Good for go

I heard from an ex-boyfriend of mine last night. Okay, you caught me. He was just an ex-fling. I never know what to call them. An ex-crush? An ex-work flirt thing? An ex-kissing experiment? You tell me.

So he calls and says he's been thinking about me, which really translates into that he's horny or he's broken up with someone and is misty-eyed over our wonderful time together which was not at all wonderful, but was extremely sexual. Anyway, I told him I was with someone and couldn't be bothered. He said "Wait!" just as I hung up.

I went back to watching the news and being ever so glad I didn't live in the Gulf. I just let the phone ring. Who needs it? Not me, no thank you. I don't need memories calling me with accusations. I don't need regrets calling here wanting to be nostalgic about things better left forgotten.

Here's the thing about it: Once you break up (away?), just go. Just walk (run?) away and don't look back. Well, look back if you must, just to be reassured no one's chasing you or anything. And you can look back, but not for a long time. Not until your head is in a different place and you can have some perspective. Don't be like that lame couple in High School who broke up every Tuesday and got back together just in time for the weekend.

Just go. You can think whatever you want about me. Work it out with your therpaist or new girlfriend, or your new boyfriend even. I don't care. Make me into the bad guy, or girl. Whichever. It doesn't matter to me, because you're already gone. You're the old one and the new is here or on the way. Forget you. You already happened and it was fun or it wasn't. I learned a lot or I didn't. I hope to have another like you someday or never.

Look, everything works out. Everything always works out. Usually not the way we'd like, but it always works out. Build a bridge and get over it already.

You can call me a bitch, or a slut, or anything you want. Just as long as you don't call me. Okay?

As I lay dying...

I was at the hospital this morning getting a TB test for school and to start my new job. An old woman came and sat down next to me. She was one of those really thin old gals who still do all their hair and make-up like they're a glamour puss and need to be all dolled up for their man. She smelled really good, Chanel #5. She was wearing a nice outfit, not out of date or anything. Just some black pants and a pink top and she looked okay. She sat next to me and after a minute or so she says "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing."

I just looked over and said, "Thank you", like my mama taught me. Then she says "Are you here for a pregnancy test?" God fucking forbid. I just said that I wasn't. I tried to be nice, but she was being just a little nosy. Then she starts telling me that she'd never had any children and she was sure it was because of that botched abortion she had in Philly back in 1953. She just sat there and told me this whole story while we were both waiting for out turn in the lab.

It was Philly, back in 1953. She suspected she was pregnant because she'd missed two periods and she was feeling hungry, light-headed, and nauseous all the time. She told the guy she'd been sleeping with and he told her it was impossible. She told him it was in fact very possible, and most likely the truth that she was pregnant with his child. He got really mean and cold to her and just said that it was impossible because he didn't sleep around and he certainly would never have slept with a filthy whore like her. Then he spit on her and walked away. She figured it out pretty fast.

She didn't know what to do so she dropped out of college, got a job as a waitress, and started staying with a friend of her sister's. She couldn't go back to her parents until she figured something out. She asked around and found out that there was a "negro" doctor in New York City who could get rid of her little problem, but it would cost $250 plus the trip up there and where to stay and all of that. So she forged her father's signature and cashed in her last two savings bonds and sold her bicycle. She had barely enough money to do it.

She got up to New York City and check in at the YWCA. She went to meet a "negro girl" in Central Park who took her to a basement apartment in Harlem. She waited six hours for her turn. When she walked to the bedroom that was the OR she passed the room that was the recovery. Almost all the girls were white. When she got to the OR, a large "nigra" asked her for the money. She gave it to her and was afraid they would shake her down and ask for more, but they just told her to hop on the table.

They didn't knock her out. They just gave her a rag to bite on. She was more than three months along, but he went in there and took care of it. She spent three hours in recovery and then they sent her on her way. They wouldn't let her call a cab until she got out of Harlem. She stayed that night at the Y and took the train back to Philly the next day.

A month later she ran into the guy who got her into trouble. He came into the place where she was waitressing with his new girlfriend. They both pretended they'd never seen each other before. She worked there until she saved enough money to come out to Hollywood and be an actress.

