Please Stand By

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Spooky Action At A Distance will be on hiatus this month while its R&D Department goes offline to acquire fresh ideas through organic experience.

In the interim, feel free to plumb the archives for pointless diatribes you may have missed the first time around and stay tuned for the continuation of Idolatry next month along with a hopefully renewed enthusiasm for loquacious over-analysis.

Until the next time…

 

Reverberations

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We shriek and howl, beg and plead in plaintive wails / hit auto-tune / share / await commiseration.

When we’re small, we ask to be held.  When we strut, we take on the world.

Friendship is gauged by feigned concern in our echo chambers of conceit.  We build ramparts to keep out the whisper of truth / but still strain to hear our own names.

Shyness is a lonely suicide but that of the braggart is biblical.  When the book is set down and the last word is uttered, our dust will disperse in soft effusion / no faces no names – no shit.

A little girl sobs in the corner – she is the world on the brink.   We ignore her at our peril.

Angry mob storms embassy at dawn – a crying girl’s distraction when no one comes to dry her tears.

God or tribe, it’s all just you but there’s no you apart from me.  It’s all too much until it’s not and now it goes back ‘round again.

Stupid questions asked anew.  Weeping in binary code.

Sooner or later, we all fall silent / so why do we speak at all?

 

Fix

My daughter and I befriended our 25-year-old neighbor back in December. It seemed to be wonderful timing, since he’s a strong man and we’re now just two little weak girls living all by our lonesome. (This is sarcasm.)

And I won’t lie, I found him attractive at first. I might be old enough to be his mother, but I can still appreciate a handsome man. My 40’s are supposed to be my sexual prime and I had a couple of friends tease me a bit about it, plus I also hammed it up just for shits and giggles.

Those thoughts quickly vanished when my daughter and I came to see that this kid is on a road to self-destruction. His daily ambition is to get high and drunk. I’m not much of a drinker, but I do smoke marijuana. It was nice to have someone to smoke a bowl or joint with for a change, since my best friend quit some time ago.

I was in a fucked up daze for all of the month of December and most of January, so I let it slide when he’d get so drunk that he passed out on my couch. I’d wait a bit, then gently shake him awake and send him to his own condo. (Which belongs to his father, who lived there before him.)

He’s asked me to help him out with a pinch or two of weed because he smoked all of his up.

“How do you still have so much? I run out and you seem to stockpile it.”

I’m a lightweight even after partaking off and on for 9 years. (Don’t think that I don’t have any vices, because I do.)

It’s starting to seem like the only reason he contacts me now is because he wants to get something from me. He’s even asked me for money. I’m as fucking poor as a church mouse and he knows it.

Fuck that noise.

My brain is wired to “fix” people, but thanks to many differing factors, I’m coming to the stark realization that I can’t.

You cannot fucking fix people.

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But, all is not lost.

I’m finally on the road to re-wiring and “fixing” myself.

And because I’m starting to look for my truth in my own dark alleyways, I need to kindly as possible step away from my neighbor before he brings me down with him.

Dreamlife of Dogs

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What occurs in the mind of a cur by the fire?  On the rug as he growls and he drools, as he spasms and twitches?  A bloodbath of rabbits where the faecal aromas are sublime?  In the dreamlife of dogs, these we think are the riches.  There the crow’s provocation will no longer be endured.  There the insolent rat is subdued and is stricken and shaken.  There as King of the Rains, the Wild Rover, (the bitches’ rump so fine).  This the dreamlife of dogs?  Or are we mistaken?  For all that we know, in the hound’s inner world, there are marvels to rival the greatest that man can envision.  A palace of scent where the laws of the pack are redefined.  Is the dreamlife of dogs maybe ripe for revision?  But the dog as he sleeps is opaque as we are.  We dream as we live all alone in this nightmare of history.  And as much as I know who you are in the dark behind your eyes, the dreamlife of dogs is no more of a mystery.  – Shriekback

Friday Funhouse 21: Scheduled Sex

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It’s common knowledge that the integration of scheduled sex into a relationship is typically a harbinger of doom. I take this sentiment a bit further with a profound distaste for anything that’s scheduled. For whatever reason, we take comfort in predictability, even as regards our media consumption. Sunday is football day. If it’s Thursday night, break out the Chardonnay for another Ladies Night Gilmore Girls marathon. As scheduled. Just like last week. Just like next week. So very reliable. So very dull.

If you’re starting to suspect that the preceding paragraph was just a pretense for announcing that this will be the final installment of my scheduled weekly attempts at humor, you can consider that suspicion confirmed. Mind you, I’m sure you’ll see posts in a similar vein when the mood strikes me, so the only things really being retired here are a recurring title and an expectation. Good riddance!

I would like to thank everyone for their loyal patronage. So how to go out with the appropriate level of fanfare? Today’s video should be something historic. Educational. Shitfaced. Here’s a Drunk History take on the life and times of Harriet Tubman:

No Cuddle Buddy For Me

“It’s not even the actual sex that I miss, it’s the foreplay and cuddling. I need a cuddle buddy.”

“You need to learn how to cuddle yourself first,” my therapist Joan replied to me with a stern, yet loving look.

She gets it, though. It’s been ages since I’ve engaged in anything sexual, unless you count an occasional quick hug, a kiss goodbye or goodnight and a few pathetic attempts at more intricate things.

Asshat was having a difficult time raising the roof. He led me to believe that it was just a combination of him being dead tired after working a whole 6 hours a day, not to mention that I was in pain ALL THE TIME (total turn off to him.)

I’d try to explain that I could handle the extra pain if it meant being intimate with him again. I’d take an extra pain pill or smoke an entire bowl of weed beforehand. I’d do whatever he wanted to make him feel more comfortable touching my fucking fragile body, but he would always find an excuse to get out of it.

It was a major red flag relationship problem that I naively thought was just circumstantial. I held onto the hope that if I kept trying to show him that I was “fine,” things would go back to normal again, maybe back to twice a week if we were lucky.

Little did I know the real reason why he had no interest in touching me anymore. It was because he’d been fucking around behind my back for years, but now he had himself a regular skank-ass hoe to whet his sexual appetite with.

And now he’s gone for good and I’m footloose and fancy free!

My sex drive had gone missing while I was going through a deep depression in 2015 (who wants to get funky when all you can think about is wanting to die?) and ironically, that’s about the time that the fucker started sharing his peen with someone other than myself, exclusively.

While I do agree with my therapist that I need to learn how to cuddle my own damn self, it still doesn’t erase the fact that I’m extremely horny.

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I could find someone to have sex with easily enough, but that isn’t how things work for me nowadays. It was easier back in my 20’s to just hook up with a guy, but now that I’m in my 40’s, I require an emotional connection before I could even consider letting a man see me naked.

My lustful and lascivious urges will either have to stay in my head or be written down in a saucy poem, like this one.

Will your touch set me free
From my myriads of insecurity?

The chance of just one night

Whisper my name in the heated hush
Making me shiver, first, then flush

Together, engaged in intense rotation
Making storms of our own formation
Stare into my eyes, as we become one
Our bodies warmed by a tantamount sun
If only for one night