So Long Summer. Hello Haulocaust.
Martians aren't cute, robots aren't funny, the zombie apocalypse will happen in our lifetimes and I know you well enough to know you never loved me. So don't start in now with how lonely and broken you were left when you were the one who skipped out on me. I don't leave, although everybody knows that I'm clearly "the leaving kind". You know; you've seen the type in your favorite movie heroines and nior villainesses-- Sex and sin and hell on wheels in high heels and not much else, yet when she inevitably answerers the front door in only a towel, her hair and make-up are inexplicably flawless.
I am no one's starry-eyed enjenoux. I play whatever roll you tell me will make you happy for as long as you will let me. I am the everything girl, the one you imagined, at least until I'm real or it all actually happened because the problem with fantasy is that when I make it a reality, it changes and it's never as good as you imagined it should have been. I'm the magdelena and the lolita and the nameless bond-girl that dies at the beginning of the movie. I'm pretty, unconventional, impossible to win any argument with, sexy because I know myself and I'm strong while maintaining vulnerability. I watch porn, drink beers, play D&D and then offer to blow you while you finish your term paper. I'm Alyssa Jones. I've done it all. I'm Anna Ayres. I make no excuses and no apologies. I'm the girl you date once and never call again because you're afraid. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you, or the worst. I might try to kill you during the most amazing sex you've ever had. I probably cry in the night and never tell you why. I'm Beatrix "the Bride" Kiddo. I am the student that outgrows her master. And if you should ever go, you may only live long enough to regret it. I am proof in time that you do not really want whatever it is you think you do, because if you did, you would still be here.
I gave you sex when you were horny, food when you were hungry. And you left anyway. I made your life easier; I ironed your work shirts while in my underwear and pearls. But you left anyway. I went out, I stayed in, I was friends with your friends, I could make you laugh, I could dance, I could listen to your bad days, I would care for you if you were sick. And you left anyway. I loved you. Don't you get it? I LOVED You. You left anyway.
For two years now, I've been without the one thing I need most. And I can't stand the fucking hubris, the hypocrisies, the utter self-loathing demonstrated and wielded bluntly by the men whom I have chosen to share myself with in that time. You're so vain. You're so ignorant and conceited and cowardly to think that this anger could or even should be all about any given One of you. It's not about you. This is about me. Because I don't write love letters and send poetry. I show up or call at three a.m. on a school night to hand you my latest angry diatribe. I tell you exactly what you did wrong at the moment's notice on the first offense. Or I pin a note to your pillow when I leave like a thief in the night that's addressed to the next girl or better still, to your not-yet-ex-wife. I steal your best band tee-shirt and you're lucky boxers. I make you two mixed tapes at the beginning of our love. Then two more at the end. I've bruised ribs, left permanent scars, wrecked homes, and yes, even tried to fuck your best friend if not your brother while we were drunk in front of you if you give me half the fucking chance. But I didn't lie to you. And those were the ones I really did care about. I am denying nothing. But did I deserve to be alone for two years?
For two years my only happiness comes maybe once every other month on average when I spend the night at a friend's house. I have friends, but it's not true love. I have some friends that like to have sex with me, but it's not love at all. It's this all-business no-fuss, mechanical interaction. We talk, we laugh, we even get off sometimes, but it's not the same and we both know it. But there's always this moment right before or right after when I can pretend not to know better. I can watch you sleeping and I can love you from there and you'll never know, so you can't say it.
For two years, I have gone unloved and those that I choose to champion unanimously and thunderously proclaim, "DON'T". "Don't waste your time, your love, your body one me. I am not worthy. I am not a good guy. I am not what you want. I will not bring you any happiness. Just stop being you and walk away, but don't leave me, because I can't handle that kind of rejection, so still have freaky sex with me, but we are just friends. Love is for suckers. Women are bitches. You scare me. Don't love me. You'll find better. Don't do this to yourself, and by yourself, of course, I mean me."
Oh yeah mother-fucker? Well then why did I just travel all those miles on my dime, my time away from my job, my family and responsibilities to pay for your food and vices and gas, (one guy, I even did work on his house for a week. Another, I purchased booze for his little brother's birthday party...) And tell you (like a chump) that I had these feelings for you, even knowing that rejection would be certain, if I didn't think it was all that fucking important to begin with?! I don't really care good you think you are in bed pal, nobody's That good. And I didn't ask for your opinion on the matter. I sure wasn't seeking you're approval. I'm done fishing for (false) compliments. So it was only my desire to be on the level with you that brought me to this fore-gone conclusion. My emotions are just that: Mine. And that makes them sacred to me. Don't trivialize my faith because you feel like being a frightened child in the face of common and not at all insurmountable adversity. Because you don't get to tell me how I do and don't feel. That was never your decision to make.
