got a man. kept a man. wanna give him away. he aint free. comes will excess and baggage and bills of his own. need to trade his flat, dimpled ass for something new. am I new, though? am I worth changing in my change?
still so lovely I love the likeness I see in the mirror but this is the first I have written in almost a year. I was a love machine, spitting dates and doom at anyone fuckable, though not fucked by me but I like to keep that option open. desperation parts the thighs like passion never could.
so I am strangles and struggling against the past. a man child keeps buzzing in my ear, propping up his ugly kid and uglier wife. I want him because I shouldn't. he wants me because he couldn't. as if the moral landscape was more than a green screen in a movie about the holy grail complete with a coupla coconuts.
so I am back. watch me dance. more money and more beauty equal more something something.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Sunday, September 2, 2012
kiss me you, foolishly.
i have written this before and will again until my at peaced 85 year old body is pushed out to sea on a burning raft after being ravaged by the scientific masses as they harvested my organs. whoever is in charge of this morbid endeavor should probably really like me as the risk of going to jail for setting human remains on fire and pushing them out to sea is very great.
can you tell that this, the above mentioned subject is one that i am tired of talking about? okay, okay. the subject is the crushing weight of pedestals and the weighty crush of the crush.
when i worked at the LT, there were five scenarios i was made aware of involving people who had crushes on me, their polite but distant, clumsy but competent server.
the first scenario, which i have written about before, ended with me dating the guy for about five minutes. if by date you count me listening to him whine about his ex and recite sonnets on how afraid of commitment he was. For six months this guy came in and made lovely small talk with me until one day a friend of his outed him and he was forced to ask for my number. auspicious beginnings, man, you guys seem to be so great with them.
scenario number two was a lot weirder. a guy came in wearing chefs whites and ordered a pizza to go. he began doing this once a week, the same time every week. every week he would stand and chat at me longer and longer. every week his appearance became more disheveled and his actions toward me more erratic until one day he brought me flowers and stood way too close to me while tracing the outline of one of the tattoos on my arm. after that day i refused to wait on him. he came back once more on a day i happened to be late and became totally irate when he found out that i was not there. my boss 86'd him and threatened a restraining order. an off duty cop sitting in the restaurant helped to underline the point. the guy never came back.
scenario number three was more innocent but still off-putting than the other two and happened about a year ago. this guy who was friends with friends confessed to one that he found me to be something or another in a positive way, so i, being unafraid of anything, least of all something romantic, went right up to the guy and talked his face off. he was delighted. we made plans. though we were mutually enamored, the timing could not have been less brilliant so we kept missing each other. until we finally didn't. and then he moved out of state for school. to this day he wonders why i do not any longer give out the time of day.
scenario number four is the one that pisses me off the most. anyone who has read me has to see that i shy away from drug use and do not date guys who so much as smoke pot. i get that some of you probably think that i am a hypocrite because i drink socially. whatever. i do not care. you do what you do, i do what i do. if we are suppose to, ahem, do it together, great, if not, not. any way. this guy sent me some heart felt crap about having met me a few times and being really into me and reading all of my stuff and wanting to buy me a drink. i say crap now because, let's face it, hindsight is 420, right? at the time i was flattered and so done wading through actual dating that i thought it would be fun to talk to someone artistic and poetic and not afraid to put themselves out there. so, we met up. my heart sunk a bit because, though i did not think he was stoned (he was), i knew that he was a stoner. our conversation was disjointed, he was self centered, and spent much of the time doodling. after this half assed attempt to get to know me better, he took my hand and lead me to his house. the night ended with me annoyingly unaffected. i could not go where he thought i should and he could not give me one good reason to stay and melt. we never spoke again and i do not know that i could pick the guy out of a line up.
scenario five is more of the same crap. some guy who knows some guy i know confesses to said guy that he thinks i am above average awesome, guy tells me in confidence because guy has a shrew of a woman or some such nonsense. i pay no heed until friend guy gets me all riled up some months later when they break up. i do my best to put a 'hi' in the ring and am met with a wet floor sign.
you may be reading this and thinking,or saying in a comment, maybe, that i am a bitch and should be happy that so many people find me blah blah blah. huh. really? i should be flattered that all these guys and then some are hoisting my body, face, mannerisms and small talk up on this huge fucking pedestal? they look at me from so many angels and for so long that i actually turn to stone. so, when i, the real 'cass' show up and see them gazing up at my likeness adoringly and say hey, they piss their pants and run away?
it did not quite happen that way in Pygmalion, now did it?
so, all of you out there biking through traffic, staring at online profiles, filling beer glasses. all of you painting murals, spinning records, stirring pots. all of you, the crushed, the crush, the crushing, daydreaming about a face, a look, a gesture. he she they are real and you may want to be ready for when they peak out from behind that still in your mind. the one with the tossing hair and toothy smile. because they may be ready to be more than just your mind.
