: October 2002: Hard Justice
COME AND GO. None of them are ever
perfect. All of them piss you off. They're
a pair of panties full of trouble. They whine
and cry, bitch and moan, and when you're basking
in the fact they aren't there, they bleed
without dying. I don't want to hear about
do you drink so much?
you! Cook your own dinner!
up. For God's sake, I didn't sign up for this
bullshit when I said I wouldn't fuck other
girls. I want to hear you complain about as
much as I want skin cancer...maybe less. For
the record, I drink to get away from you,
and those cheeseburgers aren't eating themselves.
The only time I find you attractive anymore
is when you cook for me, and I'll stop hitting
you when your jaw stops moving. Go away, I'm
trying to watch television. Go sleep in your
own bed tonight, I don't want to have to talk
to you in the morning. You're boring.
get old so fast. In the first few weeks you're
happy to have one again...someone to put her
arm around you at the bar, someone who needs
you to protect them. They give you blow jobs.
Hot, wet, sloppy blow jobs. They smile when
you fuck them. They make you coffee and tread
on eggshells around your explosive masculinity.
They're happy to have you in their lives.
They appreciate you.
the spontaneous blow jobs dry up. They don't
have to court you anymore.
"Do you want some coffee, sweetie?" becomes:
"I don't really want to fuck right now." An
angel becomes a watchful eye in the clouds.
You begin to feel uncomfortable, as if you
can't be yourself around her. The sad fact
is, you never were yourself around
her. In those first weeks, you were your "new-girlfriend
self." You were a sick parody; never scratching;
never annoyed or crabby; always waiting to
take a shit until you got back to your own
house. You never took a stand in those wonderful
"discussions" that new relationships stir
up: politics, gender equity, TV shows, music...and
even when she said something patently idiotic,
you grinned and bore it.
a couple months, that feeble-mindedness of
hers grows under your skin like an abscess.
A nagging, itching, vaguely painful sore.
One day, you erupt. The two of you finally
have a fight. You yell at her. You make it
clear that you are not interested in tolerating
her stupidity or retarded behavior, and everything
changes. There are no more barriers. You've
shown your true self. Now, when she gets out
of line, you scream like a Berserker. Maybe
you hit her. Maybe she calls the police. Maybe
you give them three thousand dollars in cash
to forget they ever saw the bruises. Maybe
that's just me.
time has come to break it off. They just aren't
fun anymore. Cue the Dump. Now, to me, this
is always the best part. Sure, I had fun with
her; maybe she's really smart. Maybe she's
a great fuck. It's nothing personal. I don't
hate her; I just don't like her anymore. I
shouldn't have to make excuses.
need some time to figure things out.
not ready for a relationship.
right. Ha, ha. I'd be plenty ready for a relationship,
if I could stand to be around her. What I
need is a relationship with someone else.
Breaking up is hard to do, but I enjoy it
like a warm bath. I make them cry, and I try
not to giggle. They sob and ask me what they
did wrong. I say, "nothing," and they wonder
what happened. They beg me to reconsider.
I say, "I'm sorry, but that's the way things
are." Their eyes flash with sudden realization.
I'll never fuck them again. The sobbing continues.
okay, you'll meet someone else.
cry, you know I hate to see you cry.
titty, bitch. Get your fat ass steppin'!
up, or I'll hit you!
dumped so many girls, sometimes I get them
confused. Which one threw the saucepan at
me? Once, I endured a ten-hour marathon breakup
scene with a girl, running though every phase
of the grief cycle. First came shock: "What
are you talking about? I...I don't know what
to say." Then anger: broken windows, fisticuffs,
and flying dishes. Denial followed: "I'm going
to my room, and when I get back, everything's
going to be okay." Wrong, bitch. Then grief:
sobbing, sick, snotty tears and garbled apologies
for anything she might have done wrong. "What
did I do? Just tell me and I'll stop doing
it!" I ate a sandwich on the couch as she
continued babbling. I wasn't paying attention.
I was thinking about the hot chick I was planning
to ask out for coffee tomorrow. I pictured
her riding my cock, smiling. My new ex moved
on to acceptance at 7 o'clock in the morning,
and I split. The hot chick was my new girlfriend
inside a week.
much better to dump than be dumped. Of course,
having a woman you actually enjoy being around
is the most desirable situation, but I'm beginning
to think that's only another myth perpetrated
by the Hallmark people. Sooner or later, they
all hit the road. Sometimes, in the first
few weeks there comes that flash. A vision
of her being dumped. You see in your mind's
eye, her crying, her telling you how much
she "really, really liked you," and how she
doesn't understand why you're doing this.
I saw this vision once, right in the middle
of fucking the shit out of a new girlfriend.
I snapped back to reality like a rubber band
and started fingering her asshole. Get it
while you can.
they're gone, the pain comes. You spend your
time in bars, staring down every attractive
woman you see like a sick dog, wondering if
she's your next victim. You sleep alone. You
wonder if it was worth it. You wonder if you've
made a mistake. Then, propped up by friends
and family, you realize; you're free. You
dance with every step, a sprite riding on
fluttering wings of New Hope. The hope of
the new vaginas to come. You look forward.
You can see the future, of naked women, drunken
fumblings, and well-thrown punches into pretty,
maybe that's just me.
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