welcome to my exasperation

The candles have made it so hot in here that I can pour the cold from my gelati in a smokey stream that pools in the hand. It’s like playing with dry ice. I feel lucky to have had my time with it before Ryan unexpectedly buzzed up. This week he’s going back east for an undetermined length of time. Tonight he brought over the other roommate Luke. He was over last night as well. It’s sweet he wants to spend time, but I’m suspecting that I was being shown off a little tonight. (Which makes no sense whatsoever). I love that I live a life where friends may drop by at midnight without preamble, but also it would be nice if they were slightly less likely to monologue about psychedelics and how world politics is the groaning of the earth mother. Please feel free to talk about such things, but do so even vaguely informatively else I will want very much to tromp all over you with verbal spiky boots. Wake up and smell the literacy people. This is now, this is when you need to know about if you want to change any of it. You need to know about a problem before you can fix it, yes? I’m not going to smile and nod and agree that “our will is the next source of power, with it we can push spiritual light to turn back the nukes”. Don’t tell me that you are uninterested in learning more about your world because you think it’s depressing enough already. Take this. What’s happening and what’s next. The Drive is endemic to patchouli children, I know, but in my box, either learn or take your djembe elsewhere. Enough, though. There, I’ve rinsed that stale water off of me.

So that was not exactly annoying, but more effort that I would have cared to spend. I was attempting to create a comforting den of iniquity, not an evening of applying warpaint. I suppose I’m just not destined for wickedness. If nothing else, my lover decided he was going to attempt to be naughty. This was a bit of a mistake. However wonderful, the man simply should never attempt to write desire ever again. Not even in waterside love letters written in sand. The ocean will erase them, but not before I get to stand there embarrassed. I would rather he write dry sermons. There is a flavour to language. There is a notation of meaning attached to the vocabulary. Want not half so interesting as need, though not to take. To mismatch splay with extract, well – there’s not a lot I can say about it. Dissection comes to mind. Frogs laid out for the incision. I thought all readers picked this stuff up. Enough books and doesn’t it bleed into your conscious? Learning the emotives and associations through osmosis. Ah well, I’m not a writer. I’m not even a hack. What do I know? Just as likely someone will now tell me that the word splay is very sexy.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *