my spoon is too big
what it is
what it was
sign my guestbookie
i like food!

nothing chunky or piecey


brownie batter

did i mention no chunks of anything

ice cream

peanut butter hot fudge sundaes

i live in a giant bucket

i am ainslee's mom

i love:

college football

allison janney

felicity huffman

and anything written by aaron sorkin rocks.

i hate:

and most republicans,

although i realize that might be redundant.

i want to live every day like my last, not in a state of fear but of appreciation but i haven't mastered that yet."

go visit my peeps


Mercy as a Default

Mercy as a Default

You can taste on her lips all the men sheís gone through Ė probably some of your own Ė and still feel the physical turmoil and that absence of emotion sheís experienced with every one of them. And somehow you're adopting what is supposed to be the other person's role, the one you've always been far too self-absorbed to play, because you're whispering shh, itíll all be okay as she cries into your chest.

This is supposed to be what you do - youíve made her choices and her mistakes and her current context is the only one in which youíll admit them. There is a strategic reason you do it though, you wonder if thatís her reason too. Youíre silent now and then startled by your own thought that maybe other peopleís silence, in the past, was the product of your current reasoning, rather than the offer of absolution that perhaps you mistook it for. More evidence of your self-absorption. Something for which you feel no need to apologize or regret, even now, and actually what you think you should have re-embraced before this ever occurred.

You know sheís crying into your chest because sheís never known what to do with her awkward body, overused and underplayed, smeared with sex and a tinge of regret, and mixed with the intensity of the moment. Like a painting, you think, and draw her in for another kiss as evidence that you're accepting.

You try to forget that on the rare occasions you're accepting, it's always been of the undeserved; it's why you got married in a past life and stayed with the other for the better part of your twenties. And she wraps her long limbs around your shoulders and around your waist; and you wonít think about the fact that the feeling wonít still be there the next day.

(You question that as her touch leaves your mind devoid of coherent thought and your body semi-liquefied. You moan her name over and over again and when itís over thereís just the heat that spills out of your body leaving a comfortable chill, and the heavy scent of sex between her sheets.)

You lay on your side; your body spooned against her longer one. Youíre not supposed to be behind her, even your length dictates against this position. But you're tracing circles and stars on her back until one of you is unconscious, though you canít tell which one. You reside temporarily in the delicious place between sleep and waking and you try, in vain, not to leave it. But you're evicted once again.

The next thing you remember is that morning comes before itís due and youíre back to the cat and mouse routine she seems to get off on.

And more days like this, and more nights, and you start forgetting what your own house looks like and smells like; and you think that maybe it doesnít matter, but you canít decide.

You leave shirts at her house, and underwear, sometimes on purpose but usually because itís just one of those things that happen, and soon you have your own toothbrush there and then it's harder to breathe because you think maybe you're a couple. No matter how illogical, it's the toothbrush that slaps you with the fact that you've been here too much too often too long, that you're treading on dangerous ground; no matter that your clothes have taken up half of her closet for longer than you even notice.

(You refuse to accept it when one of her bras is simply not to be found, that maybe you've fallen in love with being one half of two, and because damn it, this one has to work out; you need it to. Youíll forgive and forget if thatís what it takes to make this last. Again you realize you're playing the wrong part of two here. because you're not supposed to be the one forgiving and forgetting, you've always demanded that of the other person, through subtle and manipulative ways, even if the manipulation includes making it necessary.)

And yet ... you're forgiving and forgetting. Youíll admire her curves. Youíll moan when itís needed. Youíll bend your wishes to fit your loverís, because itís the kind of person you are, is what you tell her in a non-convincing voice. As you yell at her later, trying your hardest not to throw punches but only a nice little fit, because fits you can control, theyíre still yours, when apparently everything else is turning into ours.

<< & >>

tiny hats



thinking about:

i am a banana.

Know, Don't Know, Wish Others Knew

Mercy as a Default

Quiet Desperation


Help if you can

everythingís gonna be ok!

"Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks ... "
-forrest gump