can you tell that this, the above mentioned subject is one that i am tired of talking about? okay, okay. the subject is the crushing weight of pedestals and the weighty crush of the crush.
when i worked at the LT, there were five scenarios i was made aware of involving people who had crushes on me, their polite but distant, clumsy but competent server.
the first scenario, which i have written about before, ended with me dating the guy for about five minutes. if by date you count me listening to him whine about his ex and recite sonnets on how afraid of commitment he was. For six months this guy came in and made lovely small talk with me until one day a friend of his outed him and he was forced to ask for my number. auspicious beginnings, man, you guys seem to be so great with them.
scenario number two was a lot weirder. a guy came in wearing chefs whites and ordered a pizza to go. he began doing this once a week, the same time every week. every week he would stand and chat at me longer and longer. every week his appearance became more disheveled and his actions toward me more erratic until one day he brought me flowers and stood way too close to me while tracing the outline of one of the tattoos on my arm. after that day i refused to wait on him. he came back once more on a day i happened to be late and became totally irate when he found out that i was not there. my boss 86'd him and threatened a restraining order. an off duty cop sitting in the restaurant helped to underline the point. the guy never came back.
scenario number three was more innocent but still off-putting than the other two and happened about a year ago. this guy who was friends with friends confessed to one that he found me to be something or another in a positive way, so i, being unafraid of anything, least of all something romantic, went right up to the guy and talked his face off. he was delighted. we made plans. though we were mutually enamored, the timing could not have been less brilliant so we kept missing each other. until we finally didn't. and then he moved out of state for school. to this day he wonders why i do not any longer give out the time of day.
scenario number four is the one that pisses me off the most. anyone who has read me has to see that i shy away from drug use and do not date guys who so much as smoke pot. i get that some of you probably think that i am a hypocrite because i drink socially. whatever. i do not care. you do what you do, i do what i do. if we are suppose to, ahem, do it together, great, if not, not. any way. this guy sent me some heart felt crap about having met me a few times and being really into me and reading all of my stuff and wanting to buy me a drink. i say crap now because, let's face it, hindsight is 420, right? at the time i was flattered and so done wading through actual dating that i thought it would be fun to talk to someone artistic and poetic and not afraid to put themselves out there. so, we met up. my heart sunk a bit because, though i did not think he was stoned (he was), i knew that he was a stoner. our conversation was disjointed, he was self centered, and spent much of the time doodling. after this half assed attempt to get to know me better, he took my hand and lead me to his house. the night ended with me annoyingly unaffected. i could not go where he thought i should and he could not give me one good reason to stay and melt. we never spoke again and i do not know that i could pick the guy out of a line up.
scenario five is more of the same crap. some guy who knows some guy i know confesses to said guy that he thinks i am above average awesome, guy tells me in confidence because guy has a shrew of a woman or some such nonsense. i pay no heed until friend guy gets me all riled up some months later when they break up. i do my best to put a 'hi' in the ring and am met with a wet floor sign.
you may be reading this and thinking,or saying in a comment, maybe, that i am a bitch and should be happy that so many people find me blah blah blah. huh. really? i should be flattered that all these guys and then some are hoisting my body, face, mannerisms and small talk up on this huge fucking pedestal? they look at me from so many angels and for so long that i actually turn to stone. so, when i, the real 'cass' show up and see them gazing up at my likeness adoringly and say hey, they piss their pants and run away?
it did not quite happen that way in Pygmalion, now did it?
so, all of you out there biking through traffic, staring at online profiles, filling beer glasses. all of you painting murals, spinning records, stirring pots. all of you, the crushed, the crush, the crushing, daydreaming about a face, a look, a gesture. he she they are real and you may want to be ready for when they peak out from behind that still in your mind. the one with the tossing hair and toothy smile. because they may be ready to be more than just your mind.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
barbies
when i was little, i was a total barbie girl. not to say i had a spray tan and a blond wig, just that i was very, very fond of the dolls. my mom thought me adorable and so indulged me 100 percent. i guess what is making me think of this is that, at the tender age of 8, i seemed to have a complete grasp of what dating in my twenties would be like.
see, my barbies all had jobs. some were teachers, some models, some musicians, some even ran a McDonald's. it was kind of all about the accessories of the week. stumbling on a tiny doctor's kit meant that barbie was donning a lab coat after spending ten years in college. however, if it was the week i could sneak playing with my twin brother's ninja turtles pizza parlor, well, barbie was making the pizza-pies.
no matter what she was doing, though, barbie was well dressed, well liked, and having a great time. she went grocery shopping, out to shows with her friends, whatever.
and barbie was quite the dater.
