Okay, so yeah. I posted on my other blog
about some of the dirty things I want to do my neighbor. Don't worry. It's relatively clean.
Sure, I think a lot about ravishing him, in a wholly two consenting adults kind of way, in one of those perfect conditions, perfect opportunity, risk-free fantasies that only come up in romance novels or pornos, but that got me to thinking. What if the opportunity did happen to present itself? I mean, it's not astronomically unlikely. I'm single. He's single. And we are neighbors, after all.
Like at this moment, if he were to knock on my door and throw himself at me. I wouldn't be ready. It occurs to me that I wouldn't even let him cross the threshold.My hair's not done. My nails are complete crap. I need a pedicure. I could use a few waxing touch-ups, and I could stand to lose SEVERAL pounds in a several select places.
Sometimes, I wonder just how much attention a man actually pays to a woman's body during sex. I know that men don't mind imperfection, any more than women do. I mean, it's not like you're starring in love scene on the big screen, or making a home porno, but still. But h
ow much do men really mind a little back fat, or muffin top, or a little extra meat on the thighs? Do they really notice when our legs aren't freshly shaved? Eh. Probably not.
The point is, we notice it on ourselves, and for me, well...I get a little embarrassed thinking about what he might be thinking. Yeah. Silly, I guess.
I just want to feel attractive. I want to feel like I look like somebody whose bones he wants to jump all the time. *Sigh* I miss being in a relationship. I mean, I ain't gon' miss no meals because of it, but I'm just thinking of how great it would be to look great when opportunity comes knocking...literally or figuratively speaking.
And for those women out there with steady beaus and husbands who have your periodic, but inexplicable losses of interest in sex, what is your deal? Sex on demand, and you have no interest?
Okay, if it's a vanity thing, I totally get it. That whole "I'm not feeling sexy right now," or "I need to tidy up" type of issue, I get it. The self esteem thing is heavy, and probably drives down the sex drive for most of us.
But for all else, such as that, "I'm tired," "I got a headache," "the kids are in the next room," (y'all KNOW you can have quiet sex), or "I'm mad at you right now" type of stuff, all the damn time...you bitches make me sick.I mean really. What is up with that? I totally get not wanting to be touched by, ogled at, or groped on by some guy in which you have absolutely no interest. And damnit, ain't nothing worse than when some jerk is all up in my face and space, assuming that just because I don't have a man, or, in this case, have the hots for another guy, that it's okay for him to come sniffing around and propositioning me. Wrong, buster. Get the hell away from me.But hell, if you're in a relationship with, or married to him, what...the hell...is up?
That's a completely rhetorical question, because I've already made up in my mind that if you say it's anything but vanity, you're on some lame-lazy excuse-making, denial-having, lying ass bullshit. If you don't want him, then why the hell are you with him? Y'all are the bitches who make me sick.And don't get me started with those of you
who've somehow settled up with the wrong poor bastard, for haste, or spite, or fear of failure. Or you call yourself being "bored" with him. You heffas really get on my nerves. Ain't nobody made you settle up with the wrong man. Got him thinking that all women want to pull the "hold out" card once they get a man; but no. It's just YOU. And your specific disinterest in HIM.And please don't get it into your head that just because you don't want him that somebody else is just waiting for you to cut him lose so she can jump on him. If that's your line of thinking, oh grow up, already. And consider and check your own shady inner circle before you make general assumptions. Despite what many ill-informed people would like to believe about single women, being single IS a conscious choice, not a chronic condition. I've been celibate for this long because I'm selective, not thirsty. It actually opens my mind for some pretty clear thoughts to jot down here and there. Including some pretty vivid sex scenes. But I digress. I'm just saying that if you don't want to have sex with you own man, tell his ass the truth about why. Stop making excuses. Save everybody a lot of trouble.
Okay. I guess I'm done thinking, for now.
Life is full of an abundance of fears. Most people have fears of something, and I suspect that most fearless people are those who have never fallen, failed or been felled.
Me? I've been falling down all my life, failed innumerably, been felled constantly; so fearlessness has never been a luxury of mine.
And the list is endless for many of us.
Fear of rejection, especially as a writer.
Fear of being laughed at, talked about, picked on, disliked, or excluded.
Fear of losing. A job, a loved one, an opportunity, a competition, a tooth.
Fear of being alone, dying alone, dying, period.
Fear of Armageddon. Not so much for me, but other folks really have an issue with it.
Fear of reality TV.
But at some point, while you're still living, you've got to say to hell with it. Shit. Put your fear in your fucking back pocket and move. Even just a little bit. What's the worst that can happen? You'll die? Sure. But you're gonna die if you stand still, too, so go already.
There will always be somebody out there who gets the guy, the girl, the job, the attention, or the money, when you feel more deserving, but so what? Get tired, but then get tired of getting tired and get to gettin'.
