The habit of missing you.
Love is an asshole. He’s mean and callous and extremely self absorbed. He never announces his arrival; you just wake up one fine day and find him drinking hot chocolate, farting through his dirty underwear in your favorite couch, hogging the TV remote, while you roll your eyes, say here we go again, offer an apology to yourself.
Love never cleans up after himself and never bothers to thank you for doing the needful. When love moves houses, he burns the old one down. And along with it every vestige of the past that could potentially hamper the future. He’s quite meticulous really, quite methodical…burning is by far the most efficient method of eradication, and love knows this well. Generally, the more valuable an item like a ring or a watch or a crystal snow globe, the longer it takes to burn. Some don’t burn at all, but letters do. They burn fast and they burn well and the more letters you have to burn, the hotter the fire and hence the more damage she does to whatever you want her to obliterate. She burns him down, he hunts her down, and in the end neither one of them was ever found, ever seen, ever heard from again. Was it fun, then? Was it fucking fantastic? Was it everything you thought it would be from watching QSQT?
I FOUND you. I FOUNDed you. I laid that freaking stone, that blood red plaque still bears my name. The trouble with stalking is that it never helps to know how huge a slut your ex-lover turned out to be. Random lovers on random days of random months and random weeks and random hours of random lust and random love unbuttoned and unburdened upon thine wicked-bitch heart that beats though it should really bound. Sense is for the stupid… now rage… rage is an emotion worthy of the brave, of the stoic and the grave. Rage is sublime, rage is supreme, rage liberates. Engage the rage and let it run amok across the barren plane of your shit colored domain for even when it rains the blood stains on your gilded mane will remain, will linger, will multiply and intensify and become the lie that you told so long ago because how could you have known that sometimes lies do come true, you did too, didn’t you?
God it was strange to see you again… strangely euphoric that is, strangely satisfying… strangely, masochistically almost fucking artistically complimentary to my state of non-existence. Did I make you smile or was it the irony encrusted fist in your face? You always liked it rough… hand cuffs and kid gloves. Oh what I wouldn’t do to keep you safe from disgrace? Oh what I didn’t do! Did too much is what I did, drove my boat right over board, over me and over you buried beneath the smelly milieu of little fishies and big fishies and dead fishies and live fishies and fishies that bite and fishies that sting and fishies that take you out for a drink and sit you down and talk you through the impending death of your virtue.
No shame on face, no flower on grave. Old Chinese proverb… they make everything now, from Nuclear Missiles to lame ass proverbs. Even God is made in China now, three different qualities. We of course, made a copy and tried to give it away for free only to find that much in the same way as any self respecting dog, a self respecting god will bite back too. Only when god bites back no shot in the world can cure you. Even death doesn’t rescue you because it takes you closer to god instead of farther away and far far away is where you’d technically want to be, but how far can you possibly run from god? Just as far as you can run from your own imagination. So run Forrest run, run faster than a nun with her habit on fire.
I’m a creep sometimes, but the sometimes in that sentence redeems me. Funny where redemption can be found, even at the bottom of a toilet bowl if you are really really drunk. Life is funny that way. Life is mostly a sadistic whore but it’s got a sense of humor. And the sense of humor in that sentence redeems life. Unfortunately, however, we regret to inform you, that there ain’t a god damned thing that redeems you. So please to feel free and burn everything you have ever known as pleasure because you can’t even begin to bloody imagine what pleasures life can bring, for if you did you wouldn’t be holding your hand out like the leg less beggar at kalma chowk for life to throw you a ten rupee note, no you would have snatched all the joy you ever wanted, you’d have fought tooth and nail for it and having found it you would have given it back realizing that no mortal man or woman is ever really worthy of owning such perfection, otherwise we would still be in heaven, or better yet, in hell.
And now, we interrupt this transmission of absurd vagaries composed by a less then intelligent and more than delirious mind, for a special message: The habit of missing you is still upon me too. And though love is an asshole and a creep and more trouble than anything ought to be worth it’s the habit in the sentence that redeems love.
