Unfinished

I just had an hour and a half conversation (read: argument) with someone from my past about the word “relationship.” More specifically, about why we didn’t have one and why he was trying his damnedest to prove that we did. If I didn’t know any better, he would have led me to believe that I was one cruel, misleading, illogical bitch.

Without going into too much detail, let’s explore this word “relationship,” why we argued about it, and the reason I have very specific parameters for defining it. 

As a teenager, I was forced to deal with the harsh reality of what happens when one party is operating under the assumption that they are in a relationship while the other is not. I was dating a young man, exclusively, as it were, and things were progressing quite well. That is, until the day he dumped me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, in an off-kilter attempt to minimize the devastation, he told me I shouldn’t feel too bad, considering we were never really together to begin with. Mmmm. Hmmm. Wow. Recalling this still induces head shaking on my part. At the time I really felt like we were beyond the formalities of posing the actual question of, “Will you be my boyfriend/girlfriend?” This was due to the fact that the nature of our relationship to one another screamed boyfriend-girlfriend. Hours upon hours of telephone conversations – we would literally fall asleep on the phone and wake up in the morning for school with the phones still on our ears; swapping of jewelry – we wore each others chains; meeting parental units – my first time on punishment was actually because I didn’t have sense enough to know when to leave his parent’s house; amorous declarations – “I love you” was definitely spoken on a regular basis. So imagine my surprise when I was informed that all of this didn’t equal up to he and I being in a relationship. Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. You’ve got to be shittin’ me.  

(to be continued...)

"The Parting of Ways."

[...something I wrote to someone I loved.]

I’ve lain with you

I’ve coveted you

And now I apologize to you

‘Cause the things I’ve done

Completely contradict the fact that I love you

 

Yes. After laying in bed and awaiting sleep to fall upon me I felt compelled to say those things I never had the courage to say. My first impulse was to write a poem. But I told myself, “Fuck that.” I’m often told my poems are somewhat cryptic – which is true to an extent, but I say their perceptivity is just off. I’ve never known a person who’s face roused such contradictory feelings within me – such contentment and sadness. Every time I see you is the same as the first – on the way to see the ____, looking over my shoulder into the back seat, you and those lively brown eyes staring back at me. _______, I love you. I care for you far more than I should and I probably always will. I wish you nothing but happiness but I don’t want to regret never telling you exactly how I feel.   

Random

How the hell don't Aries ever have a messed up horoscope? Is the earth conspiring for their success? Some of the most terrible people I've ever met are Aries...what gives?

4:29 AM Haiku

Love is desired
Pain was each man's parting gift
Skepticism looms

"Snatch the Cat Back."

"Now, after more than a dozen years, he was getting tired of her. Her eccentricities were no longer provocative and the stupefying ease with which he had gotten and stayed between her legs had changed from the great good fortune he'd considered it, to annoyance at her refusal to make him hustle for it, work for it, do something difficult for it. He didn't even have to pay for it. It was so free, so abundant, it had lost its fervor. There was no excitement, no galloping of blood in his neck or his heart at the thought of her."
-Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison

I accepted long ago that men do indeed enjoy the thrill of the chase when it comes to women. Even as a woman, there have been times when I've found myself more enthralled by the ideal of having someone I was pursuing than the realization of the goal. But allow me to delve right into the heart of the matter: What the hell do you men want? I mean, do you even know? Or maybe the issue is that once you get what you want, it is your natural inclination to then want something different.

Now, let's move past the above questions. This is where my narrative begins.

Men like women. Maybe even more so than the actual women, men like pussy. Many a man has consoled a teary-eyed female friend, paid for many a date night, offered up his jacket on a chilly night, complimented the obscurest detail to show his attentiveness...and for what, you say? To show his interest in hopes she would be his? Perhaps. For pussy? Most definitely. But alas, giving up the pussy has been known to have quite a few drawbacks.

Sometimes, nothing seems to make a man more ungrateful than to give him what he wants. The same pussy, errr I mean woman, he was jumping over hurdles to get to, calling faithfully, sending thoughtful messages to first thing in the morning suddenly requires less attention from him. The newness has worn off. Kinda like that Christmas toy you couldn't live without but then probably couldn't find come February if your life depended on it. And for men, there always seems to be something new and sparkly that catches their eye and makes them toss something perfectly good to the wayside for the mere prospect of something else. Not necessarily better. Just something else. Which leads me to my next thought...

Men will go to the ends of the earth for undiscovered pussy. Endanger life and limb, throw complete caution to the wind for the only thing better than pussy: new pussy. There has yet to be a pussy on the face of this earth that some man, somewhere, under the right circumstances, would not or has not fucked. I'm not saying that there are pussies that have not gone unfucked. Of course this is the case. My point is simply that that pussy didn't come across the right man at the right time. Some one would have obliged it. Of this, I am sure. All I can ascertain is this, and it pains me to say so: pussy is not special. From all indications, it can't be. Don't get me wrong. From what I've heard, it is most certainly not all created equal. There is pussy that would make a grown man go downstairs, pull out a pen and paper, attempt to write home about it, say fuck it, and then drive across two states to tell his folks about it in person. And there is pussy that is so bad it will temporarily render a man impotent and behoove him to relate the story to his boys' (and anyone else who will listen) in horror. But at the end of the day, the pussy is gonna be fucked. It's gonna be chased down, targeted, conquered, revered, abandoned, or whatever the hell else men do to it. One thing it will never be is loved. Love is for people. Not pussies. So all these misconceptions about that "good, good" or "quick, quick" need to be buried along with the N-word. They should be anyway.

Now I guess this is the time for the moral of the story, or some wise advice. Neither of which I really have to be honest, but here goes a try: to the men, the next time you're fucking a pussy, remember there is a person attached. And while you may not think any one particular pussy is special, at least treat her that way. To the women: take your pussy off the pedestal. It's not the star, you are. But in the event you do feel it's not getting the treatment it deserves, by all means, snatch the cat back. Thank you and good night.