You know what I want? I want a real man. A man’s man. A godly man, sculpted from clay, molded, shaped. I don’t want a skinny thing who smokes in the bathroom or a fucktard who has to get high to watch a movie with me. I want someone to carry me over the threshold. Someone to build a snowman with, who’ll help me practice my lines. I need a man who needs cold showers when he’s around me. Someone that desires me as much as I desire him. Someone who will put his unshaven face close to mine and breathe me in. I don’t need a mess of a boy trying to find himself. I’ve already found myself, and it wouldn’t be a fair race. No, I’m done with boys. They think a girl has all the time in the world, that she’ll be there waiting for them when they get off their asses. I can’t wait anymore. Do you know how old I am? Too old to be dealing with bullshit. I want someone who’ll call me first, who’ll deal with my mother. I want a guy who could beat someone within an inch of their life if they tried to touch me. That sounds extreme, but I’m done caring. You don’t waste time with boys anymore. They hurt you, they beat you, they take all your feelings and they chew them up and spit them out. Don’t waste your time with bad people.
Hate me. Banish me. But never say that you don’t know me.
I am the person from birth that you never unveiled.
Do not say that I have never loved you.
I have loved none but you,
or tried to love none but you. It was not me
who betrayed you. It was the child inside
who must go away not to hurt you. The hurt is seeping from fingertips,
breaking up small food in stomach.
Believe me, I’ve not become me yet. I’m trying
you are here with my replacement, another girl like me.
What does it matter that no one can see my monsters but me.
There is nothing about them that speaks.
Nothing says joy, but it is pulsing chinks.
Put yourself in a blue box. Say nothing. Say nothing to your monsters.
Ship yourself away. There is nothing outside the blue box.
So I’ve been trying my hardest to get a boyfriend since I started walking. Like, I was accused of stalking Dustin Little in kindergarten by his mother. I take love seriously. And since then, I haven’t had the greatest luck. My shortest relationship was a week because I convinced myself I liked a man that I didn’t find attractive because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And my longest relationship was with a former soldier that I met at work. I was 17, he was 25. And I totally was in love with him. But he was way crazy. Now he’s married and has a kid. It seems everyone is getting married or engaged. So I decided to propel myself into the dark gloom of online dating. I had tried online dating before.I had done Tinder, Match.com, even a Bernie Sanders dating site (I mostly got women that didn’t read my ‘Preferences’ section. And I have been on a ton of dates. Mostly bad. And most of all, I’m kind of tired of being alone.
So I tried Bumble, an app that forces women to make the first move. It’s an interesting concept. The only problem was that no matter how many matches I got, no one was asking me out. In fact, sometimes they never responded. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and actually ask someone out. And he said yes!
Let’s call him George. I like that name. George works at Starbucks. He’s 25 and super cute. After our third date, I was so excited. Mwahahaha. After our fourth date, I was like, “Imma date this fool.” But he didn’t text me afterward. So like a spaz, I ‘casually’ walked into Starbucks today and tried to write my fucking play while glimpsing him through the bookshelf. And that’s where I am. Right now. When I went up for a drink, I tried to engage in conversation like a cool cat.
C: Hey! How are you?
G: Great. Just working.
C: I like your shirt.
C: What are you doing after work?
G: Working out then packing.
G: You work at Roadhouse?
C: …Okay, I will see you later.
Can’t you see I am dying slowly, George? A woman has needs. Every time I get close to meeting someone nice and settling down, I get too excited. Like, finally I’ll be able to hold hands with someone on the sidewalk, go to weddings, have huge fights and great make-up sex. And have sex continually with one person is personally the Dream.
And this is why I am a desperate ho. With all of my actions, I beg someone to like me. I like anyone who is nice to me. I know I am desperate because I keep texting first, taking the initiative, etc. I am actually so desperate for love, I dreamt I had sex with my female roommate (let it be known, I have no roommate) and I had to pretend to like the sex because I didn’t want her to leave me. And now I am probably going to stay at this stupid Starbucks for two more hours to see if George will come over after his shift and talk to me. Please help me, world. I’m sick of being a desperate ho. I want to be a badass ho. My 15-year-old friend is ashamed of me.
This is a list of all the things men simply must put on their dating profiles. On a serious note, I really don’t know how they think these things work.
1. The dog photo
There’s always fucking dog photo. The human male wants to control us with our hormones and our love for puppies. It is his way of saying, “Yes, I’m caring and compassionate, look at how much I love dogs.”
2. The baby photo
The classic baby photo. Again, the male is trying to lure us in through supposed maternal feelings. Ha. As if we have them. We’re not here on Tinder to have babies. We’re here to make babies… but with condoms on.
3. The shirtless pic
This one is the worst. A hot bod… is a hot bod. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to grill some bacon on that thing ^^
4. The fish photo
The male mind is obsessed with fish. I don’t know what it is. Is it the thrill of the catch? Do the gills sparkle like diamonds? Why do men think we care about fish? I’m glad it’s their favorite sport, but the only fish I want to see is on my plate.
5. The one where we don’t know who you are
Where you at, bro?
He tried hard to forget. To love is to destroy. But he could not but think he’d rather fade into the earth than give up his love, it was so fresh in the ground. It niched itself in the dirt, the pressing of moss and mold inside the root cellar, where his love grew further, twisting into bricks, into an obsequious display that poisoned him to the touch. Everyone knows what it is to hold something closely and have it bite you.
