Long long time since I haven't written. So, I see that people stick on only for the cheap thrilling stories of the upturned life of teen-ish girls, I must commit to writing again. Though there's not much of a 'bang' idea to rant this time.
What do you do when you push yourself, consciously into something that you've always envied in others? Does it ever happen to you? You keep staring at a face and the nose seems suddenly so big, like a misplaced cartilage on a mummy's face and the jaw is no longer so sharp and strong. And, when you could only stare and groan in fantasy, plunge in horror tales of unfortunate non-happenings, the beast was so marvelous, little almonds for slits and fingers like glued pieces of symmetric bone. Then, well you boned it and you can't stop moaning about it. Later, its just quick pulses of feverish pretense in the name of love fever. No fervor, no odes, in it and you have it and you know it that you don't want it but you never probably did and were not meant to fall for it. But, while you have it now you must keep it since all do it and you won't get it if you don't act it. If you kept wondering, falling asleep with an open mouth, if something was wrong before you figured it all, nothing was. Perhaps the only problem was an overdose of philanthropic company with a misle of horny deficient toads (of whom you thought you were one). You tripped for the ugliest story and launched yourself in complete earnest desire for sane little happy givings and gettings and might in the between of the gap of the fingers, smell the ginger or fish for a ring and find a Dalloway in the bag, get uneasy where the Woolf dreams went away. But, why need them at all when perfect bliss encounters you very ordinarily. There's no mistletoe, no blood tear sweat either. It's very simple and uttered in plain English. To return, rather to force return from such astoundingly simple encounters is painful.
