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This was supposed to be simple.
In the end, I guess it was not.
As I write this it’s the day before Christmas eve. If you’re reading this now, happy holidays. If you’re reading this six months from now, happy June.
This Was Supposed To Be Simple is a gift. A collection. An anthology. It’s nothing fancy, but it took a while to make. If you think about it, it almost took six months.
2009 has been an amazing year for me. I’ve had low moments, and I’ve had high moments. I’ve met some amazing people. I’ve lived memories that I’ll never forget. I achieved life long goals. I’ve tried new things. I quit two jobs and packed up and moved pretty far away.
It’s been the best year of my life.
During all of that I’ve been writing constantly. Not everything I’ve written has been brilliant, but there are some pieces that I’m pretty damn proud of.
And thats what’s here.
I’ve been so inspired this year. Much thanks to Amanda Palmer, Kevin Barnes, Miranda July, Elyse Jordan, Will Ward, Erica Schreiner, and everyone who reads this blog.
So now that all of that is out of the way, here is This Was Supposed To Be Simple. Some of the content has been posted on this blog before, some of it has not. It’s a PDF file, and you should print it out – or if you prefer read it on your computer. Staple it together, regift it, do as you please.
Do you have one of those songs? That song you listen to and it instantly takes you back to a moment, a season, a year you spent with someone you loved? When you loved them before they broke your heart or stopped being interesting – before your summer fling turned into a boring relationship? Before you knew that person so well that it made you hate them? Yeah, that song. I’m listening to that song, and I’m remembering you. I’m remember the way you made my heart skip beats. I’m remembering the way we’d watch movies while you held me and kissed me behind my ear. And I’d smile. I’m remembering the happiest moments of my life, and wondering where it all went wrong, and I’m wondering if it was my fault. But I won’t be wondering this much longer. Today I begin the process of teaching myself not to love you. After today I’ll do my best to pretend this song doesn’t exist. I’m throwing away every burnt CD on which this song exists. I’m deleting it from my library. And on the odd chance that last summer’s hit comes on the radio, well, I’ll try not to cry and I’ll turn the station. I won’t let this song warm my heart, because you don’t deserve a place in that heart. You’re not allowed to make me feel anymore.
I always dreamed this would happen. From the moment I laid eyes on you I had dreamed of this moment. For a while things seemed unlikely, like always I ended up being your friend. LIke your sister. It killed me. But tonight, I’m not just your friend. Tonight, you say I’m beautiful. You complement me, and for the first time in my life I believe it. You think I’m beautiful. You’re beautiful. Together we’re amazing, this was meant to happen. You kiss me, and with your mouth you fill my body with your energy. You move your face back and smile at me, your body reeking of alcohol. Sure, in my dreams we weren’t plastered, but beggars can’t be choosers. And I can’t imagine anything being more amazing than this single moment.
After several rounds of drinks we had decided to come to bed. Whenever you’ve stayed the night you had always slept in the guest bedroom, but tonight is different. Tonight we’re drinking rum, and rum always makes me touchy-feely. And apparently it does the same to you.
I burry my face deep in your chest and inhale your wonderful scent. I hope this smell lingers on my sheets for days to come. As gross as it sounds, I think to myself, I won’t wash these sheets until the scent of this night is gone. “You smell so good,” I whisper, and then I move my body forward to nibble on your ear. You moan and start to kiss my neck, like you know it’s my favorite thing ever.
I start to unbutton your shirt and you eagerly help me. Very soon it’s on the floor. And then my shirt as well. And your pants. And my skirt. And pretty soon you’re only wearing your socks.
We lay there kissing, for hours or seconds – I can’t tell a difference when you’re around. This is exactly how I imagined kissing you would be. Pure magic.
You move your face away from mine, lingering on my bottom lip in a way that sends shivers up my spine. Slowly you kiss my neck, my collarbones, my chest, and my stomach – the prickle of your stubble hinting constantly at your lips next destination.
Your mouth reaches my navel and I let out a moan. You stop briefly, and I can hear you smile. I rub my fingers through your short hair, giving it a slight tug as you swirl your tongue around the circumference of my bellybutton.
You continue your journey downward and I am in pure bliss. I take a deep breath, and notice that the room smells strongly of sex. I arch my back. As I place a hand on the sheets near my leg and clinch down you cover it softly with your own, intertwining your fingers into mine.
Your stubble once again rubs against me, but this time it drives me crazy. I need you. I pull you up by your hand, still intertwined with mine. Frantically I put my mouth to yours, and our tongues dance a complicated waltz, but it’s like they’ve practiced five hundred times.
I put my arms around you and roll over so that you are on top of me, inviting you to make me yours. I don’t ever want to leave this moment. This bed. This room. You enter me, and my it’s like I’ve never done this before. Nothing has ever felt this amazing. Nothing has ever felt this right.
I wake up in your arms, your face resting on my head. The clock reads seven AM, and I don’t have to be up until nine. But if staying right here with you all day meant quitting my job I wouldn’t think twice. I feel your breath on my face. And again. And again until eventually I’m breathing at your exact pace. And slowly I fall back to sleep.
Author’s Note: This is a not typical story that I would write, but recently I’ve been worrying that all of my stories fall into the same category, so I’m going to try and write more stories that are not in my comfort zone. Hopefully it doesn’t suck.
You’re at my apartment. Currently, you’re standing in my kitchen smoking one of my expensive cigarettes while I’m still on the bed. You’ve just finished having sex with me, I did not come. When I first met you you were so attractive, rugged, and unattainable. Now I look at you and you look ugly and ungroomed – and I have no idea what your wife sees in you.
Back then you were witty and sarcastic, and it was so extraordinarily charming. Now you seem pretentious. What once was cute is now annoying, what was hot is disgusting.
I want you out of my life, out of my apartment.
I want you to be dead.
I want to call your wife and tell her what an asshole you are, and how you were late to pick up your son from day care that day because you showed up at my apartment high out of your mind and I wouldn’t let you drive with him in the car.
I want you to forget you ever knew me, and I want you to burn in hell.
I want to see your wife at the store, and tell her how bad I feel and how sorry I am that any of this ever happened. And then I want her to slap me and say “How dare you try and make yourself the victim.” And then I want her to turn her back and walk away while your child asks who I was and she responds simply with “The woman who ruined our life.”
Thats what I want.
I rise from the bed and put on my robe. You’re still standing in the kitchen, smoking my cigarette and scratching your balls. You seem to be reading the shopping list attached to my refrigerator door.
I grab the scissors from my night stand, slip them into my pocket, and proceed towards you.
You have no idea.
I step in front of you and kiss you. As your tongue slides across my lips I place my hand into my pocket. As your fingers run through my hair I remove the scissors. As you move your hand downward and caress my ass I stab you in the stomach.
You make a really pitiful noise and fall to the floor. I bend down and remove the cigarette from your fingers.
This puff tastes like victory.
I’ve spent my entire life waiting for someone to ask me to stay. Waiting for someone to beg me not to go, or even to just tell me to leave.