Bloomin’ Pussy

March 3, 2011 § 1 Comment


I hate it that you cried at an Outback Steak House, forcing me to make a tired bloomin onion joke and making me feel like an asshole for not hugging you back when you said hello. Everything on the goddamn menu has a number next to it, telling me the amount of calories I’d need to throw up later. I had the feeling I wouldn’t want to barf in the steakhouse bathrooms, which were bound to be clean, but the autoflush toilets always spray a little bit of water on my face, and it seems like you can usually smell the last seven cunts that were on that seat with your face hovering that close to the bowl. No, thanks. I’ll get rid of my outback in the comfort of my own home. And you were crying.

The Bloomin Onion Alone Is More Calories Than I Need In A Week

 

He says I knock the cool out of their steps, like I’ve got some sort of fucking talent for it. It’s all butterfly hair clips and crafty upshifts of eyes, mouth open a little bit, and if you’ve got a scraped knee, wear shorts that day. There’s no secret to making men weak, because they start out that way and they’re looking for the woman who will sock them in the gut with her moxy; stare them down as they wait in line for their turn at bigger things. I get afraid of that power, sometimes, until I realize that it doesn’t even exist.

You sat across from me red-eyed, I’d hoped because you were stoned, until you had to wipe the fast falling tears away and you begged me to stick around. You’d wanted to take me to someplace nicer than this. I hadn’t allowed it. I’d worn a skirt so short that the bottom of my ass was always almost in view. I’d made sure you walked behind me.

“Aw, fuck, look. It’s just- hey- don’t cry. You can’t cry if I’m supposed to ever take you seriously.” And that always makes a man cry harder. Maybe someone ought to put some numbers next to them- a sort of calorie count of how much they’d take away from me instead of how much they’d put in. It worked, anyway, because I still went home with you. But next time I watch you cry, I hope to fuck it’s because someone important died or that you just got punched in the face really hard, because there’s only so much I can take (give. Take. Whatever, you do the math) before it makes me sick.

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§ One Response to Bloomin’ Pussy

  • checkitrdb says:

    Your writing is dazzling, I dig it. There is nothing worse that menus with the nutrition info right next to it, it’s like a little reminder that you should puke right away because that certain numbers just swimming in your gut.

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