Redheads tend to dump me. Caroline used me like a disco stick (hence the blog identity) and Lucille went bipolar on my ass (I will, in fact, pay tribute to this in a creative way, to be announced soon). Lucille appears and disappears, (A Peek-a... wait for it...--BOO). One day she decides I'm important, the next she bails. One day I'm telling her I like her, she listens, then somehow she becomes deaf and makes up her own theories of my words, splatters them on the walls of her head and blows me off.
Redheads annoy me, and they don't fucking listen. They're convenient, they get it, they hear you and they only pull what they want, what they need. Redheads dry you up. They're dense females. A certain
Duke would know.
Except for one, which I've been decidedly too chicken shit to date. Anna. I like Anna. Anna is good. Anna has a phone number. I should call her. Maybe she's my Rory?
Wow. That was mean, even for me. I'm sorry. I'm not the unapologetic type. When I fuck up, I apologize, always.
Anna is not my Rory, Lucille is not my Caroline and Christian is not my Veronique. I play favorites, I do, temporarily, sporadically, out of control, but measured. I'm too young be so damn serious about everything.
Why does everyone want everything so fucking figured out?
I have intense relationship with men. Michelangelo was my love, and Anna was my first crush. I've grown up since then. I've faced people, life and heaps of shit. I've also discovered gardens, sugar addicts and bartenders.
I have a thin line between me and all the people in my life. I haven't decided which one I'm going to break. I haven't decided if I'm going to reach through that line to one particular girl, or to one particular guy.
Christian is the closest to me right now, because he's my step-brother, so there's more between us than I've ever had with anyone else. He knows though, that there's a side of me saved especially for her. But we don't know who "her" is yet. That girl I plan to become someone else with. That girl that will take my relationships with women from "fucked up" to "intense" in a millisecond. I say this in earnest. I have many faces, but they're all me, one way or another. And each belong to one person in particular. Not all of them belong to a "the one" just yet.
I connected with Christian, quicker and more intensely than with other people. I connect with men, quicker than with women. I have more experience with men emotionally and with women sexually. I've never been the receiving end when it comes to my sexuality, neither with men or women. I give it to them. Always.
I'm not as emotionally developed as I should be at this age. But my asshole development is advanced and quite compounded. I've mastered the art of bullshit to a T. Negative or Positive consequences be damned, so far as I know, that's what I'm allowed to do.
I feel safe with my brother. There's a safe place in my life with him. But there's still a thread, thin threads nobody walks. For all my connection to the man, and I classify him as "the" man, I do not know him that well. I'm not always sure what he's thinking, I'm not always foremost in his thoughts either. There's a part of him that also just belongs to "her". Another woman, as well, that he picks, whomever that is.
We understand each other, what we want out of people, out of life, out of ourselves. Yes, we are connected in a private personal way that is also all our own. There is love in what we have, because Christian does what nobody else does with me, he loves me openly, he takes the risk to express it and let me know it. He gives back. We're friends, we're family, we're like an old married couple on crack.
Then there's "her". That girl I'm undecided about. Then there's "me" and all those secret identities. And then there's redheads, who just fuck with my head and should stick to fucking with themselves. Seriously.
And Veronique, an owl I want to keep in my pocket.
"I'm kind of tired of getting screwed over." That's what I said years ago. Looks like the words caught up with me, cause now nobody's screwing with me. Everyone's a little bit afraid. And you know what? They're right. They should be. Lord knows what I'll do. But I can state something matter of fact: Whatever I'm going to do, it won't be unplanned. When you leave the house looking up at the sky in awe, you don't notice yourself stepping on dog shit. I look to the ground, I see where I'm walking, I gauge my steps. I plan ahead because everyone's a Poodle these days.
I don't have an internal GPS, I don't know what direction anyone wants to take. I don't know how to get to my prefered destination. I just have signs guiding me. Good ol' fashioned human signs.
Right now the street have so many different signs pointing in different directions. Who's to stop me from exploring them all.
I've seen the road, and I can skip the landmines. Caroline and her abusiveness, Veronique and her neurosis, Christian and his camouflage, Michelangelo and his denial, Lucille and her capriciousness... and then there's Anna, who I've yet to call up.
I really should stop being such a chicken shit and call her, but then I'll get to know her. Maybe I like torturing myself with the notion that somewhere out there is a perfect woman for me, a redhead with cute freckles that I've admired since I was 12. That I'll meet up with her when I'm 80 and say "hey chickie... I used to like you when I we were young" and she'll turn to me and say "What do you know old chap, I liked you too" and then we'll hold wrinkly old hands together and smile knowingly, squeezing those last drops of life from our fingers, looking at the horizon and death together thinking "wow... life sure is cute."
But that will never happen. Because when I'm 80 years old I'll resort to drinking Viagra, I'll want to hit up a screeching Veronique to mess with her, I'll want to shut up Lucille's senile whining with some sort of highly inappropriate bondage, I'll want to make illegal pedophilic-looking passes at my own brother (Who, as we've always suspected, turns out to be a vampire for whom at that point I'll look 60 years his senior), I'll want to tease Michelangelo's ear with petulant requests just to make his lover jealous, I'll want to throw my walking stick at Caroline and hope it smacks her droopy ass on the way, heh, at her age, she'd fall over. All a-giggles.
So while I'd love option A. I'd enjoy more an option B. I'm sure from here to the end of my life, a C option will show up and shut me the fuck up. That girl, who is still blurry in mind, will reach out and break the thread that separates us, she'll squeeze her way into my cluttered world, she won't give a damn, she'll have the nerve and the balls to surprise me.. Until then, I guess I won't hope for a cute ending.
But I'm still hoping for a happy one.
Just like women hope for a blue prince, I'm hoping for my devil-in-red princess.
Now where are you, you dumb
slore?
