(no subject)
It makes one wonder if it’s just the trappings of it all, the frequency of the ambient droning of longing, regret etc that’s important. Give me enough time to second guess and I’ll wind up missing every Last girl I’ve ever felt something for or felt up. It’s a deeper problem, subconscious, subprime, suboptimal for the subhuman. The crisis of our (my) time that’s made its way to loom up out of the shadows in the various stages, reminded me of my failure and of how I could never trust myself to feel, to trust myself with the lack of feeling, to hold desire apart from a grocery list. There’s a renewed attempt to describe it every time it gnaws at me. The point is, everything else burns at the same rate. The Mexican girl with the big tits who gave lousy toothy head and squirmed on the futon mattress when you put it in her, the Chinese girl with the tongue piercing that wouldn’t swallow and needed lube because of how you couldn’t lubricate her with your own charms and wiles, that goth girl that owned the bookstore that try as you might you couldn’t fuck chemistry into. They all leave holes of equitable length in my rear view. Equal time under the microscope, spotlight. Acknowledging how little they measured up by comparison seems almost beside the point. They’re all neighbors, tv blaring out the windows on a summer night, motor oil rainbows down the driveway. Who are they going to talk to? I’m lousy with first impressions. Cop out, yeah fuck you. Fix my head before you waste your time criticizing how I end these things.