3/1/13
from suburban loser to anxious asshole at the bar in a lifetime, I mean nine years into a redefinition, an intense focus of prolonged fictional application of persona.
Now I date witches, witness fire breathing, cookie munching, nymphs of seduction as they redefine the stage, and ride home drunkenly high on successful personification of myself. I try and put down words in order to capture the nonsense of my existence.
I'm 36 years old, which seems old in certain terms, but in Brooklyn it means I've just begun to figure myself out enough to start to date, seeking a return to innocence through the younger female of the species. I've only ever been good at one thing.
Sex, fucking, sleeping with one another is all I know, the female orgasm and the woman's infinite pleasure is my domain. I feel confidence between their thighs that I will never capture in the waking world. That shrug of awkwardness to preserve the continuity of sensuality, I strive endlessly to mimic that in my daily interactions.
Every day is a battle of wills, a test of fortitude against the tide of self-defeatism. My breathing must be stilled, my back cracked and popped into place enough so as to simulate a cohesive body continuity of blood flow and synaptic firing. You got this.
No matter what I've always rolled with what was presented to me. I found it fit in a comfortable sitcom synchronicity, for every good, a bad, leaving me in a diminished personal evolution. But the cycles have gone off the rails, and now here I am in an undefined present, spinning off into a future beyond my imagining.
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