound?”, once I fell for you, which happened in the blink of an eye.
But what were you doing, last May, My Love, before your skies turned orange?
Were you happy? Ish? Can you be again, without me? I guess that is the million dollar question for us both now. I genuinely hope so, but I take umbrage with the “without me” part.
I just can’t fathom you not in my life. I am having such a hard time, now, without you, with that very idea.
Being mine must really suck some days, having to come here or there or anywhere and read all this shit, as I spill myself out and you are the only one that really knows me. The subtle hints that only you and I know; the appreciation you gain for my writing, as I craft a story for two audiences at the same time. Putting into words the notion that you know, as you read this, right now — exactly — what I mean, when I say that.
I am sorry for that.
I am sorry to make you relive me over and over and over again. It cannot be easy for you. Maybe you can go back and read the happier ones, where we built memories the day before and you heard my voice the next day, in pen, and you remember what drove me to say what I said.
Although, maybe those ones are actually harder to read. Is there one that you can read that will see you come back? Read that one, if so. Tattoo it on your fucking arm next to the collar you still wear. Through the words I gave you, you heard how much I love you every day, and how full, we made each other feel. So remember, as I wrote, how I adored you and every part of you as a woman. Just so proud, to tell the whole world about you, in my own way.
Sometimes I absolutely loathe being a person who has to write about what I feel inside. Today is one of those days. Other days, I know that I am so blessed by God that I can do this because very few people can even express themselves like I do, even when pressed hard, through speaking, while I do it in pen with ease. You know that one well too, don’t you?
It is the definition of bittersweet, for me.
Today I’d rather shut down my inner voice and pretend I’m doing just fine, and that, you know, “I am totally okay, man”. But I am not okay – and now the whole fucking goddamn piece-of-shit world gets to see it. My albatross, once again, paying me a visit. So yes, today — I’m very very much — not okay.
But this time, I don’t give two shits what anybody thinks about it. Unfollow me? Fuck if I care.
I assume I will be “okay” again, eventually — ish. The wounds are just so fresh and consume me now. But on the brighter side, I got a lot of work done yesterday, so that’s good, right? Now I can be a workaholic again.
My new plan, should it work out, is to shut off of my inner monologue and consume my calendar in the development of beautiful, graphically superior, grandiose yet subtle business proposals. I have already started planning the next three months. The last one is due March 29th — it’s very exciting.
Love — replaced, by Office 365.
What a wonderful quarter it will be.
I am sure people are no doubt getting irritated with my new prose.
Fortunately for me — I really don’t give a fuck.