I messed around with a girl once. Well, to be honest, maybe it was more than once. She seduced me on my terrace one summer night, long black hair falling around my face as she leaned in and kissed me, after she slipped her hand up my shorts. We’re just the kind of gals that rub lesbians the wrong way. Bi-curious, or just human, it happened a couple more times. I think she was bipolar or something, she woke from a nap on my sofa one day and went berserk. Screaming in my face that I should have woken her up, that she was late, to where, I knew not. She stormed out, slammed the door and that was the last time we spoke.
Now she’s married with kids and a nice husband. She moved to Omaha, put on a few pounds, and makes a nice dinner every night for the family. I wonder if she ever thinks about those days way back when, when she used to dance in her bra and panties to Janet Jackson in my living room.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
HANGING AT YOUR HOUSE
Staring out the window at your place
Tree pods shiver in the rain
Hanging on, hanging on
You’re downstairs tinkering again
I hear you like a favorite CD
Hanging on, hanging on
This house will be sold this weekend
I remember when it was a shell
Hanging on, just hanging on
Tree pods shiver in the rain
Hanging on, hanging on
You’re downstairs tinkering again
I hear you like a favorite CD
Hanging on, hanging on
This house will be sold this weekend
I remember when it was a shell
Hanging on, just hanging on
Sunday, April 3, 2011
COUPLE CHARACTERS
It took a split second to go from “he’s hot” to Code Orange. From inside the bar I could see him stumbling around outside. White ribbed sweater showing his defined chest, expensive jeans, hanging on to the side of the building for dear life before he composed himself enough to roll through the front door of the restaurant. Jose, the owner, greeted him as an apparent regular, though I’d never had the pleasure to make his acquaintance. It was early Sunday night, I was the only one in the place - the disturbed hunk took the seat right next to me. His scent had the intensity of a car airfreshener, he was bathed in booze and chain smoking. Jose spoke to him like he was any normal patron even though the young man had trouble stringing thoughts together. Jose slammed down a beer in a bottle, the scented gent downed it like Gatorade, Jose was there to enable with what would become a six pack in the next hour or so.
He was a Marine – his stumbling along the side of the building may have been explained by his broken hip, a souvenir he brought back from Irag – topped off with a combo of pain killers, self medications, and lord knows what else may have explained his precarious gate. “Honorable Discharge,” he raised a finger, he now worked for the city’s big phone company. He still had military clearance, Jose bragged that my new bar friend was the guy they called to rig the phone system when the president was in town. The president’s go to phone guy slipped off to the bathroom and reappeared, steadying the inanimate barstool to make sure it was safe before he slid himself back on.
The beer seemed to be waking him up. He told a story about his phone company and a service call he had up in Riverdale. “This Jewish lady” wouldn’t let him in. He had showed up to the repair appointment in the body hugging ribbed white sweater, and expensive jeans he was wearing now, even though the story took place a few days ago. The Jewish lady had sent him away even though he presented her with the company's photo ID. When he got back to headquarters his supervisor put the disgusted customer complaint on speakerphone. “I didn’t realize that Ventron was hiring homeless people,” she snapped. It seemed the guys at Ventron had a good laugh over that one, his “uniform” of body hugging clothes, badly bleached hair, and Eau du Camels didn’t warrant so much as a slap on the wrist. “Dude, don’t they have a uniform you can wear or something,” Jose was trying to help with some sound advice. The compromised soldier waved the comment off like an invisible mosquito was targeting his face.
A woman walked in, I had seen her at the place a couple of times, she was pretty, had a ready smile and a nice energy, she walked up to the discharged Marine and kissed him sweetly on the cheek like he was her hard working husband getting off the 5:02 train to Greenwich. She seemed oblivious to the stench he was putting out, or the fact that he was barely holding it together. Introductions were made, he slid one seat over, opening a seat up between us for his lovely wife.
Turns out she owned a bar on Brooklyn, she’d come from Ireland years ago, she and “Joe”, her husband, had been married ten years. I quickly turned my attention back on my sangria to hide my disbelief. Joe was nodding off, but would inject sudden epiphanies, Tara, his wife, would place her hand on his shoulder and say, “excuse me, Honey, what was that?” like he had something important to add, two staccato hiccups punctuated his fragmented thought.