The layered leaves
Have turned away from me
Their veins shoot from
The brutal heart of thee
And when such veins
Crawl into the maple tree
It means ye turned away from me
And left my leaves to burn
Note: this is political satire. paul ryan is, sadly, not cheating on his wife with me.
So I’m watching TV in my cute little pajamas, eating ice cream with rum (sorry, mom) and some good ol’ Fox television when some orange bimbo comes on and says that the repeal of Obamacare failed because of Paul!
“Paul Ryan needs to step down as speaker of the House,” Pirro said. “The reason? He failed to deliver the votes on his health care bill. The one trumpeted to repeal and replace Obamacare. The one that he had seven years to work on. The one he hid under lock and key in the basement of Congress. The one that had to be pulled to prevent the embarrassment of not having enough votes to pass.”
Well, you know what, Ms. Pirro? Paul Ryan is an excellent speaker of the House! The reason? He’s a good man and an even better lover. Yes, Obamacare is terrible because it actually helps many people around the United States. Yes, no one should experience that much freedom or get coverage despite previous conditions. No one should feel safe in America. And Paul knows that. So it takes more than 7 years? So what. It took me 22 years to find Paul.
Speaking of freedom, I have nothing to do. I’m terribly lonely. I went to the store one day to buy some chocolate and get some baby food, and I found myself talking to the store clerk for 15 minutes. Paul is rarely home now that Donald is finally being presidential. His wife is supposed to sign the divorce papers soon, though.
Paul has not breastfed in 10 days. The new healthcare act is under intense scrutiny by Republicans as well as Democrats. Ha. Like there are democrats in Congress. Like Trump can be persuasive. Or even a real president.
Oh god. The Speaker just came in. “I’m sick of Trump trying to blame Obama. There was no wire-tap! I mean, come on! Who thought that Dorito Man would ever become the Commander in Chief? More like commander of bleach! Am I right, Chloe-bear? Because he is blond?”
“Oh, honey, go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep, baby,” Paul softly murmurs as he cradles me in his strong, pale arms.
“Why?”I ask, stroking his vampire face.
“I just keep thinking about Obama.”
Paul Ryan sighs. “I just miss him. This is too hard. I want maternity leave.”
“Paul, you already took maternity leave.”
“If Trump can golf, I can go back to mu-mu’s and intense sleep aids.”
“It’s a very good start. It’s actually an excellent start,” Ryan said of the bill, known as the American Health Care Act.
The Washington Post
Hello. This is Paul Ryan, Speaker of the House. And Man of Chloe’s House, if you know what I mean 😉 I’m so freaked out right now. According to The Washington Post, I’m fucking drowning. Like, they keep saying the words, “Ryan urged the senators.” As if I’m their whore. And I get that I sound like an idiot every time I say, “TRILLION DOLLAR TAX CUT” but really. Who are we kidding. It’s super true.
Chloe is not buying it. She’s bitching about a bunch of small things. Like ‘senior healthcare’ and I even think she muttered, “John McCain could do it better,” as we went to bed last night.
See what I mean. Under that fabulous widows peak is the brain of a squirrel. He is so out of my league.
Two puppies lay at my feet.
One brindle and striped like a tiger
The female is a lovely gray. It is she
that is striking. Her face so small, her legs like flappers.
she would be a beautiful dancer, but
how frightened of every little sound!
I took her out to the front yard and she heard wind chimes
and skirted back to the door—I took them out together once
‘til two pit bulls barked
and Luna dived under a parked
The first time
I coaxed her out with a treat. “Come here, baby.”
The second time, “Get the fuck out of that car!”
anonymous 231 said a man grabbed her privates on a subway
(why do we use that word… ‘privates’…they are not private)
i was grabbed
he grabbed me
a schoolmate grabbed me in a classroom. In class.
30 people stood, all in groups, chatting
uncomfortably. I can’t remember what I did. Why this boy laughed and reached out and touched—
Potty training is better. I must softly pet them every time they go outside
or they’ll forget themselves and pee inside.
They’ve done it often. Tejunio will worry his eyes at me and meander
to the door sometimes. I tried to rub his nose in it, and
he bucked like a wild horse. Like I’d beaten him.
Women envision strange things:
A woman fantasizes she’s in love and gets married and
has a thousand babies while juggling a career.
A woman fantasizes she is on a cruise ship and
there is a murder and only she can solve it.
Occasionally a woman fantasizes she’s at home. Cooking. Or on the street, or
at a frat house. And a man approaches her. A nondescript white man, age 22-30.
A lewd request. A reaching out to touch.
She whips out her gun and shoots him dead like Butch Cassidy or John Wayne.
And the blood and the police come and she says breathlessly
I’d rather go to prison than be Raped! And the jury acquits
the brave young heroine
But the boy’s last name was Cho. He wasn’t older. I couldn’t find my gun.
are doing well. They
follow me, they
drink when I drink, watch
me use the bathroom,
eat each others’ meals,
chew up all my furniture
and sprawl on my bed. Luna loves
belly rubs. She spreads her legs and shows the world–
I call it her ‘teepee’
because it looks like a little Indian hut.
I fight this strange urge to touch it—
but my hand disgusts.
I can’t remember how they neuter females.