The 25th Fire: A Tale of Woe

I'm digging through the past in this little collections of rants, written in my younger years. I've said it before, but I was really into girls. I wanted nothing more than a wife to carry on as a family, as a team versus the world. I used to think I was naive in such attempts. I still kind of do. But now I know my place among women, I know my value now. I can still be disappointed by them, but I don't think I can be hurt by a woman. Not anymore.

Weak Love

Was it her smile? The thought of having one that was wanted for so long?

Was it her indifference, her way of dealing with this mad world in such a unique way that made her more appealing? More attractive?

Was it the thought of having an angel, a woman hurt by a distracted society, and lifting her up, to show the world she was the hope it needed and you were the one to do it with her?

It all seems so arrogant, so selfish to think that anyone could do that for her.

She is full of hurt. She lashes it out, with no purpose or time.

She hurt me.

I fell for her, first with an air of caution, and then into a freefall of love and feeling loved.

But she, she is unanswerable.

***

I am at heart a meatbag. Someone who exists not because they have a purpose, but because they simply are.

A reactionary creature I am, more beast than sentient. I take what I want, I fuck who I please. I crap, eat, sleep, and get drunk just so I can have some feeling, other than the moment, overwhelm my senses.

No plans for the future, unless you count the weekend, and no change do I foresee. I hurt those I love, I create nothing but excuses.

I sometimes think about becoming more, yet my laziness and content with the present, kills it as soon as inspiration arises.

I am modern man.

***

He walked out the front door, feet heavy with non-conformity, head dizzy from his discovery.

How could she do this? After 5 years of marriage, and then she finds out he wasn’t enough? Fuck that!

He hustled over to the driver’s side door to the ‘68 Chevy Nova, the one meant only for weekends and car shows. The same car he had bought in their first year of marriage.

Something that the both of them be proud of, an item that brought them together and showed the world the beauty of their coupling through spotless white paint with the shiny chrome trim and the roaring of 450 horsepower coursing through the engine block, equivalent to the pure passion of their sex life.

The trim wasn’t the only thing chrome in the car. He reached into the glove box and pulled out the .357 snub-nosed that he kept for her protection. It wasn’t going to be protecting her anymore.

He re-entered the house, feet quieter than his exit. It was also quiet upstairs. It had not been earlier.

His empty hand began to shake, as if telling him he couldn’t do this. He wasn’t a murderer.

He tried to walk up the stairs, up into their master bedroom where his wife was cheating on him, but his heavy heart kept him down.

He drove off in that ‘68 Chevy Nova, unsure if he did what he wouldn’t regret.

***

You all did this. Women, I mean.

The food started getting better, the men provided you with more, and you all decided that you had been living under the thumb of men for too long.

And now look at the “proud” thing that you created!

Porn, where the point is to blow out your orifices so a camera can film and sell it so that other men can see what you did for money.

It's strange that all feminism did was give even more power to those who create and own money, and took away what little was left the hard-working and stable husbands of yesteryear.

Men are monsters now. But we are and always will be your monster. Only now you set a price, and not a promise.