Tara was engaging, John was going in and out of some form of consciousness, it was like the children had gone off to bed, Tara told me a story about getting her Blackberry back after losing it somewhere in the city. “I used my ex-girlfriend’s name on MY number, they called her, but it was me.” She looked for my reaction - it was confusion. John briefly woke up and did his best Greek Chorus impression, heralding, “SHE HAD A GIRLFRIEND! SHE HAD A GIRLFRIEND!!” and hiccupped again before narrowing his eyes on the beer in front of him like it was prey he would need to be very clever to capture.
Tara and I talked about people we knew from the neighborhood, the freaks, the legendary characters, one of them a gorgeous 30 something in the hood with considerable psych issues and an eating disorder to boot. John piped up, “IS SHE HOT? WOULD I LIKE HER, HONEY?!!” Tara didn’t miss a beat, “No, Baby. She’s crazy, crazy like you. You like together girls to balance your crazy. Don't you.” It was hard to imagine any “together” girl seeing John datable or even f*ckable – but John blinked twice for yes in response to his wife’s assessment of the bulimic girl in question.
The bartender/owner Jose had been plying me with free drinks but I felt the evening coming to a close. It was that feeling like you have to throw up but want to be in the comfort of your own home to do it, the couple showed no signs of leaving. When I stood up, John in a miraculous burst of energy jumped to attention to help me on with my jacket. It was a stunning gesture of chivalry at the end of a dicey impromptu evening. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re doing," he leaned into my ear, "but you could come home with us, we dabble in – “ “Stop right there,” I graciously declined the yet defined offer, “whatever it is you dabble in, let that be YOUR secret.” “Yes, Honey,” Tara smiled at her man, and winked at me.
I couldn’t wait to get home and wash my face, wash off the soldier turned Ventron tech, his stench, his wife, their offer. Yes, soap - a nightcap was definitely in order.
He was a Marine – his stumbling along the side of the building may have been explained by his broken hip, a souvenir he brought back from Irag – topped off with a combo of pain killers, self medications, and lord knows what else may have explained his precarious gate. “Honorable Discharge,” he raised a finger, he now worked for the city’s big phone company. He still had military clearance, Jose bragged that my new bar friend was the guy they called to rig the phone system when the president was in town. The president’s go to phone guy slipped off to the bathroom and reappeared, steadying the inanimate barstool to make sure it was safe before he slid himself back on.
The beer seemed to be waking him up. He told a story about his phone company and a service call he had up in Riverdale. “This Jewish lady” wouldn’t let him in. He had showed up to the repair appointment in the body hugging ribbed white sweater, and expensive jeans he was wearing now, even though the story took place a few days ago. The Jewish lady had sent him away even though he presented her with the company's photo ID. When he got back to headquarters his supervisor put the disgusted customer complaint on speakerphone. “I didn’t realize that Ventron was hiring homeless people,” she snapped. It seemed the guys at Ventron had a good laugh over that one, his “uniform” of body hugging clothes, badly bleached hair, and Eau du Camels didn’t warrant so much as a slap on the wrist. “Dude, don’t they have a uniform you can wear or something,” Jose was trying to help with some sound advice. The compromised soldier waved the comment off like an invisible mosquito was targeting his face.
A woman walked in, I had seen her at the place a couple of times, she was pretty, had a ready smile and a nice energy, she walked up to the discharged Marine and kissed him sweetly on the cheek like he was her hard working husband getting off the 5:02 train to Greenwich. She seemed oblivious to the stench he was putting out, or the fact that he was barely holding it together. Introductions were made, he slid one seat over, opening a seat up between us for his lovely wife.
Turns out she owned a bar on Brooklyn, she’d come from Ireland years ago, she and “Joe”, her husband, had been married ten years. I quickly turned my attention back on my sangria to hide my disbelief. Joe was nodding off, but would inject sudden epiphanies, Tara, his wife, would place her hand on his shoulder and say, “excuse me, Honey, what was that?” like he had something important to add, two staccato hiccups punctuated his fragmented thought.
Tara was engaging, John was going in and out of some form of consciousness, it was like the children had gone off to bed, Tara told me a story about getting her Blackberry back after losing it somewhere in the city. “I used my ex-girlfriend’s name on MY number, they called her, but it was me.” She looked for my reaction - it was confusion. John briefly woke up and did his best Greek Chorus impression, heralding, “SHE HAD A GIRLFRIEND! SHE HAD A GIRLFRIEND!!” and hiccupped again before narrowing his eyes on the beer in front of him like it was prey he would need to be very clever to capture.
