Yeah, this is supposed to be a sexy blog about the spicier aspects of human life.
Yes, I am well aware that me and my broken heart are incredibly redundant. I would prefer to paint the picture of a brazen, bold, true blond who sashays through life multiplying her sexual experiences and I am more than capable of doing that, but if I choose to write about someone other than myself, my blog would not serve its primary purpose, myself. The complicated webs we weave are fascinating to me but really, I write in a hopeless effort to figure out my own web. Or how to extract myself from it.
I hurt. In general. I cannot seem to resist pulling off my own scabs over and over again until I fear that the scar I create is bigger than the person I once was. Who I am today is so far removed from who I would like to be that, had you told me then that I would be just as sick now as before, if not sicker, I would have stopped breathing on the spot. I imagined then that in time, I would find my way around this shit, around the countless potholes in the road, that I would grow up, like everyone else does. Suffering from a pathetically broken heart with a bit of existential drama thrown in just for the hell of it, for kicks, is not all that endearing at the less than fresh age of 45. I cannot seem to pull my head out of my ass far enough to see any daylight. Which is incredibly hopeless in itself.
The recent disappearance of an airplane has been making me think about the brutality of our not so recent break-up. Something as huge as a Boeing or Love… *poof,* disappears right off the face of the earth, as if it had never existed in the first place. You have forgotten my name but I cannot seem to let you go. Maybe I needed to hear those words coming out of your mouth. The same mouth that kissed me and pleasured me and that made me believe that I counted. Loved ones need a body to bury in order to get through their grieving process. Perhaps this is the reason I cannot bury you, making matters cleaner and tidier for everyone involved. (Not that I think that you are drowning in the same foul-smelling still water that I am. Fuck you, by the way.) My unexpected stoicism, fingernails embedded in my own flesh in order to never contact you is slowly wearing me down, tiring me out. And for what? I seriously doubt that I will be given any sort of medal for bravery or for holding my tongue.
For me this is a no win situation. Hopefully I will start writing about my incredible sexual exploits, posting photos of my various orifices.(?) Hopefully the search terms of this blog will reflect my change of pace. “joyful frolicking between my thighs,” will join the already painfully sweet, “in panties gentle touch sharing pleasure.” Hopefully I will overcome this and become a literary icon. My celebrity status will erase you right off of my conscious mind and if I happen to run into you at a party, I will have to dig around in the back-alleys of my intellect to retrieve your name.