Tag Archives: life

Bonding over Bitching

I work in an office of women and it’s quite discouraging.  Through the course of a single day, the topics of conversation include: Reality T.V, how much they hate their bodies, celebrities, plastic surgery, cosmetics, and how annoying their kids/boyfriends/husbands are.  I have never had much in common with women, especially the “modern” woman.  Perhaps my lack of appreciation for the modern women stems from my facing constant rejection by many of them due to the way I live my life.  I am openly submissive.  I love my husband and he rarely annoys me.  I enjoy meeting his needs, and I love to take care of him in any way necessary.  I don’t like to be an inconvenience to him and I refuse to be a nag.  Thus, I have a relationship that is relatively free from any resentments or drama, save the occasional squabble over something stupid like him not picking something out for dinner off his bi-weekly menu I make him.  We have a relationship that, I would deem, comes as close to perfection as possible. My relationship and my lifestyle, it would appear, would be the cause of my lack of steady female companionship. I am rarely unhappy with any part of my personal life or myself, so I appear haughty I’m female circles. The perception of haughtiness is threatening and the antithesis to female bonding over bitching.

I also don’t hate my body.  I appreciate my body.  I am happy with the way it looks and feel very comfortable naked.  If I come into a pattern of low self-esteem over something about my body, I’ll make an expeditated move to fix it in whatever manner possible.  If I feel like I’m hanging onto a few extra pounds, I amp up my workouts and cut back on some of the foods that could be holding me back from my goal.  I have nothing against plastic surgery, and may find myself in need of some in the future.  But, I don’t see a need to discuss it at length with other women. How does airing discomfort provide comfort? Can women only dish a complement without the need for one in return if they perceive themselves as equal or better than the person they are paying the compliment to?

How does this fix anything?  How does this make these women feel better?  Perhaps, female comradery is built upon a foundation of self-hate and negativity. Do women have to demean themselves to find acceptance from other women and feel as though they fit in?  Why are the lives of celebrities (or their assumed lives based upon what the media portrays) fascinating enough to cover the span of an hour or more in near constant communication?  Who the fuck cares? Any significant amount of time spent discussing celebrities is an utter waste of time. If each moment brings us closer to our death, I don’t want to spend it discussing the Kardashians for an hour.

My life experience thus far has revealed that to share a relationship of any depth with another woman you must be at least mildly miserable with yourself and your life.  You must enjoy complaining.  Complaining seems to be the very thread essential to the fiber of the female friendship. People within earshot of such pointless, meaningless and seemingly endless jabber should be the newest victims to form a hashtag movement. Are you having to listen to women bonding over bitching and it’s making you miserable? #metoo.


Wraith

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I do believe there is nothing quite as sobering as having someone you love tell you they were diagnosed with cancer.  But, for me, she is not simply a loved one.  I don’t let a lot of people in.  I thrive in extremes, so I either uphold a person as someone of incredible value to my life, or someone that can pass through aimlessly as they please.  Of course, with the latter, I don’t give much care or consideration but ample freedom and an available ear.  I struggle to manage the intense responsibility I feel for the people I love, so I limit whom I give it to.  I have been disappointed too many times at people’s lack of integrity, that I keep most people at arm’s length.  They say that love is an infinite resource, and although I would love to agree, I cannot.  Personally, my love is finite.  My heart is a capsule with only so much room.  I divide it amongst the few people I would die for and I love them with reckless abandon.  She’s one of them.  She’s a warm, soft cashmere.  She’s a radiant light in a world full of dim, flitting embers.  She’s strong as oak; yet, presently a trembling leaf holding to the branch with but a thin stem.  I can’t protect her.  My loyalty can’t make this better.  My steadfast dedication can’t shield the cold zephyr of the shadow at her back.  I can’t do a fucking thing but watch her fear and watch her fight.  I feel like a rabid dog on a leash with nothing to attack but an apparition, a crazed bitch barking at the air.  He’s holding my leash and keeping me steady, tethered as I bark tirelessly.  Tethered to my greatest source of strength.  Tethered to my beloved.

The largest portion of my heart belongs to him.  He is my King, and I am forever the warrior at his side.  If I lose him, I die.  There is no in-between.  No survival.  No desire.  No life.  Not because I can’t survive, but because I won’t want to.  She held the other spot of the greatest value and some fucking ghost permeated my defenses and is threatening one of my two greatest allies.  Powerless, a resonating message keeps repeating itself in my head:

Time is dwindling down your army, warrior.  Time is an impossible weapon to fight.

I’m grasping for resources and there he is, at my side.  My battle tested right-hand man.  My life’s purpose.  He’s here, and at least as we watch each other age, I see nothing but beauty in it.  We have our spears in hand, and with each kiss we thrust forward, piercing through fear’s frail skin.  I have you, I have all I need.

In the darkness of our room late last night, you pressed your lips to mine.  The full, softness of them comforting a beaten soul, a tepid cloth to the wound.  I pulled you on top of me and wrapped my arms and legs around your body like a cocoon to the moth.  Entering my body, my embrace pressing you as close to my flesh as materially possible.  My body’s feeble attempt to physically convey my undying dedication to loving you, protecting you.  As if acknowledging that I cannot fix her, but I can block anything from getting to you.  My love a forcefield from all the specters that threaten you.

Get me first.  Here I am, you fucking phantom!  You got one; but, you let him be! Phantom, get at me!

And I held you there within me, gently rocking my hips into you, running my hands up and down the muscular terrain of your back, flooding pleasure over the pain affecting both of our hearts.  The breath of your life upon the nape of my neck to the pattern of our swaying bodies.  Your breath permeating the very thickness of my skin, you breathe life into me.  In turn, I dedicate my life to you.  I give my body to you.  I’ve handed over my very soul countless times.  Here I am again, offering you all that I have.  You always want me.  You want me even when I’m broken.  I am forever yours.  Yours after time claims all my pieces.  Placing my body over yours, it will need to get through me first.  Yours before and after my final battle with the wraith.