Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Pleasure Spiked with Pain

First, a disclaimer:
This blog is half truths and whole lies. Do not hold me accountable for it as anything more then a tall tale or work of pseudo-fiction.
Yes, much truth is said in jest and fiction. Some times I may tell of things that I have said, seen, done, or thought but I distort reality, or even sometimes just plain make things up. It’s more interesting that way. That said...

She had received tulips for Valentine’s Day last year.

Red roses the year before.

The tulips had sat on her desk in a cut glass vase for about a week before she neglected to shut the curtains of the big window above her desk. She returned to the late afternoon sun still streaming into the overly warm and stuffy room, her tulips’ leaves browning at the edges, petals and stamens scattered over her desk.

It was with a certain amount of sardonicism that she now looked back on the occasion, as Valentine’s Day passed her by.

Oh she had hated that holiday when she was younger, ambiguous in her existence and taking on a lover. But now when she had so much more reason to be bitter at the day, she found that she didn’t care much either way. It was, after all, just another Monday.

It was like on her rebound from love to hate she’d gotten caught up at apathy.

She had taken the shots “man up” like she always did with a raised eyebrow, a smirk, and just enough of a pause before chasing it with the warm diet cola. She didn’t really care to be drunk, a sensation that had never appealed to her, and so switched to drinking Pepsi and tap water out of a plastic yellow cup once the taste of Bacardi and artificial sweetener went down the back of her throat and unsettled her stomach.

As usual she quickly got bored with parties and there was a nudge in her abdomen pushing her to find a bathroom. Instead of trying to find a place to relieve herself, she slipped away, walking hurriedly with her hand stuffed in her pockets until she reached her apartment.

After pissing she stretched out on her back on top of her bed, with her arms underneath her head, gazing up at the ceiling. And she closed her eyes and thought about elephant seals.

At first she thought she might feel empathy for the smaller males in the puddles, with the forlorn drooping noses and big dark eyes that stared back at her from across a few yards of dune.

But then she knew the truth is that, given a choice, they don’t want to be in the one in the puddles.

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