VII: Got Love? completes my day’s work on the Blue Valentines page. Happy VD.
VI: Get Real
Beautiful women are like a drug. They make you feel good, and it’s fine every now and then but they can really ruin your life if you get addicted. You ever hear the phrase “I’m a sucker for a pretty face?” It’s a problem with men; we’re all suckers staring at the pretty girls begging to be fleeced. Like camouflaged predators, they wait to lure you in before pouncing.
It starts with dinner – you always pay for the dinner. Then you have to keep coming up with the endless series of trinkets, spending money to get her things or spending time doing things for her. You even “spend” time together. I know you’ve seen the clingy types who latch on and leech away all the other parts of your life until you turn into that guy who needs to ask permission to play a game of cards or go to the car show.
Sure they have guilt and other forms of manipulation to keep reeling you in. Even plain girls can use their tricks to keep a guy in line, but the most dangerous ones are always beautiful. If you find yourself with one of those, you keep asking how you got so lucky. It seems like a small sacrifice to be available for all her needy whims. I mean, you got a pretty one. You should be ecstatic. Don’t fuck that up, and you’ll be happy, right?
V: Don’t Tell
She’s avoiding me. I can’t bear the thought of it, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. It’s so hard to communicate with other people that I don’t know why I give a damn half the time. This seems pretty serious; it’s not the usual doghouse, I-fucked-up, kiss-and-make-up kind of problem. I know her well enough to see that some serious shit is going on in those pretty, green eyes. It scares the hell out of me because I want this to work out. The way she looks at me has changed. There’s this deadness in her eyes where there used to be bounding excitement. They were bright, moist and magnificent before and now they’re dry and heavy and pale.
IV: Good Bye
Twelve years later the song sounds so contrived. It was probably always that way, but nostalgia has a way of making the past better. Over the years, the details of a story change slightly – they become alienated from the event and mold into a version of things like a well-worn cushion or forged steel. With every retelling, a memory becomes a new thing like a game of telephone. We are revisionists changing our history into something more meaningful than it was.
III: Kiss Me
“I’ve got a thought,” he said.
“Yeah?” she replied.
“Kiss me.”
“Get the fuck out. Really?”
“Yeah – not like we’re dating or anything like that. I just – it’s been so long. I don’t miss any of the relationship bullshit. I’m still taking a break from it, but … I don’t know. It gets lonely.”
She gave him a sarcastic, poor-puppy-dog look before rolling her eyes.
II: Luv Me
Fourteen months later and she still has her claws in my back. I can’t run away from it. Whenever I write down some words, whenever I read, not even the television is safe. Every blonde lead is a doppelganger stroking my nostalgia strings. I’ve tried to move on. I’ve tried to find healthy and good and everything a guy could want, but that’s not for me. I always come back to her.
I: Soul Mate
Daisy wants to go to heaven, but I’m having fun right here. She says she’s worried like she’s doing me a favor: concern over my immortal soul. I always brush it off, give some half-hearted reassurance that her God must have pity on virtuous heathens, but the truth is I don’t know shit about her God. He probably wants me to burn all sorts of horrible hell, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got my own shit to worry about right here, this minute, on a tangible world.
Adventures in VD coming this week. Until then, let’s celebrate a year of this inhuman condition with a look at what I was doing seven years ago.
“Hug me ’til you drug me, honey. Kiss me ’til I’m in a coma.”
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