Archive for May, 2011

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Posted: May 29, 2011 in otiose
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The rules are very simple, and yet your recidivism astounds me.
We’re not going to talk about the night shift anymore.
Suffice it to say, you’re a hell of a lot more fucked up than me.

I depend on this to a certain extent, but it’s certainly exhausting.

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Who do you want me to be?

Posted: May 20, 2011 in proselytizaytion
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I have the privilege of knowing who I really am.

I’ve been in love.
I’m not incapable.
I fall in love quite easily as a matter of fact.
I’m also okay with that.

Even though it’s admittedly quite painful in the end.

When I say I love you, I’ll become whatever you want.
Not necessarily what you say you want, but show me.
You always have a way of showing me, and if I love you…

I never get sick of that line…

“If you love me…”

If you loved me, you’d never say that.
No one’s ever really loved me.
I can say that confidently.
No one.
Ever.
Not “romantically” speaking.

“If you loved me…”

You sometimes ask for superficial things. Easy things. Cosmetic things. You sometimes beg for fantasies. Fallacies. Luxuries. “All of me.”
This time, you need “all of me.”
I wonder if you know what to do with that kind of control.

I don’t.

The more you ask, the less I give…but I’ll give until I’m empty when you don’t ask.
Maybe it’s wrong.
Maybe I don’t have anything that you want.
What would happen if you actually wanted me?
I don’t need you–not really–but I can position myself so that you can make things a lot easier for me.
I’ll let you make things a lot harder.
I judge. I weigh and rule.
I’m wrong sometimes.
I’ll apologize.

You’re going to try to give me what I want, and I’m going to tell you things.
Superficial things.
Easy things.
Cosmetic things.
Fantasies.
Fallacies.
Luxuries.
You’ll have me all figured out right before I change my mind.

Do you honestly think you’re ready?
Maybe next time.

Not often, but regularly.

How many years ago was it?
Eight.
Nearly a decade.

Does this make me old?

No, I was young then.

You don’t have a basement.
Pity.
We could use a room without windows.

I think back.
Why would you have any idea how I felt?

I made a point to clarify that sort of thing after you left
with others.

It’s disturbing that you chose the term, reciprocation, due to relatively recent conflicts involving reverse problems with
just
that
term.

If I’d had more self-confidence then, I suppose you’d be even less interesting now.
Still.
It’s fun to find out after all this time
that

you’re fucked up enough to think you like me.

Honestly, it does make me like you significantly less.
I seem to find attainability rather unattractive

and you were one deemed least attainable…before my run in with even more stringent reciprocity laws.

I think I was with him for less than an hour before I hit him and he told me to go home like I was a stray dog.
I was pissed. Disgusted/pissed. I don’t like some loser (and they’re all losers) to use any “daddy” terminology…ever, but especially in bed.
I have a very healthy relationship with my dad. It doesn’t cross over into that fucking role reversed Oedipus, Freudian shit. It’s not that submission is impossible to attain from me, although I am somewhat naturally predisposed to passively dominate.
A. You’re no where near as highly respected by me as my dad, so let’s not bring him up in direct comparison, because you’ll lose every time.
B. I don’t want to think about my dad while I’m fooling around. It’s not a turn on. It’s just creepy.
C. I don’t want to fuck someone with children that still need a daddy, because I wouldn’t have wanted my daddy to be fucking someone like me when I needed him. (That’s as close to fucked up as my daddy complex gets.) so I don’t want to think of you as anyone else’s daddy either.
D. I do not need to be coddled. I’ve been on my own for quite a while now, so I’m not looking for a stand-in father figure to take care of me; a task you’re not up to anyway, and finally,
E. I have no interest in having your children, so I don’t see you as daddy material in your own right, which brings us to slapping you if you don’t fucking shut up when I ask you nicely the first two times, and lowers your fuckability to next to nill.

I try to like men, but it never seems to work out.

Do you want me to be jealous of the other girls…
because I am, you know?
Maybe not jealous; that’s the wrong word…

but they make me feel inferior.

I am not enough, and then I have to ask myself:
Do I want to be?
What happens when I start to care
too much
and you don’t care enough?

Do you want me to chase after you
and hurt myself?
You should stop me soon if you don’t want that
because you asked me to start

caring.

You asked me to do this for you.
Subservience.
Isn’t that what you’re testing for?

I hope I failed.