The Freudian Slips
Once upon a time Mike Mcgee and Chad Hall had an idea about a 333 Word Weekly Tumblr Post Challenge. Feeling overly stifled creatively and spiritless in her 9-5, Siobhan decided why not. So it goes...
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For Arlene for being braver than most. (or, I spoke to my therapist today and she said things will get worse before they get better)
I am the daughter of a broken man who because he was broken broke many women who broke many promises to themselves and bore many crosses between broken boundaries and bonded allegiances so as a I result I break all things in an effort to keep his legacy alive and well. And I break as a testament, as a prize, as a gift for the breaker, like a lone tie on fathers day. I break because I love all the redundancies to which he owns, to which I home between where my blood and my bones reside. And one day this man for whom I break hearts, efforts, and confidences, will die and never know the battle I have fought for him. He will miss my improvisational alcohol laden odes to his lack of effort, come too late for my missteps with the ms and Mrs of my mainstays and perhaps long to see this mirror of him pronounce allegory via soft whispers on the ears of hard women. He will never experience my dedication along the trenches or realize that breaking the spirits of those you love is a war with the self and the self always wins which concludes in SELF pity, SELF analysis, SELF reflection but no love of self unless its herself or himself or self help with twelve steps to self discovery but all roads lead to being by ones self. I wonder if the broken man will mourn for the broken women he has broken or keep pieces of them in his pocket as reminders of what broken smells, feels, and looks like. And with all this breaking I wonder if I too like brittle bones will break under the pressures of being the daughter of a broken man, who when he broke those with hearts and lungs, and fathers, and mothers, and mortgages, and high heels, and babies yet to be born, broke like no other man before him.
I am a broken woman with little resolution and even less adhesive.
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δεσμεύεται
I’m going to have trouble showing up for your bar mitzvah, going to have an issue with getting to your birthday party, having trouble traveling to your summer house.
I’m better at not showing up, better at undertones, better at watching what I want being eaten by my antithesis, better at having an antithesis, better at notes from underground, better at having a man of action around.
I am better at no dialect, though you dissect my language like it were Dali but I have retired from art it seems so I am going to have some trouble attending your anxiety parade, better at starring in my own, better at forming my aches on paper than pouring them like white wines.
The renaissance is in the Riesling, in the forbearing, in the bellowing of I love you’s dear woman, in the forgetting of my own name. I have retired from trying harder for you, building bridges for you, being doctors without borders for all the well traveled parts of you; the souths and northern most barriers. There are parts of you I could go to court for so…
Call the Marshall on me, call a coast guard, call a nurse, call all the people who OK’d all the degrees I’ve got for this fraudulent secretary wearing marred makeup for men she has forgotten to sleep with. How do I fulfill your appetite when I am not even on your menu? I’m going to get drunk and come to you sober.
I’m going to have to miss my funeral for the chance of boredom. I’m going to travel to insane and insist on a refund for the food that was sloppy and the show girls who did not blow me and for every Asian who did not offer me a happy ending. And god is an Asian woman who didn’t live up to my expectations, though I carried her to market, kissed her like I loved her and married the fuck out of that bitch.
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…Because love of this life means more in this moment.
I remember when the penalty of loving was a barricade of penned poems about love and loving you was more about the specs of dirt across your shirt sleeve than the specs of people we are in ratio to the type of love willing to give itself to us.
Listen to me
I will miss you more when you sleep tonight, thrown up against a pillow piled up like harmonious limbs, head filled with bubbles of images of babies and HD heartbeats, high definition love has never felt so 4-D, for me, for the body organs that hide itself against each other, making foreign love to catch each other. Fourscore and seven years ago I hadn’t felt so completely completed by murmurs of “I hate you’s” anchored by the adoration your eyelashes alone sing at me.
Level me off love
Upon further exploration, as if to say I am Lois to your Clark, I bore these maps, I write these woes, I walk these planks to your destination. I sweep sweat from the brows of men twice my age, I shovel shit for shells, for your roots, for your smell and I cease for no soul because who could get tired of miracles?
Love me deeper
Finding folly amongst fools is no task and task alone is pulling apart your bones from the skin that has latched on to it. There is no kerning of anything fortunate to have attached itself to you and I should know it. I’ve been playing magnet to your magnets, Moses to your burning bush, bi-daily broadcaster of your freckles, indentured servant to your mountain, and deep sea diver to your deluge. I am Gestalt to your pieces, periodical rehearser of your speeches, researcher to the reaches and slave to what your mind beseeches.
Lay with me darling
I remember when the penalty of loving something more than myself meant a life of incarceration but have since forgotten a time when considering such penalty enough to stop me…
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Perdido
Last night I rubbed one out to tits that look exactly like Arianna’s. I mean I don’t know for sure that her tits look like the tits of the porn star who captured my attention span for the most intense 6.2 minutes of my life, as Arianna is wearing clothes and Veronica Vixen did not wear any, but as I watch Arianna walk towards me I get flashbacks of my ball sweat hitting my upper thigh in an agony that can only be described with the word miracle. She is beautiful in the way ravens are or soliloquies by the homeless are and it takes every morsel in me to not jump or jizz or do something somewhat Aspergersy. She comes closer and I fidget with my shirt. I bounce off something wooden and attempt to dust dirt from my left sleeve.
“Are you Tom?” she asks and I wonder for a moment, am I Tom? I had tinkered with the idea of using a pseudonym on the Craigslist ad I used to wrangle Arianna here. Perhaps I was Tom, an investment banker with three months left to live and a desire to give out as many hugs as I possibly could but not in a cheesy way like that one Dave Matthews video but in a big existential post Freudian preemptive Apocalyptic life cycle kind of way. Maybe I am Doug, a copycat Craigslist killer misanthrope who eats girls that are roughly 5’1 using really sharp knives and forks because dull ones would just be homage to an homage that no one is buying. Or I could be Sam, a man in his forties who walks his cats like they were dogs and trims his hair like it were the skin from uncooked chicken and longs to be touched by someone who is not his right hand. Before I could answer she steps forward and asks, “Are you a sick fuck Tom?” I think I could be. I could be a sick fuck. A month ago Samantha, a long legged librarian type announced to most of my apartment building that I was in fact a sick fuck. I’m not sure it was warranted; after purchasing $73 worth of Patron we headed to my place for what she cautioned me was not going to be sex. I agreed and offered to show her my Lionel Richie collection in which she offered up her left breast and a list of requests that ranged from hog ties to ass to mouth ritual. What followed was not sex but a sexless mambo with her dermis. Her tequila soaked body pressed up against the hardest parts of me and the disgust on her face played mirror to what was before her. I pulled her closer. Felt her cheek against mine and kissed the accents of tragedy written on her cheeks. She recoiled in horror but I managed enough muscle to bury my face between her breasts and wept small tears against her soft skin. That’s when she let Mr. Harrison in 4B and Mrs. Cho in 7C and everyone else that night know that I was the sickest fuck she had ever met.
I imagine it was while watching Samantha flying toward my door in sheepish frenzy that brought me here today, in front of another terrifyingly beautiful woman who had no idea what she was getting mixed up in when answering a silly ad: Safe, sane but quirky, single white male in need of human embrace; a hug will suffice, more will be compensated. This is not a sex ad though sex is not frowned upon, however emotional flogging is. Please email me with specifications, flexibility in schedule. Visceral moment appreciated.
