An Inhuman Condition

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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

Get Caught Up Everything

Distraction is easy. Everyone knows distraction. Even if it’s unwilling and you try your damnedest to stay focused, life itself can distract you. You can throw away all the TV, movies, video games you like, but if you’re being reactionary to problems, occasions, chores and errands you will undoubtedly lose all your time to them. Instead of having time to do all the things you want, your life becomes the sum of all the things you’re busy taking care of (often to have “free” time later).

At the end of the day, it’s the end of the day. You’re out of time. Unless you’ve managed to have nothing to do tomorrow, you’ve failed at doing the things you want. But it’s ok, right? If you wake up early, do breakfast, shower, get yourself to work, find some dinner after and buy a cup or two of coffee with a friend tomorrow, it will be time to wind down and get your ass to bed again. Repeat this method thousands of time, and that’s your life. I hope the things you wanted to do were eat, sleep, work and talk about Occupy Wallstreet.

Nothing is easier than doing nothing.

Jamie thinks she is so cute. The way she flicks her hair and sways away. Those tight leggings and ugly hunting boots that look like Nordic, sealskin vomit trimmed with dryer lint – she’s such a bitch. Because it’s ironic and in to look like you woke up raped by a trashcan. I wonder how long it takes her to perfect that “impromptu” ponytail. Why would anyone spend so much effort to look like they aren’t trying at all? I can just imagine how she would defend it “Oh, some of us just rely on our natural beauty, Christine.” Natural beauty – ha! I see the brush strokes where she applied just the right amount of “natural” from a bottle. Ray might not see it, but I can see it. I could just strangle her.

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The car never starts in this weather, and it’s shaky when it does. The damn thing is old enough its developed arthritis. It creaks and moans with the painful fury of age longing for the reaper’s scythe. It sees the other cars on the road – bright, young things with a future. They’ve got all sorts of comforts it never had – heated seats, GPS, remote starters. When it was new, older cars probably envied things like seat belts and fuel injectors, but not anymore. New is the new old. Old is forgotten, thrown away, taken for granted. It can still move on good days, my car. It’s probably happy to still be out in the world instead of sent away to a junkyard somewhere to be poked and prodded. Cars these days.

Everyone says I should buy a new car, and, believe me, I agree. I’m not attached to the old bastard. We’ve had a good run, but it limps along begging to be put down. I just can’t afford to replace it. The housing market crashed. The banks all went broke, and the auto industry collapsed. Despite all of it, the cost of a car is still ten grand plus. Even a decent used car is going to cost three thousand, and I couldn’t get a loan to buy a cup of coffee. If I saved up, I might be able to buy some $500 clunker with more internal problems than my ex-girlfriend. I guess I just don’t want to gamble on all that. I’d rather deal with the devils I know, and I know my car won’t start right now.

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