I am no one's starry-eyed enjenoux. I play whatever roll you tell me will make you happy for as long as you will let me. I am the everything girl, the one you imagined, at least until I'm real or it all actually happened because the problem with fantasy is that when I make it a reality, it changes and it's never as good as you imagined it should have been. I'm the magdelena and the lolita and the nameless bond-girl that dies at the beginning of the movie. I'm pretty, unconventional, impossible to win any argument with, sexy because I know myself and I'm strong while maintaining vulnerability. I watch porn, drink beers, play D&D and then offer to blow you while you finish your term paper. I'm Alyssa Jones. I've done it all. I'm Anna Ayres. I make no excuses and no apologies. I'm the girl you date once and never call again because you're afraid. I could be the best thing that ever happened to you, or the worst. I might try to kill you during the most amazing sex you've ever had. I probably cry in the night and never tell you why. I'm Beatrix "the Bride" Kiddo. I am the student that outgrows her master. And if you should ever go, you may only live long enough to regret it. I am proof in time that you do not really want whatever it is you think you do, because if you did, you would still be here.
I gave you sex when you were horny, food when you were hungry. And you left anyway. I made your life easier; I ironed your work shirts while in my underwear and pearls. But you left anyway. I went out, I stayed in, I was friends with your friends, I could make you laugh, I could dance, I could listen to your bad days, I would care for you if you were sick. And you left anyway. I loved you. Don't you get it? I LOVED You. You left anyway.
For two years now, I've been without the one thing I need most. And I can't stand the fucking hubris, the hypocrisies, the utter self-loathing demonstrated and wielded bluntly by the men whom I have chosen to share myself with in that time. You're so vain. You're so ignorant and conceited and cowardly to think that this anger could or even should be all about any given One of you. It's not about you. This is about me. Because I don't write love letters and send poetry. I show up or call at three a.m. on a school night to hand you my latest angry diatribe. I tell you exactly what you did wrong at the moment's notice on the first offense. Or I pin a note to your pillow when I leave like a thief in the night that's addressed to the next girl or better still, to your not-yet-ex-wife. I steal your best band tee-shirt and you're lucky boxers. I make you two mixed tapes at the beginning of our love. Then two more at the end. I've bruised ribs, left permanent scars, wrecked homes, and yes, even tried to fuck your best friend if not your brother while we were drunk in front of you if you give me half the fucking chance. But I didn't lie to you. And those were the ones I really did care about. I am denying nothing. But did I deserve to be alone for two years?
For two years my only happiness comes maybe once every other month on average when I spend the night at a friend's house. I have friends, but it's not true love. I have some friends that like to have sex with me, but it's not love at all. It's this all-business no-fuss, mechanical interaction. We talk, we laugh, we even get off sometimes, but it's not the same and we both know it. But there's always this moment right before or right after when I can pretend not to know better. I can watch you sleeping and I can love you from there and you'll never know, so you can't say it.
For two years, I have gone unloved and those that I choose to champion unanimously and thunderously proclaim, "DON'T". "Don't waste your time, your love, your body one me. I am not worthy. I am not a good guy. I am not what you want. I will not bring you any happiness. Just stop being you and walk away, but don't leave me, because I can't handle that kind of rejection, so still have freaky sex with me, but we are just friends. Love is for suckers. Women are bitches. You scare me. Don't love me. You'll find better. Don't do this to yourself, and by yourself, of course, I mean me."
Oh yeah mother-fucker? Well then why did I just travel all those miles on my dime, my time away from my job, my family and responsibilities to pay for your food and vices and gas, (one guy, I even did work on his house for a week. Another, I purchased booze for his little brother's birthday party...) And tell you (like a chump) that I had these feelings for you, even knowing that rejection would be certain, if I didn't think it was all that fucking important to begin with?! I don't really care good you think you are in bed pal, nobody's That good. And I didn't ask for your opinion on the matter. I sure wasn't seeking you're approval. I'm done fishing for (false) compliments. So it was only my desire to be on the level with you that brought me to this fore-gone conclusion. My emotions are just that: Mine. And that makes them sacred to me. Don't trivialize my faith because you feel like being a frightened child in the face of common and not at all insurmountable adversity. Because you don't get to tell me how I do and don't feel. That was never your decision to make.