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| Friday, July 26, 2002 "The Vagina Dialogue" ...actually, we're not speaking at the moment. WARNING! ACHTUNG! EEW! If you're one of those guys that are squeamish about the female body and its many glorious fucking functions, you might want to pass on this post and live to read another day. With your illusions intact. However, if you want to learn a little more about my vagina than anyone really should, read on. You've been warned, so don't get all grossed out and then send me an e-mail telling me how grossed out you are, otherwise you might upset the tenuous relationship I have with my vagina, and that's something the world doesn't need right now. So, I got my period yesterday. Isn't that so fucking exciting? No, it wasn't my first one, it was one in a long succession, but it never fails to ruin my day. Every month it's arrival brings on the "war on the vagina", and I start shopping around for new products in the hopes that spending an exorbitant amount of money on the care and feeding of my vagina will make me hate it a little less throughout the duration. I was going to say "during this period", but it sounded too much like a pun, and puns, like everything, piss me off when I'm on the rag. Anyway, I came across this new product called "Instead" that utilizes something called "softcup technology" to...y'know, stem the flow. It basically looks like a diaphragm made of soft plastic. Feeling very adventurous this morning, even though I was already late for work, I decided to try this amazing innovation out. I popped open the cute little vanity case, extracted a purple package, and set about business. My first thought was; "Jesus...what the fuck?! How the hell am I going to get that in there?!" The thing was almost the diameter of the palm of my hand, and, well, that just looks too goddamn big to me. I had already read the directions about a dozen times to make sure I was informed about any and all potential mishaps, so after flexing it around and staring in wonder at it, I pinched it lengthwise like they tell you to, and slipped it in. *Thump*...*thump*... Hmmm.... *Thump*... (muffled voice) "Ah-HEM! Uh, excuse me!" Me: "Wha!? Who the hell is that?!" "I'm your cervix, dipshit, and I really don't need that kind of intrusion at...what time is it, I can't see the fucking clock?!" Me: "I should hope not!...it's 8:15." Cervix: "8:15?! Shouldn't you, like, be putting concealer on that nasty PMS zit on your chin or something? You're gonna' miss the bus, and you know how you hate to have to run for the bus when you're on the rag. *snicker*" Me: "Shut up, bitch, I'm tryin' to hook you up right now." Cervix: "Riiight you're trying to hook me up by jabbing me with a piece of rubber...what is that, anyway?" Me: It's called softcup technology, it's all the rage, and I'm not trying to jab you, you're in my way. This is s'posed to go under you. Think of it as a little rubber hammock. Like you're on vacation. Or something." Cervix: "Eeew! That's fucked up. Get that out of my grille, for fuck's sake and launch the cotton rockets. C'mon, chop, chop! It's time to get to steppin'!" Me: *sigh* "Wait, would you just stop yelling at me for a second please?..." Cervix: "Why, you gonna' start crying like a little bitch in the bathroom again? 'Boo hoo, I'm on the rag and I don't feel pretty and I'm all bloated an--'" Me: (indignant) "No! It's just that when you yell like that, muscles clench and the whole thing gets counter-productive and I'll never get 'beyond you', so to speak, and I just don't...have...the...time...for this." Cervix: "See, that's not me, right there, you're bearing down." Me: "Shit. Okay." (deep breathing, relaxing muscles) Cervix: "Can I ask you something?" Me: "Shhh. Shit. No, wait 'till I'm done, we'll talk about this on the way to work. Okay?" Cervix: (ignoring my plea for silence) "You probably won't be able to hear me with that friggin' thing in. And anyway, Why break with tradition? I mean, yeah, tampons suck, but why the sudden change?" Me: (deep breathing, fidgeting, re-adjusting) "Because...it's more convenient and I just want to try it. And..." Cervix: And...? Me: *sigh* "And because you can have sex on the rag when you're wearing it and it's not like...y'know...this whole big messy thing. Cervix: "Huh. No shit? That's kinda' cool! That puts a whole new coat o' paint on things..." (dubiously) "Heeeeyyyy Wait a minute! There's no sex in your forseeable future. What is this shit!?" Me: "Yeah! Thank you. Thanks so much for reminding me. I shook my magic fucking 8 ball last night and asked it if I'd have sex anytime soon and it said 'ask again later', so, y'know, I'm fucking clear on that, thanks. Thanks a fuckin' boat-load. This is just what I need." Cervix: "Awright, awright, don't get pissed, I'm just saying...jesus, nice attitude. That time of the month again? Hahahahahaaaaaa!" Me: "Fuck you, cunt!" Cervix: "Very funny. Expect to get that stupid thing in without even a basic grasp