I Can't Think Of A Good Title For This

I Can't Think Of A Good Title For This

07.14.05 (12:00 pm)   [edit]
Growing up, it was pretty obvious to me that I was allowed very little space to express my thoughts or feelings at any given time. My father's unspoken rule for my mother and me was "You aren't allowed to have emotions. *I* am, and in fact, I will all over you. But YOU are not."

He still is that way, perhaps a bit looser now that he's aged some, but it's still there. If I feel anything - especially anything "negative" - I'm either told that I'm WRONG or that I need to "get over it." His favorite phrase is "calm down", which has the exact OPPOSITE effect on me, because it's HORSESHIT. Hypocritical horseshit at that. He bitches about anything and everything every waking minute, but me? Oh, fuck no. I'm WRONG.

And you know what? Sometimes I am wrong. Absolutely. I've been wrong a lot. A lot more than I'm comfortable having to live with. But I can ADMIT that. Something that emotionally dishonest hypocrites are apparantly incapable of.

When seemingly everything you say is turned against you, when things are read into your simple comments that ARE NOT THERE, and when you are constantly made to feel WRONG by people who will admit to little if any wrongdoing of their own, you get a little pissed off. And you don't "get over it." Maybe after some time. Maybe after a long time. But not right away, and anyone who thinks otherwise can go fuck themselves. I'm sick of apologizing for how I feel. Having a mental condition that makes it difficult for me to process all my emotions apparantly means that none of them are valid. Well shit on that.

I thought moving away from my parents would put an end to this. It didn't. I'd say more, but it *will* be used against me. The situation will not be rectified. It will be denied, then ignored, just as it always has. But it will continue and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it. I'm doing my damndest to be nice, let out as little as I can possibly let out of myself, and ignore the crap that does go down, but I know it won't end for a long time and I refuse to be told how to feel about THAT.

The only times I'm truly happy are when I'm with Katie. When I'm playing bass with one of the bands, I'm pretty close to it. The other five days of the week are fucking hideous, and I'm having to spend a lot of time in what passes for my version of meditation (laying on the floor trying to breathe normally, in other words) to be able to deal with the constant barrage of shit that is coming my way right now. Not knowing from day to day if I'm working or not (I'm trying to get away from this temp gig, becuase it SUCKS COCK to have no idea what the fuck is ever going on), not knowing if I'm going to be able to pay the bills, mostly eating products from a dollar store, and trying to talk myself into believing I made the right decision moving two hours away from Katie (I'm mostly sure of that, but not very) has me in desparate need of that kind of exercise.

I had great hopes for a high-paying teaching job nearby, and was told (he TOLD me, goddammit) that I'd know last week what was happening when. Lots of students, excellent money. The possibility of cramming most of those students into three long days, leaving me plenty of time for Katie (I can see her twice a week but am currently only able to once) and for other projects such as the bands. It felt very good, very strong. The interview went great, and I just KNEW I was going to get this job, and it would pretty much save my ass and justify the ridiculous move two hours away from my daughter. He told me I'd know last week. It was made clear.

But when I went in last week, he told me that I would have to check back in September. SEPTEMBER. I know a month and a half isn't that long a time, but I'm ADD as a rat on crack, FIVE SECONDS can feel like an eternity to me. Well, fuck my ass and call me a whorebeast. FUCK. It was like having your dick in Sarah Michelle Gellar's mouth, plugging away dreamingly, just long enough for Mickey Rourke to walk in the room naked and scream "I just ate boogers out of Tom Waits' ass!" I'm talking a HARD-ON that shrivels up like a STACK OF DIMES in nanoseconds. I left the music store feeling like I'd just been punched in the face. I still might have the job, but I won't KNOW for a while, and I have rent to pay.

I've spent several days in the past few weeks shitting blood. I could hardly walk for a day last week because my back hurt so much from spending that much time on the toilet fucked up like that.

But I'm supposed to "get over it." Yeah, well, get over my COCK.

The other part of having no money is how it's only worsened my near complete lack of sexual confidence. I feel like I have so incredibly little to offer a woman right now (well, there's that afore-metioned cock, but nobody seems to be in a hurry to get to know that, and I'm never even sure if the damn thing is going to work or not) which I suppose is another result of having everything you say or do turned against you for so long.

So, let's talk about that.

Case in point: the girl I used to work with at the grocery store. We'll call her "E" for the hell of it. I know "E" sounds like one of Elvis' entourage calling after him, but it makes the story more entertaining ("E, I want to bang your sweet blond snatch." "OK, just let me finish this peanut butter and banana sandwich first." ) so I'm leaving it in there. Huhuhuhuh, "leaving it in there", huhuhuhuhuh.

