LJ Idol- Week 2 -Deconstruction

Nov 09, 2010 22:23

The sophisticate- I show off my native wit, the amusing little stories of 40 years.  The mildly self-deprecating banter, the eyes that implore and envelop that make you feel like you are the only woman worth knowing amid the throngs.  Behold, the single glass of merlot, its richness augmenting my knowing smile.

The artist- The words grace the page, the man stalks the stage, the will steals the scene, it’s a narcissist’s dream.  I do the thing I was born to do, and it resonates with you.  Your ardor won’t wane and we share a demi of Champagne.

The rugged one-  I drink my whiskey neat, I suffer in silence and I reserve my commentary for my bottle.  Sam asks me if I am going to bed now, if I ever will sleep again….and I brush my friend aside, my pain isn’t a topic for conversation, it’s a building block for a tragic hero.  I will put the Goddamned girl on the Goddamned plane if I must, because it’s what real men do.  Feelings be damned.

The Frat Boy-  Sure I know about Pilsner Urquell, and Trappist beer…but I am o.k. with whatever is in the keg.  I am o.k. with you too, I don’t care about your name, though I’ll feign it, don’t care about your story…but I’ll claim it.  I might care about your pleasure if I get that far, but it’s just because of my fears about my prowess…my reputation….my…God where is the toilet I have to pee.

The lecher-  I want to know what color panties you are wearing….even if we just met, ESPECIALLY if we just met.  I want to know who you masturbate to and what you masturbate with, and how pink or brown your nipples are and if they sag with the gravity and gravitas of your years…or if they are pert and supple like I imagine my conversation still is.  I wheedle and I grovel and I beg….and the dirty secret is I couldn’t get it up without a crane.

The walking dead- Alcohol is a poison, and I am a self-poisoner.   The anorexic can never be thin enough, and I can never be drunk enough.  I hiss and spatter and make overtures at choking on vomit and ending this charade.  I see you…deeply, and without longing…maybe for the first and only time….and I see you liked me, I can only babble and sputter and see your ardor for me morph to a passive kind of concern.  I will never be in your bed or in your head, but you hope that I am o.k.  I try to tell you with eyes, with hands with anything that still works, that I will be o.k.  Except you see through the charade, and you touch my froth flecked cheek as you turn away for good.  For everyone’s good.

deconstruction, week2, lj idol

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