on anatomy now? OW! OW! HEEEYYY! Watch that thing, it hurts! Remember what the gyno said! I'm tilted!" So, unable to bear another minute doing battle with my cervix, I jammed it in there as best I could, yanked my freshly and skeptically lined drawers up and headed out. Everything seemed fine at first; I couldn't feel it at all and it was almost like the flow had stopped. But as I rounded the corner and saw the bus approaching and broke into a run, I not only felt something going on there, leak-wise, but I swear I heard; Cervix: "AH-HAHAHAHAHA! SUCKERRRRRR! HAHAHA! Let's see how long that pantyliner holds up now, chump!" When I got to work, I bee-lined it for the ladies room, new softcup in tow, along with more traditional protection if it all proved to be too much of a hassle. As I locked the door of the stall, it started up again. Cervix: "Oh no. You are not thinking about actually sitting on that toilet seat, are you?" Me: "We have to. The directions say that when you are sitting, your vaginal canal is tilted at the proper angle for insertion." Cervix: "Yeah, which reminds me; let's talk about "tilted" for a minute. You have a tilted cervix. Have you stopped to think that maybe we're not compatible with this kind of experimentation?" Me: (draping the toilet seat with enough rolls of toilet paper to make it look like a Rose Bowl parade float.) "You make it sound like we're circus freaks. We're not, you know. Everything's normal. We're fine. In fact, we're just fucking peachy by some accounts." Cervix: (smugly) "Heh heh. Yeah." Me: (settling in uneasily) "Now; just relax. We're going to take one out and put in another, okay? Try to chill out and just, y'know, hang tight." Cervix: "Eeew! Ha-ha! Dude!" Me: "I know, I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. Okay...here we go...." Cervix: "Holy Shit! Now you've done it!" Me: "Jesus. Okay, stay calm. Wow. I mean, wow..." Cervix: "Ahhhhhhhh! It looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre up in here! Ugh! Do something!" Me: "Would you calm down, it's not that big a deal. It's just...god, what am I supposed to do with this one now? Yikes." Cervix: "I'm sorry, did you say something about this being more convenient?! Huh!?" Me: "You need to shut the fuck up! You've done nothing but get all up in my Kool Aid about this shit..." Cervix: "Don't talk to me like that! You don't know me! You don't know who I am! The first time we went to the gyno, you wouldn't even look at me! Remember? The gyno pointed to that mirror, and she opened you up and asked you if you wanted to see your cervix, and do you remember what you did? You gave her that look and then you laughed! You laughed and the speculum creaked and you laughed even harder and it sucked, man, it sucked. I felt so under-valued, dude, so mocked. Me: "Oh, come on, is that what this is all about? That's stupid! I mean, you know I love you, all you guys, working together down there, keeping things operating smoothly, but I just can't get into all that uterus-hugging, inner-goddess shit. It's not like I don't think about you, consider your needs, you know. I treat you nice; I keep up my end of the deal and then some," (waving around new purple package) "I buy you nice things, I introduce you to cool guys--" Cervix: "--Not nearly often enough--" Me: "--What do you want? Quantity or quality?" Cervix: (thoughtful pause) "You have a point there. Okay, look, you have to get back to work. You can't just sit in the bathroom talking to your cervix all day. Let's get this shit on the road." So, round two went better, but only slightly. Obviously this requires some practice, and at the very least, when your cup runneth over, your cup runneth over. We're going to in for round three before bed, because there's less pressure during that particular time slot, so maybe I can be sure I'm getting this right. Still, though, I'm wondering if it's a clumsy thing, or an anatomy thing. We'll see. In any case, if this thing works the way I've seen it reviewed, I'm all over it. It seems like a pretty good alternative to the potentially scary hazards linked to tampons... ...though definitely not for the faint of heart. Well, I think I spent my day off from work engaged in worthwhile persuits. That's right, goddamnit, I finally fixed the leaks in the blog's roof! No more busted ass menu, no more creaky archive, no more crumbling bostonites webring code, no more Java errors...I don't think. Anyway, I know if there are, one of you officious little readers will let me know. *ahem* I was thinking about the concept of "readers" tonight as I tapped away busily. If I'm thinking about "readers" when I post, it's usually too much and completely fantasy-based. It's like I delusionally picture a roaring stadium of completely imaginary fans, and I start playing to the crowd. This is where my worst posts come from. The suckiest of them all. C'mon, you know the ones...they go on and on and on and on. And it seems the longer they are, the less likely they are