The End of the Rainbow

With great power comes great responsibility, yes, but think about it--isn't it easier to be the one bearing the responsibility than the one begging for redemption?

Is it just me?

Fine. So be it, but hear me out:

Say you are somewhat jaded, always wayward, and an absolute confirmed explorative in many ways even exceeding those for which you are often pegged. Let's say that for these reasons you are deemed disloyal by many even though you have more than proven otherwise. Say you have a commitment-phobia that isn't intrinsically based on the actual idea of commitment but rather in some deep seated fear of being out of control.

Let's say that person is me. And fuck it, let's say it's Mary too.

And let's begin to wrap our heads around the idea that people like this are constantly seeking the solace of some sort of quasi-unattainable and singular idea of a partner or a comrade or a companion that can match us on every level--intensity and strength and decibels and sex sex SEX and every little crazy part of us that makes us us. We dream of the day that we can find this without compromising our day to day and without watering down our brashness that we covet to a fault. We do this because should we find it via all of our fucked up morality and incomparable distaste for the norm--well then kiddos, we would thus prove ourselves valid.
It only takes one fucking boy to love us for us to make all of you nay-saying fuckers wrong.


The other side of this coin is that when commitment or even some sort of 'understanding' looms, we are wary and picky and flighty--we are quick to poke holes in perfection and eager to ruin if only just to re-gain the top rung. We oft do this quickly--after a couple weeks, a couple mettings, the next morning. We are not near as quick to dole out phone numbers as we are to remove our Cosabella's and Hanky-Panky's*.

This is why when a baby faced boy actually returns to our apartment we are somewhat uncomfortable before the second beer or so, and we are searching his face for that thing that makes us, rather than he, okay. Then the pretty and baby faced boy with the big bright eyes tells a story that is largely inconsequential, but ends on a note that comes completely out of left field, but gives us the ability to retain this ultimate hope.

"...yeah, and I guess that's when I got really into studying tantric sex."

I'm sorry, can you repeat that?

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't expect it from a guy like me, but the classes were really informative."

Whoa. Wait, back up. And you like me? I mean, that's a huge responsibility. You're now putting yourself in the position of The Great White Hope--you have the power to either prove all of us right, or more specifically me very, very wrong. How can you do this to me? You have the power to put me at your beck and call, to make we waive any morays I might have to harbor you. Believe me when I say this: I want this to make me okay.
Fuck. Fuck. I can already feel myself completely losing it, I can fell the tears prematurely welling underneth my lids for a premature end that caps a time that hasn't even yet begun. FUCK.

"Here, let me show you."


Ah, hell. Allright.

It feels amazing.
And this feels terrible.

*These are both brand-names that refer to underwear, by the way.

1 comment:

Don'Avonne Leak said...

you know what I did kinda look at the schedule wrong. opps.. hahaha.. I love your blog so much.. you kick ass lil lady.

hmm you might like this video: