Dear Journal, I heard this is what you’re supposed to do. You’re the psychiatrist/bartender/hooker/” get out of your head” cure all. I have to admit journal, I’ve always had some curiosity in the “blind faith” part of you. Not so much as to get up enough estrogen to commit, but isn’t that what they say is the problem with men. You see I’m at a crossroads, and the 16-‐year-‐old girl inside me is saying she’s more of a man than I’ll ever be. Thus, to prove I’m sensitive and progressive enough to be a man, I’ve decided to Moleskin the fuck up.
My crossroads is not the type that makes you a killer blues man. My deal with the devil involves you, journal. You see I was never one for “putting it out there.” I’ve always felt that if you were such a conduit to the metaphysical, if you were this physical manifestation of all wants, needs and desires than why do I have to write anything. Shouldn’t you know? I should be able to sit on the couch and construct mind entries, as I watch my New York Knicks. Each thought a magnificent reveal in the act of psychological prestidigitation. TA DA, problems solved and my Knicks win the championship. But my Knicks lost, and she’s still leaving me.
My mother always journaled. She would tell me it was how she kept all her ideas from choking each other in to submission. Her only rule was to be specific. My mother also told me to treat every woman as you would your own mother. Now I’m in the place where I’m eager to try the former, cause the latter burned the fuck up on re-‐entry.
She said she despised sex with me. DESPISED,she despised sex. I should’ve guessed it. Every time I left a room, the corner of my eye would catch her trying to shake off everything that had me on it. I would detect the slight disappointment in her phone voice when she answered, “he’s fine,” and not, “he spontaneously decomposed in bed last night.” I swear her speech at our wedding, which included the term, afflicted with husband, was not just “her style of humor.” This is the woman of my dreams. The woman I wished for. I wasn’t specific enough to say that she would love me back. That she would melt at the thought of me being inside her. That time would be measured in increments of inches penetrated. I can say those things to you journal because you don’t judge?
You’re really not making me feel any better journal. You suck at this job. I’ve never fallen directly in to hate with anything quicker than I have you. How do all the greats put up with you? You’ve really got nothing to say. I’m doing all the fucking work. You’re an asshole. And not like the, you say douchebag things; you’re an asshole like a cat is an asshole. You walk in and expect everyone to stop and pet you and your purring is reward enough. In actuality, you’re an entitled furry selfish nuisance once step above rodent. Your purring is just quiet humming mixed with gas, and nobody likes that. You smell like feet journal. I’m not talking elite athlete feet, you smell like ballerina feet. The deformed bunion that looks like a sixth knuckle, sock smell of decades crammed in to shoe built for a younger, more pliable, more attractive you, feet. Make her love me again, Journal. Did she ever love me? She could hate me as long as she loved fucking me. Can you do that journal?
Make her hate me so much that the pain of me between her legs is the only way she can
My crossroads is not the type that makes you a killer blues man. My deal with the devil involves you, journal. You see I was never one for “putting it out there.” I’ve always felt that if you were such a conduit to the metaphysical, if you were this physical manifestation of all wants, needs and desires than why do I have to write anything. Shouldn’t you know? I should be able to sit on the couch and construct mind entries, as I watch my New York Knicks. Each thought a magnificent reveal in the act of psychological prestidigitation. TA DA, problems solved and my Knicks win the championship. But my Knicks lost, and she’s still leaving me.
My mother always journaled. She would tell me it was how she kept all her ideas from choking each other in to submission. Her only rule was to be specific. My mother also told me to treat every woman as you would your own mother. Now I’m in the place where I’m eager to try the former, cause the latter burned the fuck up on re-‐entry.
She said she despised sex with me. DESPISED,she despised sex. I should’ve guessed it. Every time I left a room, the corner of my eye would catch her trying to shake off everything that had me on it. I would detect the slight disappointment in her phone voice when she answered, “he’s fine,” and not, “he spontaneously decomposed in bed last night.” I swear her speech at our wedding, which included the term, afflicted with husband, was not just “her style of humor.” This is the woman of my dreams. The woman I wished for. I wasn’t specific enough to say that she would love me back. That she would melt at the thought of me being inside her. That time would be measured in increments of inches penetrated. I can say those things to you journal because you don’t judge?
You’re really not making me feel any better journal. You suck at this job. I’ve never fallen directly in to hate with anything quicker than I have you. How do all the greats put up with you? You’ve really got nothing to say. I’m doing all the fucking work. You’re an asshole. And not like the, you say douchebag things; you’re an asshole like a cat is an asshole. You walk in and expect everyone to stop and pet you and your purring is reward enough. In actuality, you’re an entitled furry selfish nuisance once step above rodent. Your purring is just quiet humming mixed with gas, and nobody likes that. You smell like feet journal. I’m not talking elite athlete feet, you smell like ballerina feet. The deformed bunion that looks like a sixth knuckle, sock smell of decades crammed in to shoe built for a younger, more pliable, more attractive you, feet. Make her love me again, Journal. Did she ever love me? She could hate me as long as she loved fucking me. Can you do that journal?
Make her hate me so much that the pain of me between her legs is the only way she can
materialize an emotion for me. Make it a, you’re in me and I can’t stand you when you’re not, type metaphor. I’d be all right with that. Like the time we made love high, and I called her the N word even though she’s only 1/16th Nigerian. Needless to say she didn’t appreciate it. Not that I called her the N word, but that she shared the deep dark secret of her African lineage and I used it as a weapon to gain an advantage. It was the best sex we’ve ever had.
I’m sorry journal. I could never say to her what I just said to you. Maybe it’s because I just had a shot and I’m all Highlandered right now. Maybe she was right to abhor me. It seemed so sudden, but for her it was waiting to ignite. All those years of me being right, and me being first, and me being needed. All those arguments ending in an analysis of the modern female. I could’ve just been human. I could’ve just been sympathetic. I could’ve just been wrong. Maybe not wrong, but definitely sympathetic.
I can do a better job journal. I can connect all feminine sides. I can put it out there. I can specifically ask all my needs to choke themselves in to submission. I can put her needs first. I can be a bigger and better man than all the 16 year old girls inside me combined. I’ve shaken myself off of all the things in the room. I can be the metaphysical manifestation of the man of both our dreams. As soon as you deliver that message for me, I’ll get to work. Thanks for that, journal. Good talk.
I’m sorry journal. I could never say to her what I just said to you. Maybe it’s because I just had a shot and I’m all Highlandered right now. Maybe she was right to abhor me. It seemed so sudden, but for her it was waiting to ignite. All those years of me being right, and me being first, and me being needed. All those arguments ending in an analysis of the modern female. I could’ve just been human. I could’ve just been sympathetic. I could’ve just been wrong. Maybe not wrong, but definitely sympathetic.
I can do a better job journal. I can connect all feminine sides. I can put it out there. I can specifically ask all my needs to choke themselves in to submission. I can put her needs first. I can be a bigger and better man than all the 16 year old girls inside me combined. I’ve shaken myself off of all the things in the room. I can be the metaphysical manifestation of the man of both our dreams. As soon as you deliver that message for me, I’ll get to work. Thanks for that, journal. Good talk.