to have any discernible point. It's weird. And embarrassing. And kind of ironic when you think about it. And then there are the times when I'm truly lost in my own head, unwittingly naked in front of the proverbial window, and there's a 50/50 chance that I'll nail it. Yeah, I could link to one of those, too, but I won't. Couldn't you just die? Oh, how lame would that be? Anyway, the only times I have conclusive evidence of "readers" (homo-blogphilius)... ...no...wait dude, calm down, I wasn't just calling you gay or anything, and if I was, I wouldn't mean it in the homophobic, but the "classic gay", sense, like; So, yeah, reader evidence comes in the form of the always unexpected and bafflingly supportive e-mail. I have met some extremely cool people here, after getting over the initial shock of discovering someone actually reads this drivel. I can be a dick about e-mail too, taking too long to respond because I feel oddly "caught-out", especially when I get something complimentary. I don't want to seem like I'm all (smugly) *sniff* "yeah, I know...thanks." like I'm encouraging flattery. Or, on the flip side, I don't want to fire back; "WHAT?! Have you got a brain tumor or something?" because people tend to find that brand of aggressive self-loathing off-putting. So, sometimes I don't know what to do. I mean, imagine someone walking in on you when you're trying to take a dump. How would you react? I mean besides... DUDE!! I'm tryina' take a dump up in this bitch! I think we've gotten away from the fact that this is a slightly more sophisticated form of talking to ourselves. But tonight, I was thinking of the other "readers". The kind that blow in, for some odd reason read, and blow out again without ever declaring themselves. Now there's a concept I find hard to grasp. Do I have readers like that? And if so, what are they like, did they find what they were looking for here, do they ever come back? And, y'know, whether I do or not, I found it an interesting enough thought to ponder for awhile. It was somehow titilating, unsettling, and comforting all at once. So, to all the "readers" out there, both known and unknown...like... Thanks. Cheers. Any "Moxie" drinkers out there? Where my bitches at?! For those of you who don't know, Moxie is the greatest carbonated beverage of all time, and easily one of my beverages of choice. (Oh, christ, I just realized I didn't list it in my "ingredients" list!) Well, whether you've partaken of this lovely nectar of the gods or not... Thanks to Newgrounds for that. Yes, I played hooky from work today, and it feels good. Real good. So, I have been shamefully negligent as far as updates go. Who can blame me? I somehow miraculously dragged myself to work, every day, on time, despite the soul-crushing desire to call in "sick". (sick of it all) I'm pretty much just hanging in there until vacation rolls around, so my incentive is; maximize my potential spending cash. But it's hard. Like I feared, the world, most especially my shitty, shitty, shitty job, have thoroughly lost their meaning for me since the departure of Cal. It's funny; I'm one of those simple minded people that get a bit mentally wayward after any kind of uprooting. If I travel, there is a moment of panic as I wake up in a strange place, wondering where the hell I am. I've only moved house about four times in my life, but it takes me weeks to remember where light switches and other things are, and of course I do that waking thing where I go; "Where the hell am I?...Oh, yeah." Worst of all, I still, after, what? almost 3 months, forget that my dog Jude is gone, and in the wee hours of the morning, if I find myself awake, I start blearily looking for my shoes figuring it's a good idea to take him out before I turn in for the night. Sometimes it sucks being thick-headed. However, the morning after Cal left, I awoke with the unmistakable knowledge that he was no less than 900 miles away from me. It was literally the first thought I had. I turned back inward with a speed that even surprised me. He called me at work that day, 'round 1:15 PM, to let me know that he had arrived safely back in Surfside. This was a relief because it's a long trip and I worried. This was also a bummer because it took away the stupid, uinrealistic hope I had that he had suddenly turned back, unable to leave me. I know I cite literature to the point of being irritating, but I just kept thinking of that part in "Moll Flanders" when Jemmy the Highwayman (and Moll's third(?) husband) flees their honeymoon bed in the night because he finds out that Moll is not the wealthy "Lady Flanders" she presented herself to be. He takes off to go back to his life of highway robbery in an attempt to make a fortune for the both of them, but apart for the meantime. Moll awakes suddenly, sensing his absence, and even though he is already miles and miles away on horseback, Moll despairingly howls; "Jemmy!!!" ...and he hears her! Even though it's accoustically impossible, he hears her and he turns