"How'd that pan out for you?", I asked.

"Good, for a while. Then I got too old and the producers got too racy for me." She said.

I'm pretty sure she was making skins in the Valley.

"Then I met a wonderful man, which I'm sure you will, too, one day. We were married and had a beautiful life together. He died last November"

I told her I was sorry. She said it was quite all right.

"We just never had any children, that's all. That's all there is to that."

They called her name and she followed the tech.
She was gone when I came out.

Blue balls

I got my leg broken and I've been laid up in the hospital. I have not had sex in almost three weeks. I can't get out of bed because they have my leg in a sling. There are nurses who come in to see me. Most of them are Filipina and not at all attractive. During the weekdays there are nursing students who come through. Most of them are fat, grumpy, or gay guys. There was a hot doctor who came through on my first day here, but I have no insurance so I'm a charity case and won't be seeing her again.

I can't get out of bed. I have a catheter shoved up my dick. I have not showered or taken a shit since I got here. I am miserable, contemplating suicide, and have imagined elaborate complicated porn scenes in my head. Pretty much that's all I do. I fantasize entire hentai epics. I made up a whole series involving these triplet strippers name Faith, Hope, and Charity who go to great porn lengths to save their Uncle Dick's strip clubs.

I need a blowjob. I can't even jack off because being a charity case I don't have a room to myself and I'm stuck in here with some fat ass who's apparently Mormon or Catholic or one of those cultures who have a billion kids each. His family is constantly here and when they think I'm asleep they put their stupid baby at the end of my bed.

I need some hotties to bust me out of here and give me some sexual attention. I need sexual healing. Help me. Please. Before my balls explode.

Sniff my hair

So I was lying there in bed, you know, afterwards. So, I'm lying there and he says to me how come your hair smells different?

What?

I don't know what the fuck that was. I don't know why he notices things like that. I mean what is that? How my hair smells? Is he gonna turn stalker on my now and and memorize all the products I use so that he can tell if I took a shower somewhere else? I mean what is that?

I told him his nose was broken. He kissed me and rolled over and went to sleep.

I'm just wondering what that's supposed to mean.

What is a woman without a mirror?

All women are vain. All women. Even dykes. Even nutjobs. Well, all women are nutjobs, so there you go. All women are born with the vanity gene. It's encoded into their DNA and they can't escape it.

Women will use anything for a mirror. Your keychain. The shiny lid of a salt shaker. A window. The car bumper while they're pumping gas. Your mirrored sunglasses. Especially while you're wearing them. They can't stop. They can't help themselves.

I've recently noticed, and perhaps I'm coming in a little late in the game so fuck me if I'm just now figuring this out, but I've recently noticed that the way women check themselves out the most is through the eyes of other women. Maybe some of you will argue with me and say that they check themselves out in the eyes of a man. We only wish they did. Women don't dress and make themselves up for us. Unless they're hookers or porn stars. Even then I think they dress for the competition.

Fake hair, fake nails, fake tits, fake lips, fake eye color, fake tan, fake teeth, fake laugh, fake friends, fake life, fake girl.

Love is a gateway drug

It starts with interest and takes the individual straight into attraction. Attraction seductively leads to action which usually leads to lust and longing but sometimes can lead to interaction. Soon the user spends all his time, money, and energy trying to please the intoxicating drug. This oftentimes ends up in a spinning cycle of lies and deceit wherein the user, the so-called lover, lies to the object of his desire, lies to his friends, his family, his boss even, but worst of all to himself. Eventually he finds himself doing and saying things he never thought he would in places he knows he doesn't belong. Then suddenly it's over. The object of his desire is no longer attainable. She's either withdrawn her regard or she's no longer available. Well, what then? The user goes back to his shambles of a life and attempts to rebuild the bridges he burned while he was still standing on them in order to rediscover who he was before that fateful day he took that first long look.

Dear Liza

I remember when you said that love was the opposite of fear. Or was that just the Hallmark card you sent?