Archive for May, 2009

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Still hurts

May 22, 2009

Sometimes, even though you think you don’t care about someone anymore, the littlest things can still cut you to the bone. Like seeing a status update they’ve “Officially become a D.C. resident.”

This is the same person who broke up with you – out of the fucking blue – because you had at some point said you were comfortable now that you’d finally moved to D.C., and weren’t planning on moving anywhere anytime soon. And certainly not moving across the country.

Because you didn’t want to move to San Francisco at some vague, undefined point in the future, you were told you didn’t have a future with a person you loved.

There are a couple of words for this: Liar jumps immediately to mind, but you already knew that. Coward as well, because they lacked the courage to tell you they’d found someone else and were trading you in.

As far as you’ve come since you’ve been alone, and as much as you think they’ve done all the hurting possible, you find out they still have the ability to make your heart beat a little harder and your breath a little shorter.

Somehow, the lies hurt all the more and all the longer when they come from someone you loved.

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How to really compliment a man

May 18, 2009

As the saying goes, I’d always thought I was born on a cold day. But a while back I was on the phone talking to a girl the day after the first time we’d slept together. It’d been a great night, neither one of us had slept a wink.

After a bit we get around to the whole “How was it for you?” part of the talk. We both tell each other it was great, but then she paused, thinking about how to say what comes next, and adds a “But…”

“But” what I ask? As I’m now wondering if the first time is going to be the last time.

“Well, you’re pretty big and I’m a bit sore today.”

“Really, I’ve always thought I was pretty average.”

“No,” she said, the giggle in her voice coming in clear over the phone. “Seriously, you’re pretty huge. I was checking for tears this morning.”

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I am a Slut

May 14, 2009

I am a slut.

I am easy.

I generally have sex with people who express an interest in having sex with me.

And it’s all about my fake confidence.

I didn’t reach my current level of attractiveness until well after college. Prior to that I was an also ran, a hum drum who no one paid any attention. I am not traffic stoppingly hot, but I am attractive enough to create attention when I want it, and that is still new to me after all of these years.

I am overly flattered – in the moment – with your attention. I will make-out with you if you make the first move and I can find, even in the deepest recesses of my soul, some attraction to you. I will go home with you, if you ask nicely enough. I will go down on you if I can manufacture some interest, and will do so enthusiastically if I think that your interest might be real.

I have paradoxical self-confidence, and that sucks.

I know that I am better than that, deserve more than that, and crave more than that. But here I am, writing this blog post and flirting with the person next to me, and knowing that I will take them home or go to their place should the opportunity arrive.

You think I’m pretty? What’s your name?

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Life in Purgatory

May 11, 2009

In the weeks that followed the end of our affair I found myself pulling into the same parking lot.  I would emerge from my car and wander the racks, inhaling the sent of lycra and rubber.  The irony hit me like a ton of bricks.  Being around the things I knew he loved kept me connected to him in a way I never allowed when we were together.  I fingered the kits, touching the smooth material and thinking about the heat of his skin underneath.  I touched the zipper and remembered the way that it looked halfway down his chest exposing his heart the day we both knew the affair was over.   I walked and cried and imagined that he was beside me.

He always told me the road was his religion.  The place he went to be with his god, to feel himself connect with the spiritual world.  Until those days it never occurred to me that my religion had been him.  My place to connect with myself had been in his arms, on his couch or discussing the merits of remaining in purgatory over a glass of deep red wine.  I prayed at his lips and worshiped at his tongue.  My faith was locked in the confines of his beautiful mind. 

Three weeks later I married someone else.  He told me he would never forgive me or respect me for the cowardly choice I made.   I didn’t bother to tell him that I would never forgive myself.   It didn’t seem to matter, and he was far too angry to care.   And now, as my life lingers purgatory, I wonder what the merits would have been of choosing hell. 

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I am not my Mother’s Child

May 6, 2009

I am a horrible child.  Mother’s Day is four days away and all I have is this confession – I don’t like my mother.  I have never liked my mother.  And it is totally not her but me, but really kind of her.

She never called me fat, or engaged in any form of emotional abuse.  She is, by any reasonable measure, a good woman, but I don’t like her.  We have nothing to talk about nor do we have anything in common.  Sure, there was that tawdry affair she had when I was making my way through fourth grade in a new school, but that’s not it.  I quietly (and sometimes openly) resent her for not being smarter or more successful. 

I know what this makes me: ungrateful, insolent, a fucktard, and six weeks away from having to resolve my feelings about a father who was worse. 

Happy Mother’s Day.

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I don’t know which is worse.

May 3, 2009

There’s a new guy at work.

He’s only been there for a week.

He’s overweight. Belly hanging over a belt that sags with its load. He sweats profusely. Beads that form across his forehead, drops that slide slowly down the sides of his face.

When he talks, he doesn’t stop. He steals minute after minute of my day. Paperwork sits untouched, social cues go unnoticed. The icing on the cake- he is a know-it-all of the worst kind. He knows nothing of me but I could fill volumes with the useless knowledge I have learned about him in the last week.

When his path looks to intersect mine, I hurry in another direction.

When his mouth opens, I want to take my letter opener and gouge it into my eardrum. Repeatedly.

There’s a new guy at work.

He’s only been there for a week.

He’s tall, dark, handsome. He is genuine with his good mornings and subtle with his compliments. We’ve never engaged in more than a few lines of conversation, and I know little about him. But my imagination runs wild.

I vary my path to see him and have our eyes meet. My thoughts move to his warm hand pressed against the inside of my thigh.

When he opens his mouth, I imagine his tongue exploring mine. Repeatedly.

I don’t know which is worse.