back, riding miles and miles, having to change horses at the Inn because he's ridden so hard, and races up to their room to embrace Moll one last time and explain that even though he doesn't want to leave, it's their only chance at survival. Oh, so help me, I kept hoping something like that would happen. Why can't life be more like books and movies? So...naturally I had a hellish Monday. Tuesday was only slightly less hellish, but I have gradually, throughout the week, made pretty decent progress. When people ask about him, I'm able to tell them that he went home without bursting into tears. I am able to not only hold, but I'm able to read the slim, black journal he gave me on his departure without feeling like I'll die of heartbreak. The one that contains a timeline of sorts that diagrams the milestones of his young life and ends in a humorous, touching, absurdly eloquent letter to me. And someday, I hope, I will be able to launder and return that stolen Drugco property, his photo lab coat, which I keep in a plastic bag so as not to "contaminate" it with the lavender and cigarette smell of my bedroom, and pull out to bury my nose in as an effort to "conjure" him up. I miss him like hell and suppose I always will. So, what have I been doing to fill my time? you ask... Mayhem. Anarcy. Mischief. I'm not sure what's come over me, but now my whole life now seems to be about fucking with people. Wait, let me rephrase that...not people, just one person, specifically. See, 'round the same time Cal left, my favorite cool manager moved on to greener pastures, as well as Mayor McCheese, Drugco's reigning store manager. No wonder I have abandonment issues, huh? I'm one lonely little tomato these days, let me tell ya'. But the worst part about the other two "troops" leaving is that they've sent in the world's worst replacement... I like to call her "Miss Salt". As in Veruca Salt. She's a chubby little short-ass, about 5 years younger than me, and a nightmarish little corporate drone. Corporate gnome, is more like it. I suspect she's some hideous little Drugco personell experiment run horribly amuck. They have removed her brain entirely and replaced it with a vast series of middle-management, marketing-training videos. All of them hosted by Kathy-Lee/Kelly-Rippa (who I suspect are the same person anyway) and set on permanent loop. She fucking scares me, not because of her rank (temporary store manager. very temporary, I hope), but because she's clearly made some Faustian deal to sign over her soul and every waking thought to the purpose of boosting sales. And I think she's going to do it at the cost of all of our sanity. To my credit, I swear I gave her a fair shake, both literally and figuratively. I ignored the vicious rumors preceeding her arrival and gave her my most friendly smile upon meeting her. I shook her hand and thought; "good handshake...but way too nicey-nice." In my opinion, when people try to come on like your best friend right off the bat, they are usually a two-face, conniving, fuck-weasel. But hey, it was a first meeting, and I had to account for nervousness and a desire to "fit in". I gave her a second shot, but as I blended into the background and quietly observed the way she went about things this week, my opinion of her rapidly began to degrade. She doesn't seem to do much actual "work", but spends a lot of time printing out pretty, eye-catching signs to draw attention to our super low prices. She spends a lot of time on the phone getting "tutorials" from managers in other branches, and "shoos" anyone away that even attempts to discuss anythnig with her, like scheduling problems. She also has a thing for recruiting employees to dismantle and "improve" every goofy display in the store, thus creating a lot of useless busywork. Oh, and she didn't so much as dip her toe in the possibility of helping out on stock days, which is frowned upon here, seeing as stock days demand a united front where everyone helps out, from those highest on the totem pole on down. I tried not to let this shit bother me, because none of this was personally directed at me, but I watched a lot of hard workers being waylayed and used, as well as the fact that almost no one had a chance to go on lunch or breaks. That just sucks, and it makes me fear that some of our cooler employees will find it too intolerable and move on, a thought I cannot bear. That small, remaining handful of funny co-workers is the only thing that makes this job even remotely worth it for me. But, it wasn't until she and I went round and round about a corporate visit that I really started to hate her. See, every few months, someone makes a phonecall that shoves "The Fear" up our collective ass. Some officious little birdie calls and tells us that "corporate" is on their way down to check up on us, visit the store, discuss sales, and see how we're maintaining things. This leads to a panicked flurry of cleaning, polishing, straightening, stock-rotation, ass-kissing and stressed-out