I met E back in October. She hired in at the grocery store around the time I did. I was the bag boy (huhuh, "bag", huhuhuh), she was the cashier. I fell in lust with her in about 4 nanoseconds. It was kinda awkward. I was married. I was 13 years older than her. I pretty much didn't give two shits about anything other than throwing her onto the aisle, scanning the bar code on her ass, and fucking her on the little conveyor belt that takes your canned beans down to the end of the line where the bitter 35-year old never-has-been musician stuffs it into a plastic bag and tells you to have a good night in a really fake put-on voice, because he doesn't give a rat-infested TURD whether you have a good night or not. In fact, he probably wishes death on you. For no real reason, just because you EXIST.

Still being full of that old-time Christian Guilt that I can't seem to get the fuck out of myself, I hated myself immediately. "I'm married. I can't be looking at sweet fine, delectable girls who are 13 years younger than....uh....anyone got a towel? I be back..."

I never told E that I wanted to wear her like a feed bag and do nasty, delicious, sinful things to her, but it has probably been perfectly obvious since the first time I drooled on myself and said "Hi, I'm Dick...er, Doug. Nice to fuck, er, work with you."

E is a little shorter than me, straight blond hair past her shoulders, mid-sized yet firm young rack, non-descript butt, and pale honky white as all hell. Even by my standards - and I like pale white girls, oh yeah - this is one pale white girl. I doubt most guys would think all that much of her, but I've wanted to eat fish and chips out of her oven since the first time I laid eyes on her. She has these sad, but somehow distant eyes. They kill me. She's kinda dense, but she is a sweetheart. And those eyes. God, those eyes. When I see those eyes, all I think about is...uh....getting my cock wet.

Did I mention she has a boyfriend?

Shit!

Anyway, I hadn't seen E since right after I came back from California. I went into the store a few nights ago, PRAYING TO GODS I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN that her boyfriend had been lost at sea or had been mangled to death in a folding-couch incident. "Jesus? Buddha? Mohammed? Zeus? Anybody? Hey, I need a favor down here. Can one of you guys spare a minute to zap this chick's boyfriend to death and make her crave my dysfunctional tiny sausage? Anyone? Someone? Ahhh, fuck it."

See, I'm a warm, sensitive, caring guy, and I only wish the best for the women of my dreams.

Katie was with me, it was our last stop before I took her home. I bought beer and strawberries (guess which was for who) and wasn't expecting to see E, since I'd already cursed my luck upon not seeing her striking yellow car in the parking lot. But there she was, on register 8, where I'd seen her so many times before. If not for the presence of both my daughter and my sanity, I would have prostrated myself before her (in front of the candy rack) and cried out "E! I've come to devour your perfect young poon until you scream for security! Take me, I'm yours!"

Instead, we talked about my marriage falling apart while she rang up my beer and strawberries.

She was very concerned about my well-being ("does your wife still talk to you???") and was perfectly friendly. And something about her manner also said "I'm glad you're ok, but I'm still fucking the other guy. Forget about it, old guy. I'd rather stuff one of the leftover carrots in the back room of produce in my cunt than anything attached to YOU."

Or maybe not. Maybe I was imagining the whole thing. All I know is that I wanted to ravage the edible young body of a girl whose mother is four years older than me (I know this for true), and for that, I am certainly going to Hell. But the tunes are better there, and I hear Satan has a really big cock. So what the fuck.

Back to Earth. When we left, Katie had a question:

"Is she your girlfriend, Daddy?"

"Well...no...I think she has a boyfriend already."

"Maybe you should ask her to be your girlfriend."

Yes, I've thought of that... "What would you think of that, honey?"

"It's OK....you and Mommy used to be boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Yes, that's right"

Oh my gawd...

"I wish you were boyfriend and girlfriend again, all the time."

Oh damn.

"Well, honey...I wish we....uh...see, this is the way me and Mommy decided we had to be and...I still...uh...I know it's hard to understand, but we can't be together anymore. But we both still love you very much. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, Daddy."

And that was that. I went from nasty evil thoughts about a sweet young thing to wanting nothing more than making my litttle girl happy in about 2 seconds.

OK, I still thought about E's perky little rack and wondered if she was naturally blonde all the way back to dropping Katie off. I'll admit it. I'm a sick evil fuck! I accept that!

Here I was desperately wanting to plook E, and all Katie was thinking was, gee, I wish my mommy and daddy were back together. I felt like a total shitstain.

So anyway...

In better news, I've really been enjoying listening to Jethro Tull this week. It's nice to know that Ian has lasted this long and what he may have lost in vitality (and I don't think he's lost that much, actually) he more than makes up for by being one of the few people of his generation to have retained his individuality and not become a total caricature of himself. He's stayed true to the music he started from, and if most of it sounds kinda the same, there's never any question of honesty and intent. I admire the shit out of him and I wish I had Jonathan Noyce's job right now. Beats the fuck out of the shit I'm doing right now.

Dougie