"love kills slowly."
i imagine i felt a lot like your mom did that first time you bitches brought your asses home from college for winter break. i'm sure she was totally stoked out of her fucking mind, cleaning your room and buying new towels and grocery shopping her little ass off, making sure she had all of the stuff she remembers you actually liked to eat: potato chips and pizza and cookies and juice, not all the cottage cheese and prunes and lettuce and shit she tried to force on you when you were still a captive in her home.
i'm sure she tried really hard to erase your memory of all those fights about curfews and bad grades and skirt lengths, feeling absolution wash over her as she scrubbed the tub and toilet in preparation for your arrival, watching the sins of bad motherhood bubble and swirl down the drain. she tried to make up for her crabby bad days and her inattentive tired days and her forgetful absent-minded days by stuffing your stockings with little things she knew you'd get a kick out of, by buying lots of christmas gifts that moms buy, by being super excited to see you get off the plane.
she never gave a fuck about a cozy bed before, but she washed your sheets and laundered your duvet and fluffed your pillows so you could "sleep tight," as they say. she organized the cabinets that had gone a little bit to shit since you'd left, thinking that you'd notice that the labels don't face forward or whatever. she lit the candles and swapped the soaps and dusted the corners into which she was pretty sure you'd never look, but on the off chance that you might...
in other words, she busted her fucking ass trying to make sure that your fucking ass had a good fucking time.
i'm motherfucking empathetic, and i'm almost positive that i know exactly how she must have felt. waiting, with baited breath as we women often find ourselves, for you to burst through the door and tell her how much you've missed her and how nice the house looks and how pretty the new dress she bought is. for you to throw your arms around her neck and shake your coat off and drop your bags at her feet before breathlessly describing to her all of the shit that wouldn't fit into the parameters of your once-a-week phone calls home, your stupid roommate and your frustrating classes and the depressing food in the dining hall of your dorm. she'd waited for months for all of those tiny mundane details, pleased as punch to hear about every little thing, just so long as she got to do so whilst staring into your gorgeous little faces.
a romantic i am not. for serious. i've had my poor little heart stomped on and stabbed through my back and karate chopped too many motherfucking times to really believe in romance. i believe in the idea of it, i believe that sometimes one catches brief glimpses of it through all of the asshole and idiot and lame and fucktard, but it is not a convention i put a whole lot of stock into. i don't watch romantic movies because they make me cry. not because they are so touching, mind you, but because they are often a two-hour long reminder of all the shit that is not happening for my stupid ass. because i sit through the entire film with my face all screwed the fuck up, ticking each fictional romantic gesture off on my mental checklist. you know, the one entitled "things not a single one of these goddamned, shit-eating assholes has ever done for me."
sent me flowers at work? NEVER.
showed up at my doorstep dripping with rain because he'd walked a mile to declare his undying devotion? NO WAY.
cooked me a nice dinner? FORGET IT.
bought me something? anything?! NOT EVER.
made me a card? or a mix tape? or even doodled my name on a fucking napkin? NAY.
wrote a song or poem about my awesomeness? NIX.
defended my honor? NOPE.
put me first? and i'm talking first-first, not in theory-first or in the mind grapes-first or when i'm actually hanging out with you-first. before mama and papa and job and homeboys and homegirls and shorties and dog and sportscenter and play station and weed man and mailman and homeless dudes and bitches at the club and total fucking strangers? NOTHING DOING.
slayed a dragon for me? NEGATIVE.
made me feel totally special, and not like an annoying afterthought? DON'T HOLD YOUR FUCKING BREATH.
was not, at least partially, a selfish asshole who couldn't see past the tip of his penis where our, ahem, "relationship" was concerned? NEVER IN THE GODDAMNED HISTORY OF EVER.
as much as it kills me to identify with miserable, self-loathing bitches slagging their ways through their forties and fifties and sixties snatching about their miserable, inconsiderate, self-absorbed twenty- and thirty-something offspring, I CAN. because i cleaned up and shopped up and fantasized up just to spend the better part of a week babysitting a fucking suitcase. and to that i say: "pshaw!"
here is where my dear friend romance and i intersect and find ourselves at odds. because i didn't call or text or even think about that dirty whore. i left her to her own goddamned devices, free to wander through nicholas sparks novels and loiter around renee zellweger movies and leave my ass alone. yet there she was, nestled in one of the grooves deep in the recesses of my brain, planting little romantic seedlings. seedlings, i might add, that had been watered by a countless number of absolutely lovely text messages and emails and flirty conversations. i'm not a fucking robot, dude. if you tell me a thousand and one times how much you absolutely adore me, around the two hundred and thirty-seventh time i just might start to soften up a little bit and believe you.
the seedlings don't help, i'll tell you that much. because in addition to sprouting gorgeously fragrant blossoms (blooms, i might add, that can be snipped off when they become too annoyingly interfering), they also grow ROOTS. long, spindly, obnoxious cords that snake their way through my grey matter and take hold until they become impossible to extricate, no matter how hard i try. it's the roots that taint my otherwise sensible, rational (read: CYNICAL) approach to my dealings with the opposite sex. because i wouldn't get sucked in without that little part of my brain that clings desperately to every fairytale it's ever read, every julia roberts movie it's ever sobbed through. because I AM A BITCH, yet my vagina is not immune to all of the propaganda thrown its way.
so quel surprise that my romantical ass ended up just like your mammy did, sitting home twiddling her thumbs wondering why you never told her you had friends to see and places to go and shit to do other than hang out and let her cook for you and show you how to needlepoint. wondering what she could should have said to let her know she wanted to spend time with you while you were busy making plans to see everyone else who missed you. wondering why she bought food and thoughtful gifts and cleaned up for a ghost. because she'd had no idea that her place was just a drop spot, that you'd be dyyyying to leave the moment you walked in. silly old lady, nursing her hurt feelings and disappointment while you gallivanted all day long having fun with your friends, you had SO MUCH to catch up on!, forgetting to remember to return her calls.
"that's what i promised. i promised i would rock your shit in the bedroom."
"i never said i was a total, a great guy all-around."
"i'm a good time in small doses."
i got laid exactly four times.
but my plan, as you may or may not remember, had involved something like 457. so i'm a few short. and that's where we shall leave this for now, mon amis.
TO BE CONTINUED...