Love never cleans up after himself and never bothers to thank you for doing the needful. When love moves houses, he burns the old one down. And along with it every vestige of the past that could potentially hamper the future. He’s quite meticulous really, quite methodical…burning is by far the most efficient method of eradication, and love knows this well. Generally, the more valuable an item like a ring or a watch or a crystal snow globe, the longer it takes to burn. Some don’t burn at all, but letters do. They burn fast and they burn well and the more letters you have to burn, the hotter the fire and hence the more damage she does to whatever you want her to obliterate. She burns him down, he hunts her down, and in the end neither one of them was ever found, ever seen, ever heard from again. Was it fun, then? Was it fucking fantastic? Was it everything you thought it would be from watching QSQT?
I FOUND you. I FOUNDed you. I laid that freaking stone, that blood red plaque still bears my name. The trouble with stalking is that it never helps to know how huge a slut your ex-lover turned out to be. Random lovers on random days of random months and random weeks and random hours of random lust and random love unbuttoned and unburdened upon thine wicked-bitch heart that beats though it should really bound. Sense is for the stupid… now rage… rage is an emotion worthy of the brave, of the stoic and the grave. Rage is sublime, rage is supreme, rage liberates. Engage the rage and let it run amok across the barren plane of your shit colored domain for even when it rains the blood stains on your gilded mane will remain, will linger, will multiply and intensify and become the lie that you told so long ago because how could you have known that sometimes lies do come true, you did too, didn’t you?
God it was strange to see you again… strangely euphoric that is, strangely satisfying… strangely, masochistically almost fucking artistically complimentary to my state of non-existence. Did I make you smile or was it the irony encrusted fist in your face? You always liked it rough… hand cuffs and kid gloves. Oh what I wouldn’t do to keep you safe from disgrace? Oh what I didn’t do! Did too much is what I did, drove my boat right over board, over me and over you buried beneath the smelly milieu of little fishies and big fishies and dead fishies and live fishies and fishies that bite and fishies that sting and fishies that take you out for a drink and sit you down and talk you through the impending death of your virtue.
No shame on face, no flower on grave. Old Chinese proverb… they make everything now, from Nuclear Missiles to lame ass proverbs. Even God is made in China now, three different qualities. We of course, made a copy and tried to give it away for free only to find that much in the same way as any self respecting dog, a self respecting god will bite back too. Only when god bites back no shot in the world can cure you. Even death doesn’t rescue you because it takes you closer to god instead of farther away and far far away is where you’d technically want to be, but how far can you possibly run from god? Just as far as you can run from your own imagination. So run Forrest run, run faster than a nun with her habit on fire.
I’m a creep sometimes, but the sometimes in that sentence redeems me. Funny where redemption can be found, even at the bottom of a toilet bowl if you are really really drunk. Life is funny that way. Life is mostly a sadistic whore but it’s got a sense of humor. And the sense of humor in that sentence redeems life. Unfortunately, however, we regret to inform you, that there ain’t a god damned thing that redeems you. So please to feel free and burn everything you have ever known as pleasure because you can’t even begin to bloody imagine what pleasures life can bring, for if you did you wouldn’t be holding your hand out like the leg less beggar at kalma chowk for life to throw you a ten rupee note, no you would have snatched all the joy you ever wanted, you’d have fought tooth and nail for it and having found it you would have given it back realizing that no mortal man or woman is ever really worthy of owning such perfection, otherwise we would still be in heaven, or better yet, in hell.
And now, we interrupt this transmission of absurd vagaries composed by a less then intelligent and more than delirious mind, for a special message: The habit of missing you is still upon me too. And though love is an asshole and a creep and more trouble than anything ought to be worth it’s the habit in the sentence that redeems love.
Comments
Does that mean I can hope?
go figure how