Tara and I talked about people we knew from the neighborhood, the freaks, the legendary characters, one of them a gorgeous 30 something in the hood with considerable psych issues and an eating disorder to boot. John piped up, “IS SHE HOT? WOULD I LIKE HER, HONEY?!!” Tara didn’t miss a beat, “No, Baby. She’s crazy, crazy like you. You like together girls to balance your crazy. Don't you.” It was hard to imagine any “together” girl seeing John datable or even f*ckable – but John blinked twice for yes in response to his wife’s assessment of the bulimic girl in question.
The bartender/owner Jose had been plying me with free drinks but I felt the evening coming to a close. It was that feeling like you have to throw up but want to be in the comfort of your own home to do it, the couple showed no signs of leaving. When I stood up, John in a miraculous burst of energy jumped to attention to help me on with my jacket. It was a stunning gesture of chivalry at the end of a dicey impromptu evening. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re doing," he leaned into my ear, "but you could come home with us, we dabble in – “ “Stop right there,” I graciously declined the yet defined offer, “whatever it is you dabble in, let that be YOUR secret.” “Yes, Honey,” Tara smiled at her man, and winked at me.
I couldn’t wait to get home and wash my face, wash off the soldier turned Ventron tech, his stench, his wife, their offer. Yes, soap - a nightcap was definitely in order.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
SPRINGTIME FOR CLOWNS
The text came in around 7PM on Sunday. “I miss you,” he said, and some other well- chosen words to make me get all warm and fuzzy inside my vag*na. “Time for a little glass half empty,” my brother turned to me, knocking off my rose colored glasses in the process. Still, I was trying to think what panties I had put on before I went out for the evening should the evening take an interesting turn. It seems I spent the entire year turning down sex. Repeated home visits from the 25 year old that I eventually had to terminate, constant come-ons from Cal who finally said he loved me after 10 years, then took someone else out for dinner the following Friday. Nothing made me feel stronger than turning down sex with men who do nothing to deserve it - but by Spring I realized that not putting out equals not getting anything in and “it” was reaching its breaking point. Simple eye contact with a nice looking guy on Henry Street drove an electric current from between my legs, up my body, and escaped as blue smoke from the top of my head. Biology was winning this battle - what's a girl to do.
The biggest, shiniest, newest Harley I’d ever seen was parked in front of the diner. Cal was coming to meet me, but I wondered who was steering this ship. The biker appeared, rounding the corner – goatee, café racer jacket, about 5’9” – he was quick to engage over his beast of a bike. Daytona, cross-country trips, year round road warrior, blah, blah, blah. I saw Cal out of the corner of my eye head into the diner, and it made me realize what the pint sized biker on the monster Harley was missing. He had not stopped talking since he walked up, hadn’t paused to ask a question, hadn’t taken a breath to hear my clever retorts. Cal was waiting inside the diner for me, he would ask me what I’d been up to, what I thought about things, he actually gave a hoot. This little conversationalist could never stroke me between the ears, surely he'd have a heck of a time reaching other bits of my anatomy.
Seems it's time for Spring cleaning. Out go the rose colored glasses. All mixed messages tossed in the trash. Oh, and no sex for solillaquists – toot your own horn! All clowns, the lot of ‘em. And that thing they say about men who wear big shoes - behind that big bulge is a lot of hot air – hardly what a girl needs to get the job done right.
The biggest, shiniest, newest Harley I’d ever seen was parked in front of the diner. Cal was coming to meet me, but I wondered who was steering this ship. The biker appeared, rounding the corner – goatee, café racer jacket, about 5’9” – he was quick to engage over his beast of a bike. Daytona, cross-country trips, year round road warrior, blah, blah, blah. I saw Cal out of the corner of my eye head into the diner, and it made me realize what the pint sized biker on the monster Harley was missing. He had not stopped talking since he walked up, hadn’t paused to ask a question, hadn’t taken a breath to hear my clever retorts. Cal was waiting inside the diner for me, he would ask me what I’d been up to, what I thought about things, he actually gave a hoot. This little conversationalist could never stroke me between the ears, surely he'd have a heck of a time reaching other bits of my anatomy.
Seems it's time for Spring cleaning. Out go the rose colored glasses. All mixed messages tossed in the trash. Oh, and no sex for solillaquists – toot your own horn! All clowns, the lot of ‘em. And that thing they say about men who wear big shoes - behind that big bulge is a lot of hot air – hardly what a girl needs to get the job done right.
