Schweinekoteletts

God, am I stupid. I’m probably the stupidist person I know. I’m just so unforgivably stupid. Really, really stupid. Stoopid stupid. And just plain dumb.

What the hell was I thinking? What? Why do I hatch these plans and convince myself that they really should work, that these gargantuan scenarios which I love so well are the best compromise between what I should be doing and what I want to do? What screw is missing in my mousetrap of a brain that causes to be missing the critical cog that should easily direct me to an actually fruitful conclusion? Huh? I want to know?

Here is where I am.

Here is where I should have wound up. But no, not me. Gad. So stuuuuuuuuuuupid.

And yet, I still have hope. Hope that it will come out all fine. Hope that my more rational mind tells me is an extension of the delusion that had me put myself on this path in the first place.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much to snap me back to reality. A few recollections thrown into the mix of my already overheated and constantly recycling mind, the resulting plunge into a depression on the realization of the foregoing which, in turn, solidifies my belief that the klaxons in my head screaming “WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!” are tuned to just the right frequency to capture my full attention.

Not being alone in this experience DOES NOT make it better. Either side of the good or evil teeter-totter that seems to be applicable to any decision and choice I’ve made absolutely sucks. And I mean that I’m not in this alone since thousands of years of poetry, prose and song support that particular observation.

And do you know why I’m in this tizzy? Maybe you or you don’t, but you do and that f•cking pisses me off all the more, at myself, of course. Oh, well. F•ck me, I guess. Stupid.

The problem is that I got just what I wished for – a date with the cruelest mistress of them all: fate. Please, Mistress, command me to do your bidding though I am unworthy. I beg your forgiveness for my snivelling nature. Please forgive me for anything I might do to displease you now or at some point in the future, no matter how unreasonable your expectations may be. Please grab my party bits and slam them flat with the latest Oxford Dictionary of the English Language.

In return, I will spank you until your bottom turns the color or the great flag of the People’s Republic of China.

No? That won’t do it? Screw you, then. I have free will, you know. “Will he?” they whisper, collectively wondering how far he could go. Free will. Free Willy!

Dangle, dangle, strangle: I had thought this the modus operandus of a variety of female types I had encountered over the course of time, but I was wrong to limit this concise observation and will now include ALL humans. And yes, it would be convenient to blame the rest of the world for my apparent lack of open-minded scenario-building, but I can’t, simply can’t. I note this only because I now realize that I was absent that day where the politics of dealing with human beings and learning to go with the flow of same was taught.

Destiny has a funny way of not always being all that random. I am a planner and I hate that which could be attributed to fate, karma or some other thing unseen that corrupts the plans of men. It makes me think of Tulsa and how bad things were there and how bad they probably still are and then, some hidden prose rises like a bad meal of boiled steak and beans and I read this, from a time far away and a place long ago:

You ever see a bird.
And you’re like, this bird is mine.
So, you say to yourself: “This is mine. I own this.” The map and the intention mesh. You feel kind of smug.
So, you see a girl a grrlllllllllllllll, tits and EVERYTHING.
And the seeds of desire are sown, because they’re seeds and that’s what we do with seeds, sow.
The next thing you know, she’s telling you about the boyfriend, but you’ve seen her pupils dilate, and before the night’s over, you’re covered in mosquito bites and her sweat and spit and she smells like hope.
But that never happened because you’re not stupid enough to try to smash a clam. No, who wants clam shards in their mollusk? Otters. Gulls. A two item list. But, you’ve got your ears open. Words and confidences fan out like. Reinforcing signals emerge, lapping against the edges of your GOLDEN BOWL OF LUST.

“Hi!” You squeak.
“Would you like a cigarette?” she asks. But you haven’t smoked in months. She reminds you of a shady lane. So you take two cigarettes worth of drags, and it’s all you can do not to blow on her pooch whenever she lifts her arms.
You lean over and smell her and nothing, bills, personal oblivion, dissatisfaction with your career, any kind of setback in the past, even murder, rape, cowardice, betrayal, whatever, it doesn’t matter, anxiety melts away.

She tastes like pot but those eyes are anything but distant.
Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes.

And you come to the conclusion that after all this pursuit, all this sex, and need and hunger, that you’ve reached an endpoint, you’ve finally jumped a shark.

“Where you from?”
“Indianapolis.”
“Are you expected back?”
“Later or never.”
“Where you headed, baby?”
“The bottom of the sea.”

Yes – I have to dredge up every emotion, every experience, every conclusion, every hope, fear and regret and I have to set them all out like a sorrowful buffet and sort them out once and for all, this time, with no endpoint in mind. And make some new choices, I think, including accepting the possibility that I won’t make any choice at all. On the other hand, status quo is pretty boring. I don’t do boring.

Blow the dust off your crystal ball and shine it up, will ya? Where thou goest, I shall follow. Oh, geesh, now I have to think something up. It never ends. Never. Not ever.