at first i only had this slicked hair creepo 80s ken who was only made worse when i added a pen mustache. i did not know much about pedophiles at the time, but even i was nervous in my imaginary world about letting ken near skipper.
so, though ken hung out and was a part of the scene, he never really gelled with barbie. and that was when the new kids on the block dolls came out. i had to have one. of each. of course. and was rewarded one christmas with the whole set plus the nkotb stage. heaven.
so, barbie took her time and went out with them all, sometimes more than once with joey, the favorite. but it never seemed to be as much fun as playing careers or friendships. i guess my extremely young mind did not really know what grown ups did on dates that would create lasting connections, and i certainly did not know what was expected to happen after those promising dates came to a close.
sure, i got the whole marriage thing, but was never really sure why the chicken (marriage) ever came before the egg (children). so, when a baby barbie was brought into the mix, barbie married joey. mostly this just meant that joey sat in a chair in the barbie mansion while barbie got on with her life...don't look at me like that, i was just a kid.
now that you think i am crazy, let me explain. when i was a kid, i was playing with just the one male character type. it did not really work out, so i sort of abandoned the concept, not being able to fully understand why i would want to include a male at all. maybe, had i continued to play with dolls way passed the point of acceptable age, i would have diversified and had more fun with a male partner in crime.
what i am relating this to, i guess, is my early to mid twenties. i was so busy working, meeting people, and having fun, and was seeming to gravitate toward the same type over and over, so i just kind of stopped bothering for awhile. i am happy to know, that unlike barbie, i have stuck it out for long enough to realize the possibilities out there.
see, my barbies all had jobs. some were teachers, some models, some musicians, some even ran a McDonald's. it was kind of all about the accessories of the week. stumbling on a tiny doctor's kit meant that barbie was donning a lab coat after spending ten years in college. however, if it was the week i could sneak playing with my twin brother's ninja turtles pizza parlor, well, barbie was making the pizza-pies.
no matter what she was doing, though, barbie was well dressed, well liked, and having a great time. she went grocery shopping, out to shows with her friends, whatever.
and barbie was quite the dater.
at first i only had this slicked hair creepo 80s ken who was only made worse when i added a pen mustache. i did not know much about pedophiles at the time, but even i was nervous in my imaginary world about letting ken near skipper.
so, though ken hung out and was a part of the scene, he never really gelled with barbie. and that was when the new kids on the block dolls came out. i had to have one. of each. of course. and was rewarded one christmas with the whole set plus the nkotb stage. heaven.
so, barbie took her time and went out with them all, sometimes more than once with joey, the favorite. but it never seemed to be as much fun as playing careers or friendships. i guess my extremely young mind did not really know what grown ups did on dates that would create lasting connections, and i certainly did not know what was expected to happen after those promising dates came to a close.
sure, i got the whole marriage thing, but was never really sure why the chicken (marriage) ever came before the egg (children). so, when a baby barbie was brought into the mix, barbie married joey. mostly this just meant that joey sat in a chair in the barbie mansion while barbie got on with her life...don't look at me like that, i was just a kid.
now that you think i am crazy, let me explain. when i was a kid, i was playing with just the one male character type. it did not really work out, so i sort of abandoned the concept, not being able to fully understand why i would want to include a male at all. maybe, had i continued to play with dolls way passed the point of acceptable age, i would have diversified and had more fun with a male partner in crime.
what i am relating this to, i guess, is my early to mid twenties. i was so busy working, meeting people, and having fun, and was seeming to gravitate toward the same type over and over, so i just kind of stopped bothering for awhile. i am happy to know, that unlike barbie, i have stuck it out for long enough to realize the possibilities out there.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Tips To Make Your Server Not Hate You. Six Six. Six. Fun! Devil Numbers!
50. no substitutions. but i get it, as i am the queen of such things. i know that i am a pain in the ass, though, and usually end up eating at home. substitutions suck because they ruin the flavor profile, but also they really fuck up the timing of the kitchen. your fancy, expensive, wow-factor dish may have been created by a brilliant chef, but it is being executed by his minions who thrive by making the same dish over and over again until they can make it while sleep walking. throw a ticket of substitutions in the mix and you are throwing off the order of the whole kitchen, not only slowing down your own finicky order, but also that of those around you. usually, if it is a busy service and i am taking multiple table orders, i will put in the table with modifiers last, no matter what, to make sure my other tables get what they order before the high maintenance table.
51. do not try to sneak by the host and sit at an empty table. they will not blush and let you sit there because they are so clever. someone, namely a server has let them know you have seated yourself because we hate that and since they deal with it all the time and are totally stressed out and underpaid, they will make you wait. for a long time as punishment.
