April 17th, 2005

(no subject)

A Lesson in Teaching.

How does it feel to powerlessly reject power? Disregarding circumstances, whether they tie back to a present girlfriend, a lack of desire, or just plain boredom, how does it feel to turn down everything that everybody else wants? How does it feel, as the one that's never experienced acceptance, to be the first to give the powerful their first experience with rejection? I ask because I feel I embody what is being rejected here. I ask because in a sense, you are the one that always looked up to me; admired me and fawned over every move I made, wanting so desperately to make it your own. Yet here we are in the dark of my room, millenium jazz and my tongue on your earlobe, as you calmly, casually, lovingly let me down. How does it feel?

Why should I deny what's been proved a thousand times? People in this neck of the woods know what's true: I'm the most ridiculous trend setter that half the boys and girls around have ever seen. Half of everything that's hot at my olf high school right now is a result of my own courage to dare such things in the first place. Everything I do is at some point coppied simply because I can make it look good, and if that sounds cocky, well then the truth is that the truth will be self-centered.

Perhaps you were no exception to this theory, but you certainly pulled off "copy-cat" better than any boy I'd seen before. I taught you how exactly to fold your bandana so that it wouldn't poof out, and so that it would maximize wearing potential. I taught you that shopping in the girls section was going to find you a better pair of jeans faster and better and tougher than mens. I taught you how to make sure that every step you took would be a cool one, and just as you knew was best, you trusted all those adolescent lessons. And here you are today, rocking a memopad, a black sharpie, a worn down blue bandana in your left butt pocket, and one mighty attitude. Now every time I look in the mirror, I see a sixteen-year-old reflection with a penis and looks that I swear are far too decent for someone your age and stature.

You've jumped right into the 18th page of my story book, without bothering to make your own. Consequences are harsh, Grasshopper, so here you are with the same dilemma I deal with monthly: Two girls have fallen in love with you, and you can't, for the life of you, decide what to do. In any normal situation, I would be the one providing you with all the advice necessary to get you out of this situation without any stick on your fingers. But it just so happens that I'm one of those chicks this time, and it appears that I'm the one drawing the short straw. You were my Grasshopper, and as soon as I set you free from your protective jar, you turned into a wasp and left your stinger pounding in the palm of my hand.

Since you don't understand what power you have by simply harboring the ability to run our conversations now, I can only wish I knew how it felt to be in your shoes. What if the embodiment of all intimidation and power in the world was here right now, down on one knee, begging me to rip his heart from his chest and snort it up like a twenty millogram Vicodin? When are you going to realize that I am that epithet of power of the women you want and need? When are you going to figure out that no matter how much satisfaction another girl can possibly bring you, I am the woman that holds power worth millions? How the hell does it feel to walk such an opportunity to its door and cut its night short without a kiss?

As damn good as it felt for me all those dozens of times, I can only hope..