At the bottom of everything…

January 25th, 2008

I am always the mistress and not the wife.

Ever the lover and never the date.

Walking in a winter sexedland

November 22nd, 2007

When I used to call her to talk about my indiscretions, I would wander around my neighbourhood in the middle of the night. I could not go home and talk in the warmth and silence there; he was asleep or, at least, pretending to be and always listening. So I was forced to stumble around, whispering and laughing as I pushed through snowbanks and blizzards and freezing mittens, with a metal phone pressed against a frostbitten ear, all for an ear to listen to the ridiculous tales. This is all that winter reminds me of now. Late at night, after a decent snowfall, all I want are indiscretions to call her up about. I crave the leaving of his house, laughing to myself for a moment before I whip out my phone to call her, never having to say what just occurred. She always knew. She never much liked it and never stopped telling me as much, but still, it was always entertainment. For her and for me, too. If only to have stories to tell, I used to laugh. If only.

I can resist everything except temptation

November 4th, 2007

Upon request, I begin to tell a story to k to cheer her up, about a past I-am-awful encounter [that is, arriving at Barrymore's with d, leaving halfway through with t]. In the midst of it, the very beginning, she looks questioningly at j, as the story sounds suspiciously like the beginning of our re-relationship. I laugh, no, this is another one. My life, sometimes, is one big repetition of relationships and reactions and non-actions. A tiger never changes her stripes. His joke, too [later], about ‘when would our anniversary even be?!’ Good point. I have no idea, nor care to quantify or qualify.

//researching later only to find out that when that event occurred, I had also watched storytelling for the first time… which we, coincidentally, had just rented to watch, alongside palindromes/

Human hearts and pain should never be separate

November 3rd, 2007

The fine line between lust and love and forever and now. The issues that arise when you realize the one you should be with is never the one you are with. ‘And we know who we should love but we’re never certain how.’ Maybe a story about falling for the wrong boy when the right one is sitting at home, patiently waiting for you to get home from work, with dinner set and a movie to watch on the couch, under blankets and blank ambition. Maybe the need to suppress the settling down instinct, the need to push for that extra edge, the refusal to accept the idiocy people call ‘the domestic life.’ The struggle to maintain decency in the face of intimacy. The riot your heart throws when you settle for the one you should not be with, but must.

It only has to happen once, she says, for you to understand how easy it is, how quickly it can happen.

They say you will meet two men in your life — one who makes your hands shake and one who will make them steady. You must marry the second one. When do we decide that it is okay to live without desire? When exactly do we tell our heart we are through looking for the madness that accompanies lust and would rather settle for sanity. Those are the ones that make you crazy, though, she says. They are also the ones that make you feel, the ones that make you fall in love over lust or contentment. Who wants to be content, if there’s nothing behind it? What good is contentment when it comes to life and love?

Rip out all the epilogues of the books that we have read

I know I shouldn’t be, but I am insanely curious as to what purpose deleting me from your memory serves.

And I’m not coming out until this is all over…

Why is it that men latch on so quickly and so thoroughly? And, at that moment, why exactly do they believe that they deserve a piece of me, or expect something from me? I owe them no favours for taking a liking to me. In fact, it often becomes a nuisance more than anything else. Your desire is not my concern.  

Unless, of course, it intersects with my own lust, in which case, well… let the fireworks begin… 

By the time you read this note, I’ll be gone and you’ll just be getting home, drunk.

I get so damned tired of being everyone’s emotional dumping ground. And, in return, having no one around when I need a little bit of a listening party.

Hardly seems fair, but I do it to myself, I suppose. I hate how disposable I am to people in this respect. It breaks my goddamn heart, the amount of emotion work I put into others that is never returned.

It is better to be cold-hearted and unfeeling and uncaring than deal with this kind of a come down.