52. do not try to bribe us. okay, please do. we will take the money and then take off. i work in a busy restaurant and everyone is trying to get to the roof top patio, but once capacity hits, everybody waits. i wish just once someone would try to bribe me so i could literally take money for nothing.
53. let us talk. in english. soooooo rude to speak around me/to me/about me in another language. i do not expect everyone to speak english, but if you do, please do.
54. i want to hold your hand. no. i don't. but i do want you to hand me your money/card/id when i ask for it. when i card someone and they toss their id at me, it makes me want to throw it at them. how rude. hand the fucking thing to me. i am not some poor servant groveling at your feet. once a guy tossed his id to me and it landed on the floor. he made no move to pick it up. i told him i could not serve him because i was pretty sure he was carrying a fake. sorry dude.
55. read the menu. i am not psychic, though i know when you will be a pain in the ass. if i bring out your loaded hash and it turns out you have an aversion to pork, well, i hope someone at the table is all for a heaping plate of greasy potatoes, because you got what you asked for.
56. again, be cool. if you are that jerk wad who wants to blame me for the mess of pork on his hash browns, well, fuck you. if you are sheepish and understand that this is your fuck up, and not mine, i will take that mound of gross out of your way and get you something else.
57. sup girl? can i get that hot thang over there a drink? sure. talking like that though, i am going to reassure her that the drink has not been altered and that she should steer clear of your axe wearing ass. unless she is a dumb slut. then, you are welcome.
58. the magic of proposals. right. we had our first date here and now i want to propose to my girlfriend and it should all be perfect over dessert or cocktails or whatever. cute, yes. but we cannot promise that the cast of hundreds around you is going to cooperate, so please keep that in mind.
59. cash or tab? it is midnight. everyone is drunk, so why do you think that you are the one lucky guy who gets to drink without a tab? you think you are not capable of getting even more drunk and sweaty and forgetting all about the 3 jag bombs you just did? tough. shit. your server will dangle your drinks or food or whatever in front of you until you pony up. and yes, we do have all night. just be mindful of the guy at the table next to you who is much bigger and meaner who you are keeping from getting another drink for his barbie.
51. do not try to sneak by the host and sit at an empty table. they will not blush and let you sit there because they are so clever. someone, namely a server has let them know you have seated yourself because we hate that and since they deal with it all the time and are totally stressed out and underpaid, they will make you wait. for a long time as punishment.
52. do not try to bribe us. okay, please do. we will take the money and then take off. i work in a busy restaurant and everyone is trying to get to the roof top patio, but once capacity hits, everybody waits. i wish just once someone would try to bribe me so i could literally take money for nothing.
53. let us talk. in english. soooooo rude to speak around me/to me/about me in another language. i do not expect everyone to speak english, but if you do, please do.
54. i want to hold your hand. no. i don't. but i do want you to hand me your money/card/id when i ask for it. when i card someone and they toss their id at me, it makes me want to throw it at them. how rude. hand the fucking thing to me. i am not some poor servant groveling at your feet. once a guy tossed his id to me and it landed on the floor. he made no move to pick it up. i told him i could not serve him because i was pretty sure he was carrying a fake. sorry dude.
55. read the menu. i am not psychic, though i know when you will be a pain in the ass. if i bring out your loaded hash and it turns out you have an aversion to pork, well, i hope someone at the table is all for a heaping plate of greasy potatoes, because you got what you asked for.
56. again, be cool. if you are that jerk wad who wants to blame me for the mess of pork on his hash browns, well, fuck you. if you are sheepish and understand that this is your fuck up, and not mine, i will take that mound of gross out of your way and get you something else.
57. sup girl? can i get that hot thang over there a drink? sure. talking like that though, i am going to reassure her that the drink has not been altered and that she should steer clear of your axe wearing ass. unless she is a dumb slut. then, you are welcome.
58. the magic of proposals. right. we had our first date here and now i want to propose to my girlfriend and it should all be perfect over dessert or cocktails or whatever. cute, yes. but we cannot promise that the cast of hundreds around you is going to cooperate, so please keep that in mind.
59. cash or tab? it is midnight. everyone is drunk, so why do you think that you are the one lucky guy who gets to drink without a tab? you think you are not capable of getting even more drunk and sweaty and forgetting all about the 3 jag bombs you just did? tough. shit. your server will dangle your drinks or food or whatever in front of you until you pony up. and yes, we do have all night. just be mindful of the guy at the table next to you who is much bigger and meaner who you are keeping from getting another drink for his barbie.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tips To Make Your Server Not Hate. Five For Five.
Yup. I am at it again. Thought that i totally exhausted my list, but with a new restaurant comes fresh, hideously bad behavior. why is eating and drinking so complicated? If you missed volumes one through four, feel free to dig through my (ha) extensive archives. they are good for a laugh. unless they are about you. in that case...um...