And here's a thought. Just maybe the reason you didn't get what you think you should have gotten is because you're not as good as you think you are. It happens. Trust me. So get better. Shucks.
That's not to say that everyone should and can learn to be fearless; but just because you're born in a barrel doesn't mean you have to stay there. Hell, the crabs who got out are probably the ones who lost a leg or two from being pulled back down. But isn't getting out worth taking the risk? What's holding you back? That fear again? Patooey!
Sure, I've seen the fearless fall in what I imagine it would be like to watch one of those giant, larger-than-life trees (redwoods, I believe), in a thunderous, unsettling crash, wreaking mayhem and havoc on its way down and in its wake. But even then, I can't help but admire they way they once stood up. Tall, straight, and always certain, even though their time on this earth is as uncertain as the rest of ours. Living and standing in spite of, or perhaps, in reverence of time. The way we all should live, despite our fears.
Yes, the mighty fall hard, but so do the rest of us. Who the hell cares who was closer to the ground at the time? Blah.
I'm not always certain, but I am certain that fear of dying is no reason not to live. I cannot, will not let fear cripple me. Immobilize me. It's madness. And I'm already crazy enough. I've come to believe that that whole thing about dying a thousand deaths is true. I live to die only once, if I can help it.
I originally wrote this post on 13 November 2011, three weeks after returning from deployment in Afghanistan.
I originally wrote and posted this on Facebook on 16 October 2011, the day before I left Afghanistan.
Now, harder than ever, I'll work the rest of my life to be more than the sum of my broken parts, recalling with reverence the days when only things that kept me from putting a bullet through my head is my genuine fear of God and a closed casket funeral. The nights I spent screaming inside with no sound coming out. The days when it was all I could do to stumble out of my tent and vomit out the word, “Fuuuuuuck!” at the top of my lungs to keep from suffocating. And piecing together the moments of sanity that I have left. Recognizing sounds and images for what they are and not what they represent.
My own episodes of experience are nothing in comparison to what many others could recount. Many people I know have done and seen things no man’s eyes should see, taken mental footage of atrocities no mind should capture or have to remember, and they deal with demons more vicious and vivid than mine will ever be. I don’t claim to have looked the devil in the face, but I know what it means to be in hell.
This is the kind of shit that makes you want to chuck 16 years of service and take it to the house. I'm tired of getting shot at. I'm tired of people I know getting shot at. Tired of people I know getting blown up and dying all around me.
How the hell did this happen? Oh yeah. I said that I was tired of not doing my part. Left the relative safety of The Pentagon for a rapid deployment unit at Fort Drum. But then again, where is really safe? Some fool just got arrested for plotting to bomb The Pentagon with C4 in model airplanes. Lord Jesus.
Now I'm sitting in the desert, feeling that whole fish in the barrel complex, like I'm just waiting for the next round to land. I'm tired of that obnoxious alarm, absolutely the most obscene noise I've ever heard in my life, going off all the time telling me, “Incoming! Incoming!” I'm tired of getting to know people by completing their casualty reports and preparing family notification documents.
How do people do these multiple deployments over and over? They are most certainly better men and women than I could ever hope to be. I will never regret counting myself among them, and when I am no longer among them, they will always be in my prayers. They will for the rest of my life be the people I most admire.
Lord knows, I love every one of them, and I pray for them constantly, wishing I could somehow protect them from all of that from which I cannot even protect myself; but I really want to catch and kick the asses of whoever the little nasty, inconsiderate bitches are who keep using up all the damn water in the shower, and then refuse to flush their own waste down the freakin' toilets.
I mean, my gracious! Everybody went to basic training. Why get to the desert and be a nasty ho? And I just want to kick the men's asses for thinking it's funny. Of course, if you have no problem bathing with a bottle of water and then pissing in the empty bottle to keep from going to the latrine, I guess a woman having a conniption about being out of water would amuse you.
Yes, thank God for baby wipes, but baby wipes were never meant to take the place of running water. Jesus, hold my tongue. Too many of the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart have not been acceptable in Thy sight. Oh Lord, my strength and my redeemer.
I'm so not anymore the person I was when I came here. I don't mind hurting random feelings of anybody who wants to put on their big boy/big girl panties and come at me with a smart mouth. I guess it's somewhat unfair, as they haven't a clue that my words are my weapons, my venom is in my tone, and my inclination to get with them on a whim will leave them sliced to verbal pieces, left telling me how I don't need to get defensive, or how I need to watch my tone. Umm, nope. Tone of voice is everything. Don't start none, won't be none.
Offensive calls for defensive regularly out here. I'm dejected and much disenchanted by what I've been through, and the time to shrivel up and cry foul is not after they've pushed me over the point of pissed off just enough for me to let them know what's on my mind. One of my own monsters, with whom folks become acquainted more than even I'd like.
*This is an excerpt from a journal entry from Monsters Under the Bed, which I'm hoping to have the courage to publish when I get home.