I tender an unusually large amount of hatred for any man who doesn’t harbor the same loathing for excessively large, gas guzzling, pick-ups, outside of it being a 3rd vehicle, for practical uses, of course.
He has two, and only two.
My breeding physically renders me incapable of recognizing the diversions maintained by holiday spots like Lake Havasu and Laughlin as anything but far too many social classes beneath me to entertain the odd moonlit slum.
His family has a “river mansion.”
I have a phobia of the sun.
He has the deepest tan I’ve ever seen.
Far left’s disgust me.
He’s hawed to every fault. Thinks the Germans should’ve won and socialism works.
Men are said to be genetically predisposed to having spatial visualization skills and a sense of direction superior to their feminine counterparts, yet I’ve not come across any more proficient than I. Nevertheless, I still have high expectations and little patience for anything less from the man I respect.
I watch us take three detours every time we go from his house to the bar.
I ache from the painful transparency in these desperately self-serving mindsets who still can’t see the direct relationship between self-aggrandizement and insecurity.
He has a French bulldog purchased as a puppy from a breeder.
I hate Apple products, political activists and empathizers, and addictive personalities.
Bad listeners, projectors, and a man who can’t be alone.
His existence epitomizes everything I rebuke.
He is nothing of what I value, respect, or desire.
He touches my face and plays with my hair, as he kisses me goodbye.
I will die before I ever get this close to pure, unfettered passion again.
But the vetting took less than his 27 100.
I hop out.
Slam shut the passenger-side door.
I know it will be the last time I ever see him.
Logic concedes no alternative.
I am buoyant.
Comforted by rationality.
Don’t bother to look back.
Nothing to savor.
No waives for the send off.
I relish no moments.
Continue all function, as if nothing has changed
Less this fucking litany of hard-pass deal killers
Nothing has changed.
For I will see him again, the very next time he calls.
5 September 2013
He Kisses Like Christmas Morning by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.