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Michael considered fate at 13:07   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

Fuckin lezbos.

See, I have nothing against the idea of it really but when my friend who goes to grad school at a women's-only undergrad liberal arts school says "I totally need to bring some sloots up to Montreal soon" and I say "hell yeah" and he says "well, it's just a matter of finding hot straight ones".. well, damn. Puts a damper on things from this angle, anyway.



And honestly, between the lezbos and the bitches and the just plain homelies.. Well fuck if I could find a worthwhile woman this side of the Mississip'. You might think I'm complaining here but I'm not. If you'll recall, I have stated on more than one occasion here that I won't complain anymore.. So if you read something that you suspect might be complain, well -stop. Adjust. Realign. Approach from a different angle. If it still seems like complaining then maybe you're in a bad mood, it ain't my fault. And if you try that a few times and it still seems like complaining.. well.

Maybe it's complaining. So shoot me. Nobody is perfect.

I'm in I'm-never-gonna-find-a-worthwhile-woman mode. Notice I qualified with the word worthwhile. There are plenty of women to find all over the place, what with making up 1/2 the species. It's just hard to find the good ones. They hide among the riff-raff and they aren't immediately identifiable. You gotta do a little detective work if you wanna find yourself a real catch.



If you're lucky, if I'm lucky, this little discovery will happen before, oh, I dunno, before I'm forty fucking years old. See, from this angle, I see choices. I see options. I see exactly two. One decision can be summarized with a single word: "settle". This is what one does when the thought of being alone is no longer a bearable proposition and they'll take whatever shlep that happens to cross their path. Settling is what you're doing when you're laying in bed at night next to your partner, who is snoring away, and you're mind is racing with what-ifs and what-could-have-beens and you don't feel like you're there. You don't want to be there.

I want a boyfriend
I want a boyfriend
I want all that secret old shit
like letters and sodas
letters and sodas

And if you don't want to be there you're never really there. Not inside your head you're not. You're somewhere else floating on a sailboat in the tropics with a corona and a big bag of weed because the only thing - the only thing that can make this here-now-in-front-of-your-face bearable is to feel just exactly numb. You want to feel it because the numbness doesn't tease with the idea of something more being dangled in front of your face. Numbness doesn't hint at exactly what you want, doesn't make promises, doesn't give guarantees that it'll be there when it says it will be.. Numbness just is.

I can feel it in my bones
I'm gonna spend my whole life alone
Fuck and run
Fuck and run
Even when I was seventeen
Fuck and run
Fuck and run
Even when I was twelve

And even when I'm 40 I'll be waiting, impatiently patient. That's who I am - patientience without the virtue. Begging inside my head, begging like a dog at the dinner table, begging with that pureness, a realness void of the hook-up vibe, void of the need to just fuck cause that, honestly, is the least of my problems. At 26 forty years old isn't looking nearly as far away as it should and here, at 26, I can tell you that my patience is wearing thin... and I just don't know how I'm going to make it last through the years. I don't know how my patience is going to survive. If it's threadbare now, it's going to be a ghost of a shell of nothing when I get to 40. If I get to 40.

40