What the fuck am I doing. It’s the only question I have right now. How did I get myself here, to this new place? I don’t know if I’m hearing music or if that constant buzz is just the constant headache of this city. I was in Seattle a week ago — more, now — and I didn’t hate it. Today they had snow. I had sunsets and arms at the beach. Climbing rocks and trees and for once feeling so carefree I hardly recall the .
Where was I? I can’t even remember. That buzz is still there and so is a twinging ache in my side. My ribs press in against it, and that satisfies the hurt. I was just up to wash my face with coconut oil, mark the imperfections and search for the beauty I am capable of, through this self-critical survey. Normally I don’t look so close. I am scared to see. But sometimes I see the beginning of something.
I checked my phone when it rang and let the call dwindle. N, the con, the gangster, the thug. I am so scared of him and what is going to happen next. He has me by the throat. And it’s all done under the pretense of love, and when we are together he has manipulated me into thinking that this love is real enough, we are happy enough — but we are just fueling each other, me him and him me. I am not a sociopath but I am a perfect plaything for such a one. He has me added as an authorized user to two of his cards, each with a limit as high as the ridiculous check he pawned off on me when I interrupted the affair. He spent eight hundred on necessities and minor luxuries that I primly rebuffed, too shy and stupid to take the advantage I want. Simpering, no wonder he likes me for a toy. I barely glanced in his suitcase to find flight confirmations for the same day, not two days prior when he claimed to land. Not that I wanted to meet. And yet he was the one making excuses. Food poisoning, cocaine. Ours was a dream, and we banked the day’s spending up at the casino that night before an animalistic morning.
I envy those strong women who smash and punch their way through corridors in Bond movies and the Angelina Jolie franchise. Hell, I envy the men. Give me Ripley, give me every woman who uses her body as aid. Coveting strength is a hobby of mine.
Also on my to-do: the Los Angeles bachelor (who very kindly dumped me, his feelings so greatly exceeding mine, and is now regretting the loss of easy pussy or maybe just his ability to lavish trophies to my throne… okay, boy, but you can never buy me with such niceties); Silenus — what, ignoring the two with greatest hourly and longest investment for this silver-tongued corporate pig? — and our literary game of sex, time, and distance; sister, mother, grandmother, sister’s boyfriend, friend a mere county away; and probably somewhere down the list, the men who have expressed an interest in meeting here or LA. My friends deserve my correspondence, but what do I say? Here I am.
It is so odd to rebuff the attempted advances of suddenly-enamored friends. Now that they realize how far away you are they are keen to reconnect. I am getting headaches from the people in my life. No wonder I don’t mind the solitary solace of my spare lodgings. I like them this way. A table, a bed, a few incidentals and a bike. It is like a really nice prison cell, this home of mine. Wait. That isn’t what I want. To be fair, the windows are quite nice, the courtyard idyllic, the breeze light and the fixtures all as they should be. There are flowers, a poinsettia on the table (wilting in its dismay of Christmas spirit), color and clean white lines in the bathroom, but not enough fragrance and touches of feminine work… And it is home.
This month is for relearning my habits and transitioning to the south and the sea. But in this bed of poverty, what can I gain? Get me downtown. If I want to make a living I need to transition to the city.
There is one woman I always think of when I consider my future. She is a career woman (which is so unlike me), some cross-section of business, politics, economics, and international relations (which are my private passions). Thin and petite, aged but more beautiful for it, her lingerie La Perla or better, meeting midafternoon for a rendez-vous with a still more powerful man. Perhaps power has something to do with all this. I want to eat men up, but I want to be free and alive when I do it, to scrape myself up on bark and throw myself into the ocean and live at my whims and whimsy. This is my own private castle, and when all else fails this is where I retreat.
Pity that I just read “Finance and Fantasy as Destroyers in Twain’s ‘$30,000 Bequest'”.
The city of sin tomorrow, via Mustang, on our way to snowy slopes that I have yet to taste. Such a good girl am I. He knows how ripe for corruption I am, and that is why I tremble when we kiss.
What is love?
Perfect Tonight 
Recent Comments