snappishness. Everyone ends up working longer hours, overtaxing themselves and basically hating each other until, ultimately, 9 out of 10 times, the suits never make it down our way and end up flying back before they've had a chance to see our lovely, spotless, smooth-running store. It's bullshit and I don't participate in it. The way I see it is this; I work hard all week. I chip away at little cleaning projects so that nothing is ever a major event, I keep my ducks in a row, I maintain smooth operations, but I punch the fuck out at the end of the day. When I leave, I leave the job where it belongs; at work. And y'know what? it works for me. I've had several "audits", which are surprise visits from district managers, and every one I've passed with, not only flying colors, but gidy kudos. These people are notoriously hard to please, but I've found that just doing your job, which by the way, a fucking jellyfish could do without too much thought, is enough to make them wet their panties. Every impending visit, at least one stressed-out coworker will look at me dumbfounded and furiously shriek; "How can you be so fucking calm!?" Simple: I just don't give that much of a fuck. This isn't to say I don't work; I do. I bust my stupid ass when I'm there. I'm a model fucking employee despite the frequent cigarette breaks. Maybe because of them. and even though I loathe all large businesses and their accompanying corporate mindset, I can walk the walk. I can smile and have-a-nice-day you very convincingly, even though I'd most likely love nothing more than to knock you down and pistol-whip you with my shoe. I'll gladly put on a brave face for a paycheck, but never at the risk of my dignity. ...Well, not a significant risk, anyway. They do make me wear a very ugly, ill-fitting, brightly colored smock, after all. And, no, I will not sacrifice my life, free-time, or my comfort for your projected profit margins. A principle that sends Miss Salt into a tailspin. Here's a snippet of our exchange: Ms. Salt: "You know we're getting a corporate visit, right." So, that whole exchange sort of annoyed me, but it was at the end of the day that she really got to me. One of the kids that work the later shift, a girl of about 16 or 17 maybe, was talking to me telling me how upset she was that Ms. Salt had put he on the day shift. See, she worked at a day camp as a councellor during the day, and absolutely couldn't work days. She wanted to tell Ms. Salt this, but Ms. Salt had been in a two hour meeting and was now on the phone for over an hour learning to do something in Excel from one of the other store managers. Anytime she tried to talk to Ms. Salt, she was rudely dismissed, and ended her story saying; "She needs to get off that phone." I went into the office to count out at the end of my shift feeling obscurely bad for the guy on the other end of the phone having to deal with her. He had only just left, so she must have called him on his cell phone. He was an off-shift, salaried branch manager, and was gaining nothing by this aggravation. On one of the rare moments she put him on hold, I said to Ms. Salt; "[Aforementioned girl] really needs to talk to you." Ms. Salt hisses; "Well, she'll just have to wait!" just then Ms. Salt is paged to the front of the store to handle a return. As I sat there, irritated, I stared at the phone knowing that as long as this guy was on the phone, he wouldn't be able to go about his after-work life, our young employee wouldn't get her schedule fixed, and I, most likely, won't be able to have Ms. Salt check my paper-work so I can go the fuck home too. I weighed the pros and cons, took one for the team, and slowly reached up and hit: I felt immediately better, a little euphoric, in fact. Just then, as I grappled for a pen to sign my paperwork with, I noticed I was without one, unthinkingly reached for Ms. Salt's pen, and was stunned with admiration. This is a really fucking nice pen. Good balance, slim, but with a little heft to it, titanium barrel, smooth writing. Sweet. I'm a sucker for a good pen. Y'know, I've never, ever stolen anything in my life, and I realize that makes me boring, but I'm a bit karma-obsessed. I just don't steal. Ever. I've been stolen from before and let me tell you, it sucks. But I confess, I really thought about stealing Ms. Salt's pen. It was more than just an urge, it was a need. I understood cleptomania for a second, because the desire for this pen was overwhelming! This was a beautiful fucking pen. However, the fact that it was an object tainted with Ms.Salt's anti-magic and also I was the prime suspect, being the only one in the office, deterred me. But only just barely. So what is it with her? Is it me? Is it the fact that I no longer have a lithe, 19 year old body with a 2000 year old wit on hand to keep me busy, or am I truly evil? Only time will tell. But I feel it necessary to qualify this confession with the following; when I don't like someone, my whole life becomes about just staying out of their