Monday, February 28, 2011
THE GENTLEMAN FROM BAY RIDGE
The Jamesons had started working it’s magic, my date was starting to open up; “I mean, the guy said, ‘Hey, Cracka’ - a course I'm gonna call you Ni**a,” he paused to try to get a read on my reaction, “I’m right, Right? I mean ‘Cracka’ is white for “Ni**a”, right?”
It wasn’t horror I was feeling, I felt more let down, I had met other gentlemen from Bay Ridge; this was fairly typical subject matter. Yet, I was seriously considering my date’s query - turning it over in my mind, was calling someone a ‘Cracka’, in fact, the equivalent of calling someone a ‘Ni**a”?
Jimmy’s re-enactment of the afternoon continued; him, just minding his own business when this black guy walks up and calls him a Cracker. The two went back and forth discussing the gravitas of “cracka” vs. the “N” word, the award going to the one who had slighted less, strangely enough. In a final attempt to settle everything in one felt swoop, my date recounted addressing the fellow one last time, “shut up or I will bitch slap you like the bitch you are,” he said it to the guy very casually, like he was letting him know his shoe was untied, but it seemed to settle things as “Bitch” trumps all. He shrugged and took another long sip of Jamesons staring straight ahead.
The stuff that had drawn me to him, the muscles, the ink, were all hidden under his neatly pressed Yankees shirt now, which made the racial slur seem more pronounced, he had the face of a choir boy. He made an honest living, had a good job, taught himself how to cook up a storm since the separation - Doritos breaded chicken breasts to Lobster Thermidor - he carried a wallet sized photo of his small fluffy dog he bought for company, and had a boss motorcycle he loved to ride, what’s not to love. But when he asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, I asked Jimmy to drop me home. “You had me at “Ni**a”, I thought hours after our date, wasn't that always the way. But my humor would have been lost on Jimmy, that, and he's racist - that's what I told myself as I deleted the half naked pictures Jimmy had sent me after our date, my heart sinking deeper as my chances of getting with a real live naked guy looking less and less likely with each click of the delete button.
It wasn’t horror I was feeling, I felt more let down, I had met other gentlemen from Bay Ridge; this was fairly typical subject matter. Yet, I was seriously considering my date’s query - turning it over in my mind, was calling someone a ‘Cracka’, in fact, the equivalent of calling someone a ‘Ni**a”?
Jimmy’s re-enactment of the afternoon continued; him, just minding his own business when this black guy walks up and calls him a Cracker. The two went back and forth discussing the gravitas of “cracka” vs. the “N” word, the award going to the one who had slighted less, strangely enough. In a final attempt to settle everything in one felt swoop, my date recounted addressing the fellow one last time, “shut up or I will bitch slap you like the bitch you are,” he said it to the guy very casually, like he was letting him know his shoe was untied, but it seemed to settle things as “Bitch” trumps all. He shrugged and took another long sip of Jamesons staring straight ahead.
The stuff that had drawn me to him, the muscles, the ink, were all hidden under his neatly pressed Yankees shirt now, which made the racial slur seem more pronounced, he had the face of a choir boy. He made an honest living, had a good job, taught himself how to cook up a storm since the separation - Doritos breaded chicken breasts to Lobster Thermidor - he carried a wallet sized photo of his small fluffy dog he bought for company, and had a boss motorcycle he loved to ride, what’s not to love. But when he asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, I asked Jimmy to drop me home. “You had me at “Ni**a”, I thought hours after our date, wasn't that always the way. But my humor would have been lost on Jimmy, that, and he's racist - that's what I told myself as I deleted the half naked pictures Jimmy had sent me after our date, my heart sinking deeper as my chances of getting with a real live naked guy looking less and less likely with each click of the delete button.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
THE DARKER TIMES OF PASTOR RAY
I first met Pastor Ray when he was a bartender, way before he was a man of the cloth, back when I worked as a writer on Madison Avenue. We had an immediate, electrifying attraction – I learned in later years, a red flag heralding you to run the other way. He was handsome, dynamic, a punk musician, a drunk, and an Army Private. He invited me out for drinks after his shift, and I left him standing on 3rd Avenue at 3 AM, screaming after my cab, “I fucking LOVE YOU, and you don’t GIVE A SHIT!!”
During our impromptu date, he casually mentioned he had a girlfriend, but we continued chatting as friends at the bar he tended after that, he brought me his punk albums, and showed me some pretty engaging writing he was doing, one involved a story about a girl who gave him head in a parking lot while deployed, the story hinged around the girl's mouthful of metal railroad track braces - the excruciating pain that followed, ending with a quirky vignette with hilarious details around his failed attempts to release his manhood from her silver interior.