41. get out of my way. seriously. you see me, now move. no? then i push. no again? well, the screw on my wine key draws blood. i know from experience. accidents happen. uniform shirts made out of spikes are kind of a server's daydream.
42. get out of the places you are not suppose to be. employees only, get it? no hidden door, no secret hallways, no magic carpet rides up to the patio. this is not mario brothers.
43. you know the owner? you are with the owner? you are the owner? good for you. now can i please get back to my job serving all of the tables who are lining the pockets of your good friend/companion/you? and yeah, i get it. you are a big deal. in japan. here we just talk shit about you behind your back.
44. stop holding my tables hostage. yup. your friends are on the way. stuck in traffic, lost, overdosing on heroin. whatever. they. are.not. here. so why the fuck are you taking up that table for ten and nursing a water? i will let you stay if you have ten cocktails and three appetizers...
45. happy hour is in twenty minutes. you want to be the cheap fuck who sits there sipping water until the clock strikes whatever o'clock? well, prepare to wait even longer because when the time does come for you to save a buck a drink, you are the last on my list. and you will be all night long.
46. tip on the total bill. your friend puts in twenty bucks cash and you put the difference on your card? tip on the bill, not the seven dollars you are paying for. you have a buy one get one discount? we still did the work of buy one get none. tip on the total bill. fuck, i wish i did not have to spell this shit out.
47. do not fight gratuity. you may be the coolest table ever, and man do we want to take our chances with you. you loved us. we loved you. we are practically facebook friends!!! but we cannot argue with policy. see, we have to grat parties over blah blah blah and we have to do it consistently. because there may not be a party as cool as you who see it and squawk. we need to know that we can tell them it is policy. if we are awesome, tip more. if we suck, talk to the manager. nothing is written in stone.
48. please do not be dumb enough to put a tiny child on a bar stool. or to put a booster chair on a slippery, cushy booth. i know, happy hour is usually in the bar, and it is far more enjoyable to face a whole night with baby jane while shit faced for a few dollars less, or to sit you widening ass on squishy upholstery while you manhandle your chicken alfredo, but please, think of the children. i have seen not one but several kids get seriously hurt face planting onto the table after rocking their booster forward in a booth. and i will not even tell you what happened when a two year old fell off a bar stool at a restaurant where i worked. okay i will tell you. she almost died.
49. you do not want to know all about me. you do not need to quiz me on things like my marital status, education level, previous employment. you are not interviewing me. you are not a literary agent or a potential boyfriend. ( because if i found one of those where i work, i would probably drop dead on the spot. not good for anyone.) all i am saying is, picture a day at your work. now tell me when those kinds of inquiries are appropriate.
41. get out of my way. seriously. you see me, now move. no? then i push. no again? well, the screw on my wine key draws blood. i know from experience. accidents happen. uniform shirts made out of spikes are kind of a server's daydream.
42. get out of the places you are not suppose to be. employees only, get it? no hidden door, no secret hallways, no magic carpet rides up to the patio. this is not mario brothers.
43. you know the owner? you are with the owner? you are the owner? good for you. now can i please get back to my job serving all of the tables who are lining the pockets of your good friend/companion/you? and yeah, i get it. you are a big deal. in japan. here we just talk shit about you behind your back.
44. stop holding my tables hostage. yup. your friends are on the way. stuck in traffic, lost, overdosing on heroin. whatever. they. are.not. here. so why the fuck are you taking up that table for ten and nursing a water? i will let you stay if you have ten cocktails and three appetizers...
45. happy hour is in twenty minutes. you want to be the cheap fuck who sits there sipping water until the clock strikes whatever o'clock? well, prepare to wait even longer because when the time does come for you to save a buck a drink, you are the last on my list. and you will be all night long.
46. tip on the total bill. your friend puts in twenty bucks cash and you put the difference on your card? tip on the bill, not the seven dollars you are paying for. you have a buy one get one discount? we still did the work of buy one get none. tip on the total bill. fuck, i wish i did not have to spell this shit out.
47. do not fight gratuity. you may be the coolest table ever, and man do we want to take our chances with you. you loved us. we loved you. we are practically facebook friends!!! but we cannot argue with policy. see, we have to grat parties over blah blah blah and we have to do it consistently. because there may not be a party as cool as you who see it and squawk. we need to know that we can tell them it is policy. if we are awesome, tip more. if we suck, talk to the manager. nothing is written in stone.
48. please do not be dumb enough to put a tiny child on a bar stool. or to put a booster chair on a slippery, cushy booth. i know, happy hour is usually in the bar, and it is far more enjoyable to face a whole night with baby jane while shit faced for a few dollars less, or to sit you widening ass on squishy upholstery while you manhandle your chicken alfredo, but please, think of the children. i have seen not one but several kids get seriously hurt face planting onto the table after rocking their booster forward in a booth. and i will not even tell you what happened when a two year old fell off a bar stool at a restaurant where i worked. okay i will tell you. she almost died.
