Originally Posted: 7/29/09
When I asked if you wanted a fucking piece of me, I meant do you want my heart. I don't need it, its too damned heavy to carry. If you won't eat it, I'm just going to toss it anyway. Go ahead, take it, its on me. If you aren't 100% satisfied, I'll refund your money and you can keep the kidneys and the shipping cost. I can't refund the time you'll lose taking it for a test drive, but life is all about taking risks. Maybe, this once, I'm a risk that'll pay off. Maybe I'm a risk that won't leave you in a wheelchair, incontinent, and cumbersome to your loved ones. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe all that shit they say about me in the tabloids is true and I'm just clocked in to fight and fuck and bail out. Collect my paycheck and see you for the class reunion. This is a job for me, after all. Cut me some slack, though. I'm never late, I never call in sick, and I'm always good for a few drinks, a few laughs, a few minutes of wasting your breath. Too few? Fuck you.
Or maybe we're both wrong. Maybe I'm no pauper and I'm not prince. What's left? Gunshots, bloodpsatter, your lifeless eyes staring up, frozen in mute horror. You knew what I was going to do, and you couldn't stop me. Let them catch me. Let them throw me away forever. Let them take my life. "Any last words?" "Jesus, my bad." And that's it. I'm in heaven. Ready to fuck you up for eternity. You can't escape, you can't hide away behind the authorities. I'm a monster and I can never be stopped.
Then again, speculation is just taking a shot in the dark at your family reunion. Someone with your blood in their veins is catching a bullet, but who and where? It doesn't matter. What matters is the attempt. The nervous twitch of a hand when you ask the question, the tense, agonizing silence before she answers, the look in her eyes, the way your stomach churns and rises when she opens her mouth to speak, the rejection or acceptance. That's what matters. The aftermath is just formalities. Just paperwork to keep you busy so the Bossman don't catch you slackin' off again and git you fired. How long it takes you to finish that pile of work and move on is your business, but profits are rising in this hustle-and-bustle style that means the longer you delay the harder you'll have to work to please your customers.
I'm talking about relationships and what a pointless waste of time they are when I'm not in one. And what an even more worthless waste of time they are when I am. I really think its the whole seriousness that bothers me. The need to blow little details out of proportion. Yes, I vaguely recall our first date. Should I be required to? No. Yes, I remembered today is the day you wanted to drag me along to see your grandmother. Do I want to go? Absolutely not. Yes, I know you like the black shirt. Why am I not wearing it? Fuck you, that's why.
When you're friends, it doesn't matter. You can be completely comfortable around a person, say what you like, do as you please, wear what you will. When you take on the mantle of being that same person's significant other it becomes a whole new pile of assholes. Why, you ask? I don't know. Suddenly your crude humor isn't funny anymore. Suddenly your love of the sauce is unacceptable. Suddenly your lifelong struggle with a chronic failure to jump at every fucking whim is a crime. Here's a whim you can jump at, bitch: Suck my dick.
I'm not directing this anywhere. Its just commentary. Seriously, though, why does it change everything? Why is it suddenly so god damned formal? What happens to the inside jokes, the secret handshakes, the laughter for no real reason, the staying up late and talking? Where does that go? Does the sex replace it? I don't think so. The sex becomes less and less extraordinary. So what happens to that shit? Why do you suddenly have to pretend to be a re-made man (or woman, I guess) to impress someone who should know better? These are legitimate questions, and I think I have the answer. Play along.
The answer, of course, is that you're fucking retarded. I don't think you have to do those things. I think that when a relationship is new it feels fragile. It feels like a baby. So you lie to it. You tell it the world is beautiful and you're amazing and the sex is astronomical. You tell it you don't like to drink and the word 'nigga' is not in your vocabulary. You don't like to laugh at handicapped people. You don't cheat on your girlfriends or do irresponsible things, or forget just about everything she says to you. You do memorize her every curve. You call her everyday just to tell her you're thinking of her. You kiss her and say its the only time you've ever kissed someone like that. You lie through your god damned teeth. So does she. She's a liar, too.
Then you settle in. You start to feel comfortable. The real you creeps back in. You speak your mind, you get pants-shittingly drunk, you forget absolutely everything she says because, frankly, is was boring the first time. You confess that you hate his favorite band and, furthermore, his mother is a neurotic bitch. You become yourselves. Then you break the fuck up. The cycle begins anew.
You know what I say? Fuck all that. Stop lying to each other and get on with being people. No one is perfect for you because no one is perfect. Your ideal match will still have some character flaws. Character flaws you'll just have to get used to. This fairytale bullshit has to end. It has to end. Do you hear me? It is ridiculous. You'll find someone you get along with. Someone with the same crazy tendencies you hated about your mother or father. Someone you love unflichingly because, despite the occasional thought of murdering them in the shower, they're incredible. They're a part of you. They're your other half.
Until then, life is all bitches, money, and taking the risk of catching infections. You do it. We all do it. We thrive on the challenge. We thrive on the uncertainty. And when we find that special someone, we thrive on the periodic fights, the sobering backhand, and the strength that comes with knowing someone far crazier than you has your back.
That's love, folks, and god damn is it beautiful. Flawed, Odin's Beard, is it flawed, but nothing else compares. Not even a beer, a sandwich, and a warm place to sleep on a rainy night in a strange place. Unless, of course, that special someone is right beside you. Then, well, you'd better just prepare for death because it never gets any better.
Sentimental, but you can kiss my ass.
Alone when you're not here,
-S.R.
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