rigadoon

"I like you, baby. I like you," she says, stammering into the phone, seeming to be on the verge of tears. But I do not hear this "like." I hear nothing but the lack of love. "I like you," does not translate to love, nor is it lost along the path from her lips to my ears. She does not love me and hearing it, acknowledging it for the hundredth time, it has begun to grow old. It has begun to be infuriating. "Stay with me," she says, and I think to myself, "Stay with you? Stay with you where? In this room alone, waiting for your call, waiting for you to come and make love to me like you did the day I turned nineteen? Stay with you where, exactly? In this fantastical world you have built that allows you to have everything you want and leave everyone else wanting, mouths open, gaping, like baby birds, squawking and starving, unfed, unnourished?"

I am hungry. I am ravaged. I am lost. I am abandoned. I am wandering, wanting, waiting for this like to change, to evolve, to mutate. I am waiting for this love to be returned.

***
In other news, I'm staring at this add for the new "Venus Vibrance" and I'm just dumbstruck. After listening to my roomie's boyfriend read about horrifying masturbation stories gone bad, I just have this sneaking suspicion that some poor vibrator-less chickie out there is going to, in some act of desperation, use that thing for purposes not intended and end up cutting her vagina off. God, I'm morbid...