Shooting My Wad

People are weird and life is strange.  Any veteran lover will either tell you it was worth it, or be so punchdrunk and jaded that love’s gone septic in their blood, and there’s no chance left at them ever falling in love again.  You see the latter in the bars, destitute and venomous out on the street, long gone but only rivaled by the former, the lucky in love, who see everything through a haze of gold dust and every person as a chance to get lost with nothing but time to lose.  The world is full of lovers and the lovelorn, each rattled and insane, one drunk on faith and the other just drunk.  There are exceptions.  Like me.  I’ve been so lucky in love I could live the rest of my life a hermit and it would be ok.  I’ve had plenty of sex, although, can you ever have enough?  The point is I am both lucky and bitter enough to stop the merry-go-round, get off and go home.  Or, go home and get off, as it were.

Truth has got to be the worst drug.  There’s no come down but it doesn’t get you high either.  It tastes right but it doesn’t taste good.  The truth will never be as tantalizing and exotic as The Lie.  Love can be like this, and many will use lies to get it.  Procuring a partner is best done with drinks and perfume-with the jagged edges smoothed out and under the cloak of darkness, where you can’t see death in her eyes or the bitter lines that hold up his bright smile like a dollar sign.

Most people lie to get love because they feel unworthy.  They’ve got to trump themselves up, be sure to impress upon you that they’ve got it together.  There’s no carnage back there, at least no bodies piled in the dank crawlspaces of their heart.  So much for Generalizations.  There are, as mentioned, exceptions, and for the sake of this blog and all that it stands for, the people I am telling you about-who audition for love, who jump through hoops to appear sane and together and healthy and not bitter, no, never bitter-those people are me.  I’m them.  Yep.  I’ve been auditioning for women since I was 15.  Before that was innocence, and another story, a heartbreaking one and a joyous one, but certainly one that is over and long gone.

It’s me, Brother, Sister.  I am the one who is most dutifully trying to convince you that I’m normal.  I don’t think too deeply, don’t think too much at all.  That I have a career but it isn’t the string of deadend blue-collar labor that’s filled my resume for the last 25 years.  That I believe in this country and have strong views on who should win the next Presidency and I don’t think cops should be dragged into the street and tried on their knees in places like Detroit and Baton Rouge and Michigan.  That I have a good feeling about where things are headed, and that although my Brothers and Sisters are misguided they at least have their own best interest in mind.  Yep that’s me.  And I’ve had you fooled ain’t I?  And I’ve had more than a little luck at it.

Maybe Pilgrim but I’ve paid.  In ways that aren’t kind.  I’ve suffered heartbreak-the real kind and I’m back to tell the tale-splayed open and ready for the next blue-eyed jazz singer to come in and light up my heart like a cathedral.  Heartbreak I never mind.  On principle.  It’s napalm in the trenches when it’s going down, and I’ve kept State Express tobacco in business for many heartbroke years, but it meant that I was alive.  I took the chance on somebody.  Even though in most cases there was every indication I should not love this person-I have.  Many have not come back to tell the tale.  And some will be friends in my heart and out in the green world forever.  You know who you are.  There’s a fair share of poetry about you, and the other kind.  The other kind who I’ve had to bury in words, those I’ve had to eviscerate and crucify, dig up and kill again.  You were the ones who wasted my time.  The clever trick was to make me think it was me who wasn’t worthy.  Me who was crazy.  Me who you wouldn’t mind if I’d just forget:
You’re never doing anything wrong when you’re telling the truth.
-Bill Ackerman, Supporting Characters

Now I have no sympathy.  My blood has dried to clay in my veins.  I used to never mind that you were broken.  ‘Cause I knew that I was too.  Now I don’t have much time left, no space for bullshit and candy ass prima donnas who think the sun rises out their ass.  The only thing I have is an address.  Our conversation will now be reduced to this.  You asking.  Me telling.  Us being together.  Otherwise I’ma sit here and do my thing.

Just kidding.

I’ll be putting some time in.  Really working on myself.  Tightening up the wardrobe and getting my facial scrub on point.  Shining my shoes and whitening my teeth.  I’ll be working overtime to have the money to treat you to nice things.  The struggle and crises of my past will be just that.  You’re on Easy Street now, honey, ’cause here I come-your tall dark and successful man, a strong silent winner who never uses the word bitch and doesn’t care if you lie.

Just kidding.

I’ll be on Facebook, posting articles about Trump and asking people what they think about Trump so I can tell them what I think about Trump and I won’t rest or shut up until November 8 when Hillary takes it like she should, and fulfills the Clinton family’s destiny to bring dynasty rule to the Land of the Free, one the Bushes could’ve had but who will laugh with anyway at a private party behind the rose garden, put on by Wall Street with security provided by the Fraternal Order of Police…and I’ll be in the kitchen or behind the bar, shuckin’ and jivin’ in my serving blacks like the American jackoff I’ve become since I dropped out of music school to be more “real” and mistakenly think I could fight my heroes’ battles and take a long-suffering road I didn’t have to take, just to prove myself to an old man who didn’t care and a woman who doesn’t know how to.

Just kidding.

Down here at the Office we think it best I stick to posting at least 600 words a week, along with a letter to the fans, to keep these demons at bay and avoid spewing 1,134 vituperative words in a caustic spray at random degree…and that’s how it goes.  You either hang yourself or hang it on the wall.

See you on Thursdays motherfucker.