Or Maybe You’re a Fucking Idiot

It’s taken me a decade of adulthood and long term relationships to fully appreciate my independence and I have no intention of giving that up without a fight.

I meet handsome suitors on a regular basis, you see. They all start off great. I like them at first, and yet, none of them are able of getting past the second date without some sort of crash and/or burn.

Zero.

For the most part, they start showing signs of passive aggression, which is a total turn off. Being completely inconsiderate and clueless in regards to the proper way to treat their date – me – is another turn off.

Like if you’re going to show up an hour and a half late for a date, you should probably attempt to contact me and let me know about this. You should also probably take a taxi to meet up, rather than that leisurely twenty minute stroll from your place to our destination, where I’ve been waiting for an hour, which I wouldn’t have done had I not already decided to attend the event in question regardless of your tomfoolery. Maybe some sort of apology would be nice, too.

And if you offer me a beer upon your eventual arrival, and I say Yeah Sure, you should get me that beer.

Some other tips would be:

Do not allow me to read your writing if you are a clueless cokehead who only writes about your boring coke addled delusions of grandeur.

Do not bitch incessantly about other people’s art/style/friends/life choices.

Do not openly mock the guy who is walking five feet ahead of us because he’s wearing a funny hoodie.

Do not ditch me at the last minute for a night out with your friends and pretend that you had made these plans a long time ago. And take the other girl you’re dating along with you. I can understand hints far more subtle than that, thank you very much.

And, of course, do NOT INSULT MY WRITING. OR MY FASHION DESIGN SKILLS. OR MY ANYTHING. Not if you’re trying to get into my pants. I mean really. What the hell is that?

Maybe I’m just high maintenance.

I Dropped Your Heart in the Blender. On Purpose

Picasso has a saying:

“There are only two kinds of women – goddesses and doormats.”

Oh, Picasso, you old salty dog.

Thank you.

I know I’m enchanting, the proof lies in the trail of heartbroken letters I’ve accumulated over the years from all the boys and men I’ve touched with my clumsy hands.

Attracting and capturing the heart is easy. Attempting to hold it while keeping it intact is much more difficult.

The heart is fragile and malleable.

Warm tin foil.

Illogical.

It doesn’t care for your well-being.

People always mentioned Picasso’s misogyny as a surface issue. No one ever talked about why Picasso hated chicks. And I find the whole he-grew-up-with-a-sexist-father argument weak. Everyone’s father is sexist, that’s old news.

I know what happened. Picasso was clearly sensitive. When I say sensitive, I don’t mean regular people sensitive, I mean sensitive in comparison to other artists. SENSITIVE. He kept himself guarded, emotionally speaking, and allowed no one into his bat cave.

Someone got in. Someone touched his heart, rather than his dick, and strolled right on in.

That sure fucked him up, didn’t it?

The Rectangle Chair For Jerks

It didn’t seat too many jerks after all.

And I was surprisingly well behaved.

I made out with no one.

I got mean to no one.

I did not take off with a 22 year-old skateboarding poet to watch the sun rise beneath the horse balls at Queen’s Park.

I did share a pee session with a near man-stranger. We were both polite enough to look away while the other one peed. It was all very innocent, and I’m pretty sure that I would have been the one to orchestrate that experience.

I like peeing with people, you see.

And maybe there are golden showers on the horizon, but for now, all is well and I am as innocent as a newborn babe.

A newborn babe with a smoker’s cough and a slight hangover.

We’d Have to Battle Pirate Ships

When I woke up this morning, I lay in bed and listened to the wind.

Things were being knocked around.

There was a watery sound, too.

I couldn’t hear any people or traffic noises.

I thought that the city had flooded like in that Noah’s Ark tale. I was excited at the prospect of living through a Bible story.

Or, more likely dying to a Bible story. I only have two of one type of animal and I have not received any messages from god lately.

I am not the Chosen One.

I’d be willing to have a child named Ham, if it meant I got to live through the world’s destruction. I’d fashion an ark out of old boatneck shirts and I could have my closest friends and loved ones dress up like animals in order to survive.

We’d outsmart god.

How many people could fit into a life size elephant costume?