way and avoiding them at all costs. For some reason, however, I seem to want to seek out Ms. Salt just to torment her. What has come over me? Well, 'round 8:30 PM tonight "Cal" hit the road for Surfside SC. I can go out for a million cigarette breaks tomorrow at work knowing that not one of them will be serrendiptiously-timed enough to spot him driving by, to see him smile and wave from a red car and shout that he'll be by later. When four o'clock rolls around, I will not look up from my work to see him coming in to start his shift and feel every cell of my being strain to touch him. We will not smile secretly at each other or "accidentally" bump each other with a hip, an elbow. I won't remark on his freshly-showered "mossy" smell. I will not look away from my computer while typing this and catch him cutting across my lawn, sneaking up to my open window to whisper; "Let's go!" I will not shove my bare feet into canvas shoes and go, pausing for a kiss before I get in the car and he closes the door behind me. We will not speed away into a sweltering summer night while I rest one hand on the doorframe, in the speeding wind, the other stretched over to rub his close-cropped hair. He will not press into my touch at red lights, close his eyes and sigh through smiling, half-opened lips. We won't end up at a deserted beach, laying in the sand, alternately resting our heads in each other's laps while we talk about music, our friends, our ambitions, our fears, our pasts. We'll not tell each other stories in low voices while the surf whispers in the dark. I'll not wind my arms around him to pull him closer and feel him rest his head in the curve of my shoulder. I'll not feel the length and power of his body through a tee shirt worn thin and soft black from too many washings as my hand moves up and down his back. I'll not lean in for a kiss, just an innocent kiss, to feel his lips parting like butter against mine. I'll not feel the whole world twist and tilt as our kisses gain in velocity and madness, carrying us both off to an alternate reality where tearing at each other's clothes in pretty much any location seems perfectly reasonable. We'll not be welded together somewhere, breathing each other's breath, awash in each other's sweat until we both gleam opalescent in the humid moonlight. We'll not whisper vulgar endearments to each other like strange challenges, gentle threats. I'll not collapse against him and weep because it's perfect, too fucking perfect, and I can't hold all the light I have in me for him in my weakened, shattering frame. I won't feel someone reaching inside me to palpitate a heart I had considered long dead until it beats on its own with a new ferocity. I won't feel that impossible combination of both exhaustion and rebirth. I won't go to bed and wake again with that same feeling of being stronger somehow, more alive. I will not go to sleep and wake up with a curious smile on my lips, a pleasant ache in my muscles, and a fever of excitement in my heart. I won't go to bed and wake up with the hunger for new adventures. I will go to bed and wake up and not do all of this over and over again. I know that all of this was bound to happen. I know that because it has happend, I am much richer for it. I could have cautiously carried on, in my little psychic bubble, only caring about myself, and not risking so much, but I didn't. I leaped with both feet into one of the most passionate and exciting affairs I have ever had the exquisite luck to be blessed with. Sure, I leaped a little late, but it was perhaps that much sweeter for my tardiness. And everyone keeps telling me that all things are temporary, and I know this already. In fact, some of the best things are often the briefest. So, I am glad. I am grateful. Really. But why does it have to hurt so fucking much? Tonight I am more alone than I have been in years. In my mind I'm still reaching out for that last embrace, that last kiss, wishing it was there just one more time and knowing a thousand times still wouldn't be enough. I'm only hoping now that my gratitude outweighs my grief, but I don't think I can expect that kind of miracle tonight. Not just yet. Drive safely, "Cal" and your crazy-ass, lead-footed co-pilot (who, incidentally, told "Cal" that I looked like a Russian KGB agent, an assessment that pleased me for some obscure reason.). I'll pretend I'm good enough to be a guardian angel and imagine that the power of my intention will see you both safely home. When you get there, I hope to soon hear your voice cutting across my phone line from 900 miles away and I will do my best to sound like everything is fine and I'm stronger than the sorrow. And hopefully I am, because god knows I feel better somehow, changed, more real. It's all thanks to you, Cal. This may be my greatest test; to find the boy that fits my wish-list in a way I had given up hope on, and then to love him enough to let him go, hope for adventures for him, wish him love, and not act on the selfish urge to