Going Out

You spend most of your time alone. but sometimes you go out when you can bear it. even if there are things you want to do, you would rather be left alone. Even if there are people you want to see, you would rather stay at home. it would be easier. because the torture you feel alone is not as bad; you are closer to things than you are when you are out with drink in hand and people at bay.
and that drunk torture, makes you look, and makes you think about getting them naked.

and you are alone in the bedroom of some young girl. She invited you in, which you believe means you have a chance with her. she showed some interest in you, and when you are this ugly its easier for you to understand. because they are ugly too, and such natural coalitions form easily; as the fat may bond with the lifeless.
and you smile at the ripped magazine clippings on the wall. taped together in the shape of a sailboat, but the proportions are far off. you smile because it makes you happy to see that people do these sort of things, and are not too ashamed to hide them. its funny, somehow, because you know that these things are so similar to what you make on your own, but their own understanding of their work is different. While they know its bad and protect themselves by doing everything not to be an artist, you know your work is terrible, but protect yourself by thinking you are getting better, and feel pride for knowing its bad.
you know that being good is not important, you are a hero because of how much time it will take.

and you turn around and the girl is there next to you. she smiles at your smile as you turn from her sailboat trash. You tell her you like it. and you do. though she could never guess at what you just told yourself. God, shes so far below you, and though this is false, it is true because you know how wrong you are, and she could never know how wrong she is.
Its a matter of depth, and you think things through an extra time before you let them pass as complete thoughts. though you know that there is infinite depth and a few make more no difference, again, you are happy to know that.
you validate yourself, as you touch her discolored scars, god it must be hard to be a woman. the way men think of you. and the way you try to account for it. and the way you get it all wrong, but think its important to try, so you can no longer be like a woman.
I want to sleep in this room tonight. to crawl beneath the sheets and curl up beside her warm body. I want to squeeze her body with mine, and for her to feel intense pleasure of psychology.
I turn back to her wall and ask her about the pictures taped to it.
She tells me things i don't hear. I think of her flat-mate who lives across the hall. my jacket is in her room, on her bed. If i sleep here for the night, she would know.
I look around the room again, but it is useless, this girl is uncalled for. she has no business living the life she does here in Scandinavia. She has no business in california, or having babies with a future man, and raising children in new england. I don't know her, and she doesn't deserve to breathe.
such thoughts come to replace my dignity, which has lost to ignorance, or was it fear? I do not sleep in this room tonight.

Back in the kitchen i finish off that carton of wine, and a girl from lithuania. and the way she talks i know not interested in me, but she could be. Its easier for us to pretend we are not wanted than to confront our self doubt.
I quickly jump back into the supremacist and wish i had stayed home, where i could cure my hunger quickly, wipe up with tissues, take speed and fulfill my destiny.

but these games are never won. I have never slept with a whore, i have never tasted come, never gone home with her, or sealed the deal or gotten a blow-job, never tasted pussy, never had my hair pulled, or finger-bang asshole tongue in mouth, cunt-licker titty-fucking pearl necklace, doggy-style virginal clit pink shocker sixty-nine, crotch-less brothels cocaine tits.
they feel good, and hurt hard when you finish. all of them.
when You get into the bedroom, and You lock the door, alone with another human, but i never am, and it hurts but we cant change it.
I am not alone, with a woman or man. I cannot be locked behind a door, something that has no gender, or sense of the meaning.
stigmata my mind; its good.