49. you do not want to know all about me. you do not need to quiz me on things like my marital status, education level, previous employment. you are not interviewing me. you are not a literary agent or a potential boyfriend. ( because if i found one of those where i work, i would probably drop dead on the spot. not good for anyone.) all i am saying is, picture a day at your work. now tell me when those kinds of inquiries are appropriate.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
So Much Slower. (Fiction)
The walk from the cab to the door is so much slower. Oppressive heat. I will fall down, later, but not right now. Falling down is what I fear but do not think, here at the beginning, that my fears will come to fruition.
My dress does not stretch to meet my needs. It does not quite cover the black strapless and threatens to flash the flesh colored Playboy boy shorts pulled in to place to protect the world from my erotically staged tattoos. A tight tube of black crochet and dangerous heels. Flaming curls and lip gloss.
The walk from the cab to the door is so much slower. We saunter inside, our mini-entourage of misfits. Fumbling for ID, for money, for tickets. Bewildered by requests we knew would be made of us. We blink at the candlelight, freezing for one second before paving the way to the patio.
A bar has been erected outside. There stand people I know, people I have known, people who will soon forget me if he ever actually tells anyone he is no longer in my life. I speak at them, the same gibberish bullshit I have been spouting all day long. The heat and the once an hour whiskey has me thoroughly bummed out. I am tired of talking shit and taking it from people gargling marbles. My brain had a break today, all day. I want to turn back on. I am happy in the company of those I keep, but I feel like I am waiting for someone, for something. A drink, for now, will do. We sprawl out in the weather as everyone else chooses the ten degree temperature departure inside. I scan for him, for them, really, the one I want to see, and the one I want to talk to. I would like a do over. to meet again, for the first time. Would I do it all again? Would I do it all over again? Would I do the one and not the other? Did I even have a choice? I will find out later, before I fall on the floor, that no, I never had a choice. Rejection will fall gently, somewhat on dead ears. It's all rose petals and absinthe in this place.
The walk from the table into the bar is so much slower. I am hindered by heels stuck to the bottom of giraffe legs. Uneasy, shapely stilts. the legs of the insured. the legs of the assured. Legs that stop traffic and move ships. I am told, and do believe. That fact will not save me from self consciousness and those more casually dressed.
He is not here, but will be. He also, is not here, but will be. I am comfortable with this knowledge as I hug the bar, my drink, a smoke. the buzz makes me warm, comfortable. I will be surprised later at the angry marks on my feet. I feel nothing right now, no pain. Not even when I fall, which does happen, later.
He appears, a mirage, halfway through my first drink. He looks so good to me, so bad for me, so bad to me. He thinks me self centered, not selfish, self assured, not stuck up, Unaware of anything going on around me. He is right. I am generous in the right lighting, the right mood. These are the things he hates about me. That I do not need him to tell me how to look pretty at myself, that I know when to draw a cartoon or bring him a cookie. He wants me to forget how to behave because he forgot how to not be an asshole.
He hugs me, I look passed him, now that he is here, I am bored with the concept of his arrival. wrapped in a cocoon of inebriation, I breath and watch, waiting for whatever I am waiting for to reveal itself. I know it's a person, male, but otherwise, I am in the dark.
My friends are bored. We move around, trying to get comfortable, cats in a patch of sun. I am always happy around people. I am never trying to find a fuck. or a husband. they always find me, eventually. Tonight I tower over the masses. Some bitch with funny hair and a painted face looks at me like I am the freak. Men part the seas. I have the eyes of the blind: for no one.
The walk from the bar to him, the him, the other him, is so much slower. The answer to my question is revealed in the form of a friend. He looks good, too, without needing the tie or the hair gel. A pipe dream. A pipe. I made him a cartoon once about being my drug dealer. I still have some pot, hash. the silent killer of so many love-times. I stopped being a hypocrite and put away my rolling papers.
Hover. He sits, I sit. He stands, I stand. I shiver and sigh and shimmy like a sex worker. Two drinks in and is there anyone in this fucking bar? I look to my right, he is there, I look up, he is here, I look to my left and am assaulted by the look of the glum. I shrug and turn back to where the center seems to lie. The guys go outside, I sit and chew on and spit out words as my mind wanders to where they have gone. Outside.
The walk from the bar to the patio is so much slower. My friend, he takes me in, seemingly for the first time all night. In that moment this dress was a good choice. The other one, he gave me a cursory once over. No love there. I look good, after he looks good.