Ray and I were in and out of each other’s lives for years, when he became single he got in touch with me. He’d since become a recording engineer and worked at one of the best places in the city. He’d always had a deep bravado to his voice, a macho swagger that women of poor judgment find captivating. We had dinner those few years later, and he still seemed the same, but also not. Something else was in the mix that I couldn’t put my finger on. This time he left me on the street early instead of the other way around like years before, which left me wondering. He told me I looked great, kissed me quickly on the lips, and hailed a cab, hightailing it out of there just barely after 9 pm.
I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks, until one day he called, saying the recording studio he was working at was having a Halloween party. I showed up, Ray looked like death - on top of the fact that this was his costume, black shawl, hood, black makeup that created cavernous sockets around his dead, reddened eyes. I saw him peak out behind a screen, but when he saw me he ducked away. I went away confused and wondering what had gone wrong.
A few days later, I got a voicemail at my office, it was a friend of Ray’s telling me that he had O.D.’d on heroin. It had happened in his apartment - he’d been passed out on the floor for two days, he was lucky to be alive. There was a possibility that his leg would have to be amputated – it had twisted back awkwardly in the fall, the two days he was passed out had taken its toll on his appendage.
I reconnected with Ray during his recovery, he told me that Jesus had saved his life, and his leg in the same turn. His faith was astonishing, soon he was on the church scene with the same vigor I'd seen in his punk rock days, publishing controversial themes designed to rock the Christian world. We lost touch when he enrolled in a theological seminary after a brief romantic encounter between us that left Ray convinced he should swear me off, along with his slew of pre-O.D. bad habits. I’d heard he had met a woman who was also in seminary, married her, and they started a congregation in an impoverished town somewhere in Pennsylvania, doing “important work” with the people who struggled just to survive there.
When I friended him on Facebook two years ago, he was a well respected Pastor, happily married with 3 lovely children. Through the Army, Ray went to Afghanistan on a spiritual mission, and had written a book which he forwarded me for feedback. I always knew he was passionate - whether he was a punk musician, writing descriptive blowjob prose, doing heroin, or leading parishioners, Ray was always rockin’ it at eleven.
Recently, I took the time to listen to one of Pastor Ray’s spiritual podcasts. Although we’d talked occasionally in email, I hadn’t heard his deep, maniacal voice in over a decade. But when I clicked on play- the man I heard was not Ray, but some ethereal version of himself. His voice was quiet, his tone earnest - his delivery plain. Ray had been reborn - it seemed quite literally. There was no resemblance to Ray of past times, his wild animation gave way to gentle expressions that seemed to emanate from a slow burning flame nestled inside his heart - my goodness, I thought, God does work in mysterious ways. Ray is living proof of that. I was fortunate to bare witness along his wild, winding road - from railroad track braces and Streetcar Named Desire nights, to Needle Park, into the ambulance and on into the New York Presbyterian E.R., soon taking flight at the theological seminary, until he eventually landed, preaching high atop the internet mount. Ever so humbly, this is where I first heard Pastor Ray, quoting scripture, spreading The Word to those who will listen.
During our impromptu date, he casually mentioned he had a girlfriend, but we continued chatting as friends at the bar he tended after that, he brought me his punk albums, and showed me some pretty engaging writing he was doing, one involved a story about a girl who gave him head in a parking lot while deployed, the story hinged around the girl's mouthful of metal railroad track braces - the excruciating pain that followed, ending with a quirky vignette with hilarious details around his failed attempts to release his manhood from her silver interior.
Ray and I were in and out of each other’s lives for years, when he became single he got in touch with me. He’d since become a recording engineer and worked at one of the best places in the city. He’d always had a deep bravado to his voice, a macho swagger that women of poor judgment find captivating. We had dinner those few years later, and he still seemed the same, but also not. Something else was in the mix that I couldn’t put my finger on. This time he left me on the street early instead of the other way around like years before, which left me wondering. He told me I looked great, kissed me quickly on the lips, and hailed a cab, hightailing it out of there just barely after 9 pm.
I didn’t hear from him for a couple of weeks, until one day he called, saying the recording studio he was working at was having a Halloween party. I showed up, Ray looked like death - on top of the fact that this was his costume, black shawl, hood, black makeup that created cavernous sockets around his dead, reddened eyes. I saw him peak out behind a screen, but when he saw me he ducked away. I went away confused and wondering what had gone wrong.
