Antisocial Dating

I can’t remember the last weekend in which an absurd story wasn’t embroidered in the headers and footers. If every day is noteworthy, no day is ever noteworthy. I went on a date with a friend of a friend. Actually, it was rather me inviting him to a show, because I couldn’t get any other poor sod to rise to the occasion. In a dimwitted attempt at giving back to the community, I’ve recently put a stop to the continuous string of one-hit-wonders with strangers. He insisted on driving the opposite direction to come pick me up…to humor the pretense of formality, let’s pretend.

The first time I’d met him was a couple years ago, when I was with a boyfriend. The second time I’d met him was a year ago, with a different boyfriend. The last time I’d met him was a couple months ago. This time I had no boyfriend, just the dress and makeup of the previous evening’s date. I didn’t know him well, but considering the kinds of blinds and randoms I’d been out with lately, you could argue I’d known him a lifetime.

He picked me up at a quarter to 8pm. A 6’5, slender brunette. Great bone structure, perfect symmetry. It was my first time being in a Prius. He’d brought rum in a water bottle and two packs of cigarettes. My kind of date. We dusted the rum in the parking lot before the show. Sadistik & Cunninlynguists. We had another drink or 2 at the bar and got lost in the music. I hadn’t encountered a romance that was not toxic and in some way ugly, tainted, or wicked in over a year. Hell, the last time I’d been out on a date with somebody with a first and last name was over 7 months ago.

The intertwining of fingers to live music in a dark crowd of true fans tends to evoke a deeper kind of connection. Although I’ve held a match to every one of my fingers, I still found myself wanting to get caught up in the whims and follies of the music junkie. We left before the show ended. I was only interested in seeing Sadistik’s set, and he was only interested in seeing me naked. I’ll admit. When I left the house that night, I didn’t see myself inviting him up. Not deviating from the trend of honesty, I still have trouble seeing myself inviting him up.

I’m not sure when exactly I let slip the notion of a luminous love and instead adopted a notion of twisted despair. Maybe it was when I found out I couldn’t have children. Perhaps it was when I found out my husband slept with my best friend. Or maybe it was when I broke the heart of a virgin and felt nothing but relieved. I want two hands squeezing tightly around my neck, as I throw an arm out into the dark and slap the jaw of an unknown. I don’t want to look him in the eyes, and I don’t want to fuck in daylight.

I got him out of the house before 8am. I left shortly after to go visit my childhood best friend. She bartended Monday mornings at a small dive. Sometimes I find it comforting to be around familiarity, even if they do think I’m nothing but a running gag. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Late afternoon I found myself on a rooftop bar in Laguna Beach, with a forty-two year old man. I still don’t remember his name, or what he did for a living. I’d met him at the dive, and he’d invited me down to his house. I told him I’d drive down to meet him. The last thing I remember was excusing myself to go to the restroom, and dipping out the backside of the restaurant to my car. I never spoke to him again.

I’m not sure why I left.
I’m not sure why I ever leave.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him I was leaving.
I’m not sure why I never tell them when I am leaving.

Whispers of a Birdy

I examine the catalyst and the factors that led to it
To determine exactly how lucky I am

I enter a cloud of smoke filled with PBR’s and IPA’s
A world of long hair, tattoos, and instrumental rock bands

The bass penetrates my bone and writhes from within
A 27 in one hand, and me in another

A skateboard at his feet, backpack on his shoulders
He spits one-liners from songs I’ve never heard

Beer cans fly over the crowd when the music is good
And bodies do when it’s even better.

The Artist

I explain my story to a visage I’ve never touched.
And has no last name.

Cheap cigarettes in late November.
I’m too old to fall in love.

An old house, transformed garage.
Paintings cover the walls.

Tall and slim, hair longer than mine.
I did not know then that they were his.

He asks me if I want to stay.
But it was the only reason I had come.

I break every taboo I have at once.
But I’m too smart to fall in love.

The tattoos come apparent.
The walls come down.

I find his soft lips through his coarse beard.
Cocaine sex, ash trays in bed.

A nightlong embrace, another taboo.
He shares few words with me.

Flip the vinyl as the sun comes in.
I cannot wait to fall in love.

Antisocial Drinking

Wiedmer bottles halfway down the hill.
Bruises the whole way up her body.

Several broken sprinklers.
Last last night’s makeup.

An empty bottle of gin.
Yesterday’s sundress.

Skid marks up the driveway.
Confessions now forgotten.

Pizza stains in the carpet.
He sleeps with an open mouth.

A dead orchid in the window.
Her pillow told her so.

Wrought iron ripped from the pavement.
She comes down from a weekend high.

Missing jackets, misplaced keys.
Wondering if it’s grief or just relief.

Broken bottles, shattered ash trays.
The last kiss, the last embrace.

Dead phones and dirty aquariums.
The last goodbye, if she can help it.

Fresh dents on the bumper.
Shaking. Is it from him or it that she withdraws?