keep him all for myself. It's a tough one, but I think I can do it. I hope so. Otherwise, I'll be very dissappointed in myself and all the hard-shelled, self-actualized illusions I have of me. But for now, let's play love songs and pine away for the fleeting caprices of fate. I have two for you, one that he gave me and one that I gave him. You may have heard them before, but they never meant anything until now. Play them and rejoice, for tomorrow...who knows? FROM CAL Click to listen courtesy of the official Damned website. (MP3 format). I'll be the ticket if you're my collector (chorus) I'll be the mail, you'll be the guard (chorus) (chorus) Its Okay Its Okay FROM ME: Courtesy of a Flock of Seagulls fansite. (Real Audio Format). It's not the way you look If I had a photograph of you It's not the make-up If I had a photograph of you It's not the things you say If I had a photograph of you I lost my shit in the midst of an e-mail to the illustrious, talented, brilliant and all-fucking-mighty Gummi tonight/this morning, and even though I am 1/2 crazy from lack of sleep, I have decided to reprint portions of it here for my own benefit, like every other damn post here. It's also my way of letting the abundantly aforementioned Cal know exactly how remarkably special he is to me. Again. -------begin internet recycling campaign now-------- Hmm..."Love Bites"... That was Def Leppard, actually. How do I know that? Sadly, I *was* a heavy metal hair-girl. The love of heavy metal is something me & "Cal" have in common. We both hold metal in the same lovey-dovey kitchy regard, the difference being that when I was in high school I took it seriously. I have the denim jacket autographed by members of Skid Row, Bulletboys & countless other Headbanger's Ball one-hit-wonders to prove it. How sick is it that it is still one of my proudest moments when Sebastian Bach (Skid Row frontman) salaciously nuzzled my neck and told me he couldn't believe how good I smelled as he signed it? *sigh* ah, the halcyion days of youth... Speaking of youth, yeah, how am I going to live without that ferocious, throbbing, starved, rabid-animal, genius-of-love, ever-ready 19 year old stamina? How am I going to live without that constantly amused and right on target sense of humor? How am I going to live without the high-speed road-trips to nowhere in particular? How am I going to live without the encyclopedic wealth of punk rock lyrical bon mots for all occasions? How am I going to live without such a sex-friendly sounding name to utter, mutter, whisper, hiss and growl in the heat of passion. (no, it's not really "Cal") Seriously, I'm not one to play the "say my name" game. (this ain't Destiny's Child, bitch!) It never, ever seemed terribly natural to me, or, at least it never sounded natural when I did it, regardless of how lovely and exotic the name sounded under other circumstances. Even hearing my own name makes me cringe. But, it was the first (actual verbal) exclamatory slip of the tongue I made with him, and *damn* I cannot get enough of that particular perk. These are a few of the stupid details that will plague me in about nine more days and probably until the end of time. Those, and what I affectionately call "the haunting". See, I went from living in Dorchester, which is a lovely, sea-breezed, coastal, meaningful, historically rich outskirt of Boston, to this non-descript, cookie-cutter ranch house & strip-mall infected, land-locked suburb known as Brockton, and try as I might, I just cannot "connect" with it. These streets, the Chem-lawn smell of the air, the houses, the people in them, mean nothing to me. I feel lost here, like it was some intergalactic rest-stop the mothership pulled into so I could pee and "my people" just forgot and left me here, abandoned. Now? Now I watch the roads just feeling him out there, everywhere; speeding, sweating and squinting indominable in the blistering heat, drinking too much soda, chain-smoking, cursing along in Cockney with the Macc Lads turned-up way too loud, wanting me. Just to prove I'm right, I round the corner and there he is, every time; blue eyes behind impenetrable black sunglasses and all cheshire-cat grinning as he flashes me the devil horns like he's going to whisk me away and take me back to a world I used to believe in, kissing me at every red light along the way. GodDAMNIT, I'm crying again! Again!? Jesus, if I'm this bad now, how is it going to be when he's gone? As it is now, I cry at the drop of a fucking hat. See, that's what's really killing me, here. Everything, including me, will go from Technicolor to grayscale when he leaves. Sure I can dive back into my head, where I spent all my time before, but for the first time in years I might actually miss the outside world again. The world of ear-splitting Brit-punk decibles, lips bitten black and blue and raw from kissing, bruises and aches in the most outrageous places, the reckless chemistry set of perspiration haphazardly mixed until there was no "my smell" or "his smell", but only "Us", the ultimate unisex fragrance, and the incredibly comforting feeling that I was fine like this, just fine, and I didn't have to change a thing, watch my mouth, behave myself, quit any of my multitude of vices, get serious, grow-up, shut-up, put-up, dress-up, dress-down, calm-down, compromise or "improve" because he "got me" exactly the way I was, he liked me the way he found me, and I was okay in his book. And the feeling is mutual. So very unbelievably mutual. Do you know what he did for me the other day? We stayed up one night talking on the phone forever. It was easily our most exciting phone conversation to date beginning at 10:20 PM (the very second he got in from work) and lasting until about 3:00 AM, neither of us willing to hang up save for the fact that I had to get up for work in less than four hours. The whole thing, in fact, felt so prematurely ended that I lay in bed and burned for another hour or more spinning through a million other topics I wanted to conquer with him. Needless to say I felt like microwaved shit when I got out of bed the next morning, what with the no real sleep for days, the heat being un-fucking-godly, and just hating my job in general. The final turd on the top of this shit-sundae was that I had to walk to the bus stop in all of this blistering bullshit heat fearing I'd miss the bus and stand sweating in the sun for another 1/2 hour until another one came. I walked out whiny, petulant, kicking things and cursing my crappy job, my aching head, the goddamn bus, the mutha' fuckin' sun, and my own inability to be reasonable about getting enough sleep. As I made my way down the street, amazed that the weather had exceeded my own impossibly horrible expectations and was surely trying to kill me, I barely got 200 feet from my house when he rolled up alongside me, swung the passenger-side door open and leaned grinning into my astounded face. After burning my fingers on his doorframe just to prove he wasn't a heat mirage, I tenatively climbed in and stared dumbfounded at him until he leaned over, gave me a sweat-salty kiss and said; "Hey, babe." Ever the ingrate, I asked incredulously; "What the hell are you doing here?" to which he replied; "I kept you up all night, it's only fair I should give you a ride in, right?" How can I ever express my gratitude? It was the nicest, most amazingly considerate thing anyone has ever, EVER done for me. And what's worse is that he spent the whole night awaking from awfully looped anxiety dreams of oversleeping and missing me! Argh! Impossibly cute! And even though he promised me he'd go immediately home and go back to bed, he never did, he ran errands and eventually came to work starting his shift when my shift ended, and he was the same raucously funny guy he always is, claiming (for my benefit I'm sure) that he wasn't even tired. Fuck the roses and the candles and all the fancy dinners in the world; THAT is romance. So, yes, I agree with both you and Def Leppard..."Love Bites", but I suppose I'm willing to wear the scars. Proudly, I hope, though I may be singing a different tune when the smoke clears. I hope YOU can say the same; that is, all the pleasureable experience without the regret. No, wait, scratch that.. There's a fucking great line in "Les Liasons De Dangeruses" by Choderos De Laclos (which I asked for in the bookstore as "Dangerous Liasons" because I would NOT submit to the correct French pronunciation for self-consciousness sake. To quote Denis Leary; "America took the coissant and made it into the fucking "cra-san'wich".) There are so many great lines in that book. Whole great paragraphs, even. Anyway, the line is roughly; "Yes, we will spend the night together. We will enjoy it enough to regret it will be our last. But we must remember; regret is an essential component of happiness." The better, tougher, more highly-evolved part of me agrees with that statement, and really truly wants to believe in it. And then there's the sore, heart-scarred, love-wounded, i-think-i'm-unwilling-to-go-through-this-again part of me that says thank you to fate for sending such sweet, blissful, exciting moments like this into my life, because really, rare as they're getting these days, I'm blessed in that respect and I recognize that, but goddamnit, will I ever get to keep just one of these fabulous prizes, these beautiful treasures for myself? Maybe this one? Maybe especially this one? Please? I've already decided that when Cal is gone, I'm going to put on a ton of mascara, a bad wig, and a maribou-feather-trimmed pink housecoat and run around the house screaming and crying, mascara streaming in blue-balck rivulets down my cheeks, spilling my martini and raving like Baby Jane because I'm going to be completely insane with pain and it's the only way I can think to distract myself. Of course, this isn't rational, but I feel terribly fucking irrational these days, so it certainly seems fitting. |
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