Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Sunday, August 01, 2010


There was no way to feel this happy. Not while staring into the shattered remains of a drunk driver's last mistake.
I really should learn to back up and start at the beginning.
Last night was for once typical. Went home for a meal then out again for a drink with the boss. And while we were there I felt useful in that I stirred up a little bit of harmless trouble. Dragging razors across skin is always quite the pass-time.
I remember the feel of the hair like sandpaper grazing the bottom of the blade; like a sled across the new snow over rough ground. He had the strangest look on his face as if to say I was the one cutting off his pride rather than his hair. I longed just then for a crew-cut.
And the winds of change shift as it seems to be everyday; towards myself having a place in this world. Where I am useful but entertaing, I fail not to realize, But I need a new ploy. I want to stay.
Driving home in the snow that night was exactly as could be expected. Hazy, murky figures shifted through the dark outterlimits of where I could and could not see. We got home just fine to hope for sleep, to not be able to keep our hands off each other; to pass out drunkenly of our own stupor of joy and malady.
The dreams were unsettling but sobering none the less and the morning seemed best described as unfinished business. With shower and coffee and another day to mistreat us... and while I stumbled out the door to the car and off to work, he sang me a tune and I smiled.
What a strange thing it is to feel as though there is no possible way to do more for the life that does so little for you. I have no money, a job that doesn't pay the bills. I live with a man while I yern for a particular woman and I try my best to do better. Better evades me. I'm a good person, reliable and smart. Just a bit sick of being wanted for anything but my work ethic and brain. No one hears it though. Like the scrape a razor makes cutting hair, changes when it cuts skin.
I really dont want this competition. I've no prize to give. I'm no prize to earn. He who gives me income and something to do is the winner. But there is no trophy, just years of memories.
It was a damp day and a wonderful time, walking, talking, wondering how to do more. I wanted to ask so many questions. I wanted to see so much more and as they teased me for being in class all day I day-dreamed of already being back with the next round of questions about how to do, what to do, when and if, who and why.
Kid in the candy store didn't last long. Never does when I'm being swept away by some mongrel attempting to claim me.
I miss it already and look forward to the next time we all shall meet, join in conversation. And I can ask.
Life sucks but I really like this next good thing and I really hope I am lucky enough to out-survive the competition. My strength, I am after all human, is stamina. But what do you do when you come around the corner to see all you've been working towards in a fiery blaze of gone-ness, utter loss, what do you do when everything you've been staking your only forseeable future in, is already destroyed and you discover the fact?
It was one of our own, drunk from the night before. Came careening around a corner on the dampened roads. When my competion, my pawn, my basal leverage was swerving to avoid oncoming disaster he only had a split second and found the pole before the paint. Standing over the wreckage I stared at my boss in distraught misery. Blood in what was left of the car and the police pulling up. I held him close, smiling, telling him to think happy thoughts, that we'd make sure everything was taken care of. Calming, soothing, happy, motherly. He needed comfort, I was merely a passer-by. What's a mother to do? I had to stay there. It was my own son in the other car.

Ah, young love. The father of my child. The dark secret of my past. Dedication to a thing all at once gone, is a reality only the strong live once to proclaim.
It was like living in the lap of a godparent. She would giggle, he would lavish with knowledge and attention. Every woman has one unique key to her affection. Mine was knowledge, a combination cracked twice. Once ended in his tragic death, the other a product of fools luck.
As he blushed over pictures, she swam with excitement at the hope of being in his arms. Yep giddy, absolutely giddy.
And they couldn't touch each other. The closest they ever got in public was a brush of the hand. Excitement brims in the stomach, makes the shoulders and neck go numb. They put us together because he was harmless to me and I seemed far more capable than I actually was. And when we worked together they would compliment me on my innane ability to harness a beast. I believed them. That's always been my problem, I believe them.
Sunsets bring out those moments in people, must be why I avoid them entirely. I don't want another life ruined by simply being in love with me. No. No sentimental moments lie in the comfort zone of this tin shell. Deep down screaming for more.
He wasn't much to pay attention to when all was said and done, but he was a very good boy. The kind they said had a future. We believed them. So we took him in and to this day I love him as a mother does a son. Adoption if you will. Have you ever taken someone older than you under a wing? Never mind.
I digress. Love. Sad. They say you can't love until you love yourself. And you are who you choose to be. And I'm in love with my superego while my id is my ego. The woman I want to be evades me and all men are just unattractive as women.
And when I realized he and I were in bed together that night It hit me that if I actually liked it... Well; it hit me anyway.
But what of the missing tooth and the painted knife. The frog named rapunzel and the hart.
All that is just another story. To listen to them all is mearly to hear one side of the story. Would it be so wrong to cling to any one thing 'til death literly is the parting? The question I fear is: What to call self sacrifical dedication? Is it the thing they call love or is love the thing they call it?
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