Um, the door. And um, the window. And the zipper in front.

I guess I decided some time ago that broken bones do not ever heal, not really. That any injury sustained is a permanent one. A wound signals a lifetime of recuperation. At some point in the I came to the conclusion that 'pain,' or the emotion of 'suffering' or whatever is unremarkable because there is no endpoint. It is a loop.

I am interested in worst-case scenarios. There is such a thing as a practical use of imagination and one practical use is to imagine what the apocalypse will be like. What it will sound like when the other shoe drops. And in fact, to ask your lover questions along these lines. Some common third-date questions from me are:
  • Have you ever been arrested for drugs?
  • Have you ever had sex for money?
  • Have you ever tried to kill yourself?
and of course I always want to know WHY.

At some point I considered myself "cool" or something. I did not believe that something as stupid as this would upset me. I won't belabor the point but I sort of feel like: If something (say, me for example) has been revealed to be a sham once before, then isn't this revelation not only once again possible, but inevitable? Every bad thing that a person has ever thought about themselves can be revealed to them by a finely-trained lover. Any and all weaknesses can be exploited. All things flow in one direction only. I discovered my capacity for distress: it is limitless, I can't get enough. I found out that I could come unhinged. I could be disassembled. I could be taken apart, if he wanted to. And sometimes he does want to.

So now I'm laying around and my bones are (metaphorically) broken. And I'm just eating these fucking nasty calcium chews that taste like chalk. There is no consolation because I do not understand it. I'm going to blame this on Mercury going retrograde tomorrow.

And I'm hoping that something will grow back but like the wisest gardeners faced with poisoned soil and scorched grass I am not what we call "optimistic".

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