Humiliation:
SO MANY TIMES
I was just finishing the setup to one of my favorite moves with some girl I had
just met at a coffee shop. She reminded me of coughing up phlegm and having to
swallow it because your location and company just wouldn't think kindly upon
spitting it out. Gloom, spread on a burnt bagel and she knew it wasn't a
metaphor. Those situations make me smile and my friends hide because they
know what's coming. The thing is I don't feel like I'm to blame. She looked at
me far too many times in the eyes. Like she saw something--something worth
nothing. What sort of man can deny a challenge? Probably a wise one, and that makes me
smile. You can see where I'm going with this, I'm sure.
She was so anxious, leaning forward with hands tucked under her legs and I
couldn't help but feel bad for her when I finished up with,
"...and that's what I really like about you."
Covered in spilled liquor and torpor from drunk failures leaning into me for
attention and spilling on my pants, why should I feel bad? One of them offered a
ride home from the bar even if it was under the pretense of coffee before hand
and I knew I was in trouble when she pulled into a parking spot instead of
the drive-thru. Part of life is learning how to grin and bear it. I did, and luckily I saw
my out in,
"Oh, wow. Hah. I haven't even asked your name."
Steph. How unoriginal, and this is how it always is. These are never winning
interactions. I'm not interested in having sex with you and half of the reason you
want to is because I'm not letting you have the power you normally do over other
men. The hunt is fun until I find the one thing. The one thing that I can't look past.
Mole, french tips, strange thumbs, dried ice cream in the corner of your mouth,
fake tits, huge sunglasses--it could really be anything. Truly, a fucking idiot, the
one that thinks standards mean a damned thing except the fact that you've done
better before and, even then, why haven't you had the shit slapped out of you?
Sigh is a sign that I've lost interest and she is not surprised. She has slept with others like me, she thinks. A kitten who is learning to pounce before it leaves Mother. I am another commercial for an anti-depressant. She is not awkward to this type of reaction.
It’s cold in my room despite spooning with Steph.
“I really don't like your name. That's all."
It wasn't enough to get her to stop stupidly grinding her ass into my dick, and it
never is.
Adkov's poetry and prose has been seen on the inside of urinals, and across used Kleenex, written with the pus of gangrened legs.
Adkov's carefully sculpted prose remains, even when Adkov himself is in full blackout, lying in a yellow froth of beer or piss... we can't really tell. But there are some interesting words floating about in the mess of it all.
Adkov thinks he's smarter than you just because he knows a few big words.
Adkov is smarter than all of us. A god-like deity, really. His words foretell doom and The Apocalypse--just his thinking it will make it happen. The future itself is, in fact, solely in his hands. Because he's not willing to do anything about it, we're all fucked.
