I’m throwing myself a giant pity party and you are all invited. I’m using all the finest china and silverware, white linen table cloths- nothing but the best. The food will be rich delicious (preferably sugary) and the beverages superb- all haute cuisine for my misery. In fact I have been in it for days but nobody has noticed because I don’t let on. I smile a lot, bubbly in bright lipstick. Boys flirt with me. But inside the revelry is in full swing. Party poppers go off every couple of minutes in my brain. They startle me and, like a PTSD survivor, I am easily rattled. Opening your heart is just like war, dontcha know? Always hurt, casualties and trauma, though the biggest fatality is the ego, and if I had one left, I guess it might want a medal.
Sometimes I think that once you fuck a guy, it’s the beginning of the disappearing act. Emotionally, physically, there is a switch that seems to get thrown once the penis enters the vagina that says “K I got what I wanted, maybe I want more later, but for now I’m going to go back to my cave and chew on some raw meat ’til I get horny again.” The exception to this was my ex-husband who inexplicably stuck around, but all that is now but a dream. I can be quite the cave woman myself when it comes to sex- get what I need and I can treat both a man and his club as expendable. But every now and again someone comes along whom I want more than just a roll on the bearskin with and that’s when I get into trouble. Karma, she is a cunt.
Recently someone came all the way into my cave, and dragged me out by the hair into his, except it turned out he didn’t have the energy to make it all the way, just fucked me on the hinterland and then left me to die by exposure at the mouth, while birds of prey circled me like CAA agents at a showcase. Also, fuck Neanderthals and the wildebeest they rode in on. (Or the Range Rovers, whatever.)
I am not abandoning myself. I have love and compassion towards myself which is a brand new phenomenon. I am alone but I am not lonely because I have my own back, and also I have you. So thank you for coming to my pity-party it was lovely having you. Your presence is your presents, and all I can hope is that I do not request your company again for a while. I guess blogging is the modern equivalent of scrawling hieroglyphs into the dirt ground with a stick, and later I might smash a rock against the wall, if only they had had Instagram back then, that shit would have totes gotten lots of followers. Tonight I will roll myself up in animal skins and sleep and maybe tomorrow or someday soon, I will wake up in a civilized world where life always goes how you want it to and progress takes less than a million years. Until then, good night, I hope the stars are brighter where you are.