The heat sucks. I say as much. We can smoke inside, so why don't we? He is so sober, I am so fucked. Not quite fucked up yet, but well on my way. It occurs to me at this point that there may be more to life than watching this bartender out of the corner of my eye while sitting on a stool trying not to fidget.
My focus is dragged back to what he is telling me, about a boring girl who is good in bed and why everything ends after two months and how nice it is to stick your dick in someone. I ask pertinent questions and here lies that soft rejection wrapped in an arm full of compliments. He has been waiting for her all night. she doesn't show. I don't feel bad for anyone involved. I know that tonight I could get what I want in a very small dose, but he knows that I don't want that, will never want that in any dose not lethal, so we will sit and chat and I will drink and the chasm will close up, maybe once and for all.
People move in and the conversation stops. for a moment phantom traces of cocaine flashbacks cloud my blood and I have too much energy. It is hot, my heart palpitates and I decide that one of my female companions must learn to waltz. now. She is as drunk as I am, so dipping her proves impossible, and this, this is the moment where I fall down. I do not laugh as it is not funny. embarrassing and made so much worse when I look up to meet the disapproving eyes of the bartender. I am tired and ashamed. He doesn't even have to say all of the things he says. I know. I sit in silence. Overwhelmed by the need to fuck off. Girl and boy friend bond. I let them, someone should be happy, get lucky, tonight.
The walk from the bar to his car is so much faster. He drops me off, attempting to push away my sadness with words to admonish the bartender, a hug, a joke. He goes on to take girl home. what happens next in their story, I do not know, am not allowed to care. I sit and smoke with my friends as the arrive on the stoop one by one, telling my tale. Each offers words of wisdom against the bartender and fists of single friends I should be perfect for. Inside is so hot. I can't stay here. So I make a phone call and try not to pass out. He drives by a few times, my friends don't bother to tell me. He honks, angry. It is 3:30 AM.
the walk from the house to his car is so much faster. I apologize for my friends, while he spits insults at their retreating, oblivious figures. I apologize again for falling, trying my hardest to come off more sober than I could possibly be. We find our final destination. I sway with my cigarette letting his words, the I love yous wash over me and fall to the ground. I should not be here right now, but right now I don't know where else I should be. the walk from his side inside is so much faster. My head hit the pillow, cool sheets, familiar walls. I will deal with this tomorrow. right now, I just want to forget all about falling and falling down.
My dress does not stretch to meet my needs. It does not quite cover the black strapless and threatens to flash the flesh colored Playboy boy shorts pulled in to place to protect the world from my erotically staged tattoos. A tight tube of black crochet and dangerous heels. Flaming curls and lip gloss.
The walk from the cab to the door is so much slower. We saunter inside, our mini-entourage of misfits. Fumbling for ID, for money, for tickets. Bewildered by requests we knew would be made of us. We blink at the candlelight, freezing for one second before paving the way to the patio.
A bar has been erected outside. There stand people I know, people I have known, people who will soon forget me if he ever actually tells anyone he is no longer in my life. I speak at them, the same gibberish bullshit I have been spouting all day long. The heat and the once an hour whiskey has me thoroughly bummed out. I am tired of talking shit and taking it from people gargling marbles. My brain had a break today, all day. I want to turn back on. I am happy in the company of those I keep, but I feel like I am waiting for someone, for something. A drink, for now, will do. We sprawl out in the weather as everyone else chooses the ten degree temperature departure inside. I scan for him, for them, really, the one I want to see, and the one I want to talk to. I would like a do over. to meet again, for the first time. Would I do it all again? Would I do it all over again? Would I do the one and not the other? Did I even have a choice? I will find out later, before I fall on the floor, that no, I never had a choice. Rejection will fall gently, somewhat on dead ears. It's all rose petals and absinthe in this place.
The walk from the table into the bar is so much slower. I am hindered by heels stuck to the bottom of giraffe legs. Uneasy, shapely stilts. the legs of the insured. the legs of the assured. Legs that stop traffic and move ships. I am told, and do believe. That fact will not save me from self consciousness and those more casually dressed.
He is not here, but will be. He also, is not here, but will be. I am comfortable with this knowledge as I hug the bar, my drink, a smoke. the buzz makes me warm, comfortable. I will be surprised later at the angry marks on my feet. I feel nothing right now, no pain. Not even when I fall, which does happen, later.
He appears, a mirage, halfway through my first drink. He looks so good to me, so bad for me, so bad to me. He thinks me self centered, not selfish, self assured, not stuck up, Unaware of anything going on around me. He is right. I am generous in the right lighting, the right mood. These are the things he hates about me. That I do not need him to tell me how to look pretty at myself, that I know when to draw a cartoon or bring him a cookie. He wants me to forget how to behave because he forgot how to not be an asshole.