A few days later, I got a voicemail at my office, it was a friend of Ray’s telling me that he had O.D.’d on heroin. It had happened in his apartment - he’d been passed out on the floor for two days, he was lucky to be alive. There was a possibility that his leg would have to be amputated – it had twisted back awkwardly in the fall, the two days he was passed out had taken its toll on his appendage.
I reconnected with Ray during his recovery, he told me that Jesus had saved his life, and his leg in the same turn. His faith was astonishing, soon he was on the church scene with the same vigor I'd seen in his punk rock days, publishing controversial themes designed to rock the Christian world. We lost touch when he enrolled in a theological seminary after a brief romantic encounter between us that left Ray convinced he should swear me off, along with his slew of pre-O.D. bad habits. I’d heard he had met a woman who was also in seminary, married her, and they started a congregation in an impoverished town somewhere in Pennsylvania, doing “important work” with the people who struggled just to survive there.
When I friended him on Facebook two years ago, he was a well respected Pastor, happily married with 3 lovely children. Through the Army, Ray went to Afghanistan on a spiritual mission, and had written a book which he forwarded me for feedback. I always knew he was passionate - whether he was a punk musician, writing descriptive blowjob prose, doing heroin, or leading parishioners, Ray was always rockin’ it at eleven.
Recently, I took the time to listen to one of Pastor Ray’s spiritual podcasts. Although we’d talked occasionally in email, I hadn’t heard his deep, maniacal voice in over a decade. But when I clicked on play- the man I heard was not Ray, but some ethereal version of himself. His voice was quiet, his tone earnest - his delivery plain. Ray had been reborn - it seemed quite literally. There was no resemblance to Ray of past times, his wild animation gave way to gentle expressions that seemed to emanate from a slow burning flame nestled inside his heart - my goodness, I thought, God does work in mysterious ways. Ray is living proof of that. I was fortunate to bare witness along his wild, winding road - from railroad track braces and Streetcar Named Desire nights, to Needle Park, into the ambulance and on into the New York Presbyterian E.R., soon taking flight at the theological seminary, until he eventually landed, preaching high atop the internet mount. Ever so humbly, this is where I first heard Pastor Ray, quoting scripture, spreading The Word to those who will listen.
SEVEN
1.
Saying “I love you” is not a bargaining chip.
It’s a feeling you pay forward with love and respect.
2.
Saying “I’m sorry” isn’t a way back in.
It’s a desire to do better next time.
3.
“We” isn’t “Me”. Well, it’s sort of “we”, but the “w” got flipped over in the wake of those scurrying towards self-serving stuff.
4.
Making love is not something you get in exchange for scrambled eggs or a steak dinner – that is what is known as a “transaction”, often becoming more costly post transaction – resulting in a lost friendship, STD, or an unwanted pregnancy; the trifecta of thoughtless encounters.
5.
Sex is a gift you receive from someone’s soul, as well as their vagina.
Treat both with the utmost care. If not, refer to #4.
6.
Lies are the stories people tell themselves right before they tell you, often to support their own agenda.
7.
One person’s idea of a “relationship” is usually different from another's. It’s not yours, or theirs, it’s often somewhere in the middle, like a seesaw. If you find yourself playing with yourself, it’s probably because you don’t know the basic rules of physics/relationships.
Saying “I love you” is not a bargaining chip.
It’s a feeling you pay forward with love and respect.
2.
Saying “I’m sorry” isn’t a way back in.
It’s a desire to do better next time.
3.
“We” isn’t “Me”. Well, it’s sort of “we”, but the “w” got flipped over in the wake of those scurrying towards self-serving stuff.
4.
Making love is not something you get in exchange for scrambled eggs or a steak dinner – that is what is known as a “transaction”, often becoming more costly post transaction – resulting in a lost friendship, STD, or an unwanted pregnancy; the trifecta of thoughtless encounters.
5.
Sex is a gift you receive from someone’s soul, as well as their vagina.
Treat both with the utmost care. If not, refer to #4.
6.
Lies are the stories people tell themselves right before they tell you, often to support their own agenda.
7.
One person’s idea of a “relationship” is usually different from another's. It’s not yours, or theirs, it’s often somewhere in the middle, like a seesaw. If you find yourself playing with yourself, it’s probably because you don’t know the basic rules of physics/relationships.
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