By Helene "Big Pussy" Gresser
I am a jackass. A big ole hypocrite jackass am I. And I have to just accept this fact, and put on my big girl pants and just be a jackass who kicks and hee-haws her way out of this hypocrisy. Quick, let me light another goddamn cigarette, even though I tried to quit a few weeks ago, and figure this shit out.
There, that’s better. I took half a Xanax too. I need to calm the fluttering hordes of butterflies in my belly and grow the fuck up. And you can say this is a continuation of my blentry thoughts from last week: Let It Be.
You see, I am free to date whomever I want, whenever I want. I can accept a date, go to a dinner or have drinks, and fall into bed with some sexy beast when I damn well please. I can have incredible, dirty, kinky sexy-times and feel guilt-free. But I am not doing that presently. I am sitting here on a lovely, cold, clear evening writing about my rumbly tumbly and not making the beast with two backs with some new or familiar hottie in a drunken fervor. I feel satisfied with the dude I’ve been seeing, and have been gaily traipsing along in Pretend Couplesville, adjacent to Togetherland. And for all the adulty talk and honesty and real-lifeness of my present situation, I am still in denial of my fears and all the triggers that flip on when I start to FEEL THINGS.
Great companionship, no fights, no drama, fantastic bed games, and lots of laughter, and I still find the need for security blankets wrapped around me to shelter me from the sturm and drang of my imagination. My stupid, vivid, dead-on imagination of Someone More Exciting Than Me waltzing around in my guy’s sugar-plum dreams and very real reality.
The truth is, there will always be Someone More Exciting. That is life. Someone New. Someone Different. Someone Younger. Someone Kinkier. Someone Sexy. And there it is, staring me in the face: this real-life, adult, not-a-romantic-comedy Truth. And I still try as hard as I can, with all my mighty powers, to be free-to-be-you-and-me.
I am falling. And I used to love that feeling. I loved the whoosh and tickle and gasp. The thrill of never getting enough, and knowing that was reciprocated. But now I am exposed, all soft-underbelly and sweet and open and unprotected. Tough shit. Life is filled with uncertainty and angst and my-god-what-the-hell-is-happening. It’s also filled with terrible disasters and illness and far worse things than oh-poor-thing-you-are-afraid. Fer fucksake lady, get your fucking shit together and get busy living or get busy dying.
I usually work damn hard, am funny at times, and have a quick brain. But swimming in this tar pit of dinosaur bones and memories of painful love is getting me deeper in muck and it smells like shit. Shit and tar. Fuck shit and tar.
I want Fun Helene back. Fun Helene is one Cool-Ass Chick To Hang Around. Googly-Eyed Helene is a ridiculous buffoon jester-lady who jangles her sad bells in hopes of entertaining the king, and you know what? I am better than that. I can be strong and funny and confident and stand on my two Viking legs and determine my future with my mighty barbaric YAWP.
Oh, but this Achilles Heel of Ideal Romantic Love, how it hobbles me. Why must a leash be attached? Why can’t I share? Why can’t I gloriously wade into the surf and splash until exhausted and joyful, and hope we are all doing the same? Life is short, life is beautiful at times, and aren’t I lucky to occasionally have a hand to hold in mine? What the fuck else is there?
I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.
And yet. And yet. Yet.
I light another goddamned cigarette.
-hmg
I love you and your barbaric YAWP.
PS: I hope YAWP still means what it used to and that it's not a euphemism for anything else.
Girl, you are one fine, engaging writer, so add that to your list.
What did YAWP use to mean?