"Sure, if you try hard enough, one day you might actually hit a bestseller list. But um, before you go on with this thing, uh, you know that you'll never be able to use written word to get anyone off, right?"
--and I do mean, atrociously bad. Even after my angsty hormone driven danger days of scouring the internet for people to exchange words with me in the hopes of finding some release, I still couldn't compose a text message to my girlfriend without her telling me about how funny it was later.
It could just be me, actually. I'm sure there are some people out there who are pretty bad at it, but when I think about it, I make a pretty funny joke of the physical act too. If I had a penis and said, "All my lovers laughed in the bedroom." there would probably be more reason to worry. As it stands, I just still get so nervous navigating myself around people I've been seeing for years.
90% of the time, there will be something I say that makes her laugh until she get's so sick of my shit she just grips my mouth with hers to shut me up. There have been situations where I'm between a woman's legs, and just post on her mound with my hand under my chin like I'm taking headshots for modeling, starting a conversation about why I think leprechauns are an understated race. Thier frustration is merited, although I have yet to meet a woman who would debate me on that leprechaun thing. Hope's out.
Tonight I got a random message from one of my friends on Facebook asking for something that I both couldn't give, and didn't want to. Friend is a loose term, he used to cyber with my ex-girlfriend. He hated the shit out of me, and for a long time running, the feeling was mutual. Started this whole "forgiveness" hippy shit awhile ago and have nothing but trouble with it. But to his credit, he tried really, really hard.
At this point, he's not saying anything different from what I hear from most of my male friends on a semi-daily basis. It's part of their charm. Whoever said men weren't expressive was obviously not friends with several of them with access to the internet. Most of the time they say "i'm horny" and then I don't hear from them for six minutes.
When it didn't work out, I resorted to methods the ASPCA defines as "humane", not the Oxford English Dictionary.
He states again, how distraught his jeans are about having to be pushed up against his fly.
I've seen this method used before! Oh my god, if this were a trivia show I'd never apply and be really awkward watching the shows because it could have been me up there.
Might have failed math, so it was probably a bit insensitive to use fractions in this case, but I think the measurement holds up. I can't discern if the frantic line of questions marks are confusion or because I use correct grammar and punctuation, but somewhere failed in repeating my thesis statement.
So at this point, I've asked Pan Blanko what he thought I should do. He said I should do it. I take this advice and gear up all my old, dusty methods of cyber sex.
Livin' life as a freudian wet dream since nineteen ninety summin'.
---and for a bit, he thinks he can back out. You're in my clutches now, bitch. I'm about to hit your juice button so hard.
You'd think I would have lost him by now. I'm a writer, god damn it, and I won't let that stop me.
I'm drunk on power. I am God. I am everything. I am the sun. I am the universe. I am doing what every money hungry camera whore does everyday and I'm averagely good at it. Power. So much.
He never responded after this. I'm not sure what went wrong? I thought we had a real connection happening here. Looks like my curse still stands. I'll never be Anne Rice, or that person who wrote that one book everyone reads with a lot of sex.
Try harder, asshole.