Morning cigarettes on an empty stomach.
She aches from all the love.

20 October 2013

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Antisocial Drinking by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

27 100’s Beside A Rundown Swimming Pool

Assume any attitude, personality, or lifestyle.
Go any place, make any exit, seek any vocation.
A first date with deliverance over candlelight and Spanish tapas.

I make a clean escape from perfection.
Recoil into a dark, empty house that wreaks of eventuality.
My chapped lips cringe against the squall.

Alone, I delve deep into a love I can’t keep.
Not viable, unsustainable.
It’s so unhealthy…just the way I like it.

The howling gusts smell like fire. Waste bins fall.
I cuddle up in the arms of a jacket that has no owner.
I gaze across the murky, stirring water.

My focus falls along its dilapidated embankment.
Fond childhood memories incite such wretchedness now.
Crossroads. The juncture is imminent.

Bad dates make me happy.
Good dates make me sad.
Extinguish the 27 in the largest piece of a shattered ash tray.

He is my wishlist to Santa incarnate.
Except now I arise, and it’s Christmas morning.
But it isn’t he who kisses like it.

4 October 2013

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27 100’s Beside A Rundown Swimming Pool by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

He Kisses Like Christmas Morning

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

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He Kisses Like Christmas Morning by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Gag That Runs

As the light seeped through the cracks, she tossed and turned, with her paperback in hand. It was the third Agatha Christie novel she had finished, yet it was only Tuesday. She read compulsively when she couldn’t write, and she’d left her pen back in Ireland. Restless and still riding the wave of last night’s buzz, she arose.

With her regular bright and early starts in the fresh, crisp suburban air, she strapped on her neon Nike’s and ran. The birds chirped in the background as the bunnies scampered from her path. Her connections with the universe lay snug beneath her pillow as she became more in tune than ever with this fluid, lively world. She crossed paths with golf carts and exchanged hellos with elderly couples on their morning stroll. She’d turned off the screen; she was meant for now.

With a nocturnal internal clock, this hour of smoke-free clarity was her reality check, the string to her balloon. No matter how deep into those woods she wandered, the sun was always found at daybreak.

Her feet carried her miles away. She’d left behind the writer’s block, the hangover, and another loathed face still peacefully asleep in her bed. If only she had the stamina she would run forever. She would never go home. This wasn’t her reality check. It was her escape from her escapism, for this was everyone’s world except for hers. She didn’t inhabit or thrive in this terrene, she dabbled in it. She was a tourist in the realm of normality, and her visa was moments from expiration. She would always have to go home. Her love life was nothing but a running gag, with more endurance than she.

22 August 2013

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A Gag That Runs by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Diminishing Returns

It was precarious and elusive. Her pen tasted like spit, which then tasted like smoke. The paper was as blank as her stare, and she felt claustrophobic as the four walls in her en suite were closing in. Her long slender, fingers looked as if they could cast spells, and their movements gave allusions to a writer or a drummer in the way they swiveled her Cross ballpoint smoothly and effortlessly. She needed a muse. The last traces of her muse had just been severed with an incident in a Subway sandwich shop. He’d ordered a black forest ham sandwich with Swiss cheese and no vegetables other than iceberg lettuce. She could never marry a man whose pallet was so obtuse that it didn’t allow for vegetables. Sophia’s muses came with a shelf life; she was like the little girl who cried “love,” except every time she professed, she truly believed it herself. Every time she’d claim it was different, that she’d found the one, a man who was her muse, only to have the muse, her inspiration and ability to write, fade away into the abyss and leave her with the empty shell, the body of another lost lover. The rule of thumb gave her an average of eight weeks. The words that filled her notebooks each night would become more and more sparingly so, and then it was the same rigmarole. She’d suddenly discover a deal breaker in her cardinal rules, or something she’d been aware of the entire time would finally cross the line. She’d solved the puzzle; she’d taken it apart and put it back together again. She knew how it worked, how it functioned, and how to break it. The experiment was over. Hypothesis concluded. There was nothing left to learn.

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Sophia Blacke [1] by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

All That’s Missing Is The Guinness & Rain

My ego doesn’t let me fuck half the girls I want to.

Never trust a girl who can’t tell you where she got her her pj’s.
I’m trapped in my own skin.
She wants to close her eyes; I want to peel mine apart.
I can’t be too old for this.
It’s what I live for.

Why couldn’t you just let me be?
Instead you dare me to believe, dare me to consider.
Dare I run.
Now I wonder if I will wander this continent looking for anything to keep me from looking for you.

Fill in the gaps.
Never look back.
Closed my eyes to look forward.
Let it go. Grab nothing else.
I want to be alone, because I can’t be with him.
If there’s a white dress, it must be a wedding.
A wretched sham indeed.
Your truths are as elusive as my whims.
I’ll never have my white wedding.
I’d choose this cigarette over you.

13 February 2013

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All That’s Missing Is The Guinness And Rain by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.