He hugs me, I look passed him, now that he is here, I am bored with the concept of his arrival. wrapped in a cocoon of inebriation, I breath and watch, waiting for whatever I am waiting for to reveal itself. I know it's a person, male, but otherwise, I am in the dark.
My friends are bored. We move around, trying to get comfortable, cats in a patch of sun. I am always happy around people. I am never trying to find a fuck. or a husband. they always find me, eventually. Tonight I tower over the masses. Some bitch with funny hair and a painted face looks at me like I am the freak. Men part the seas. I have the eyes of the blind: for no one.
The walk from the bar to him, the him, the other him, is so much slower. The answer to my question is revealed in the form of a friend. He looks good, too, without needing the tie or the hair gel. A pipe dream. A pipe. I made him a cartoon once about being my drug dealer. I still have some pot, hash. the silent killer of so many love-times. I stopped being a hypocrite and put away my rolling papers.
Hover. He sits, I sit. He stands, I stand. I shiver and sigh and shimmy like a sex worker. Two drinks in and is there anyone in this fucking bar? I look to my right, he is there, I look up, he is here, I look to my left and am assaulted by the look of the glum. I shrug and turn back to where the center seems to lie. The guys go outside, I sit and chew on and spit out words as my mind wanders to where they have gone. Outside.
The walk from the bar to the patio is so much slower. My friend, he takes me in, seemingly for the first time all night. In that moment this dress was a good choice. The other one, he gave me a cursory once over. No love there. I look good, after he looks good.
The heat sucks. I say as much. We can smoke inside, so why don't we? He is so sober, I am so fucked. Not quite fucked up yet, but well on my way. It occurs to me at this point that there may be more to life than watching this bartender out of the corner of my eye while sitting on a stool trying not to fidget.
My focus is dragged back to what he is telling me, about a boring girl who is good in bed and why everything ends after two months and how nice it is to stick your dick in someone. I ask pertinent questions and here lies that soft rejection wrapped in an arm full of compliments. He has been waiting for her all night. she doesn't show. I don't feel bad for anyone involved. I know that tonight I could get what I want in a very small dose, but he knows that I don't want that, will never want that in any dose not lethal, so we will sit and chat and I will drink and the chasm will close up, maybe once and for all.
People move in and the conversation stops. for a moment phantom traces of cocaine flashbacks cloud my blood and I have too much energy. It is hot, my heart palpitates and I decide that one of my female companions must learn to waltz. now. She is as drunk as I am, so dipping her proves impossible, and this, this is the moment where I fall down. I do not laugh as it is not funny. embarrassing and made so much worse when I look up to meet the disapproving eyes of the bartender. I am tired and ashamed. He doesn't even have to say all of the things he says. I know. I sit in silence. Overwhelmed by the need to fuck off. Girl and boy friend bond. I let them, someone should be happy, get lucky, tonight.
The walk from the bar to his car is so much faster. He drops me off, attempting to push away my sadness with words to admonish the bartender, a hug, a joke. He goes on to take girl home. what happens next in their story, I do not know, am not allowed to care. I sit and smoke with my friends as the arrive on the stoop one by one, telling my tale. Each offers words of wisdom against the bartender and fists of single friends I should be perfect for. Inside is so hot. I can't stay here. So I make a phone call and try not to pass out. He drives by a few times, my friends don't bother to tell me. He honks, angry. It is 3:30 AM.
the walk from the house to his car is so much faster. I apologize for my friends, while he spits insults at their retreating, oblivious figures. I apologize again for falling, trying my hardest to come off more sober than I could possibly be. We find our final destination. I sway with my cigarette letting his words, the I love yous wash over me and fall to the ground. I should not be here right now, but right now I don't know where else I should be. the walk from his side inside is so much faster. My head hit the pillow, cool sheets, familiar walls. I will deal with this tomorrow. right now, I just want to forget all about falling and falling down.
should we get naked?
we are all just sitting, standing around feeling the same way. the same exact way. like making out. don'tcha just feel like grabbing that girl, that guy, that figment of your fucking imagination and kissing them til they get that annoying kool aid stache?
when was the last time you kept creeping up her shirt and she kept slapping your hand, because that is what we do. we set boundaries. we scold.
when was the last time you kept creeping up her shirt and she did not stop you? because, guess what, we are human, too.
my breathing is getting a little funny. i should probably stop writing now. and maybe get a life. just saying, though. one of the things i miss most about make believe is the believe part.
when was the last time you kept creeping up her shirt and she kept slapping your hand, because that is what we do. we set boundaries. we scold.
when was the last time you kept creeping up her shirt and she did not stop you? because, guess what, we are human, too.
my breathing is getting a little funny. i should probably stop writing now. and maybe get a life. just saying, though. one of the things i miss most about make believe is the believe part.
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