Diary of a Bachelor (Friday 13th)

Share This Post

I came to the verdict that I loved her when, after so many nights of endless passion till the break of the dawn, she seemed not to get enough. It even crossed my mind that I could marry her (seriously?) and spend the rest of my terribly miserable life with her.

The whole thing had an air of a club Kafkaesqueness where you take the bartender who gets prettier and prettier with every bottle she serves you with only for her to go and remove her dentures before the shenanigans and you wake up the following day with self-hate weighing down on you like a millstone.
Realization that I had said some things in passionate haze and was probably to regret them hit me like a tornado. Did I just tell her that I wanted us to have a baby? No, definitely no. What I had said was, “I want to have you, babe.” Turns out that anything I said because her ballooning boobs were smiling at me was circumstantial and can’t be used against me in court(ship).

Marriage for me is an undertaking that implies some faith in a theoretical future, a projection of paired line running forward through time, growing apart and separate from one another until they became totally different masquerades of what they once were.

It is a doctrine I cannot entirely credit, nor am I sure it would be a welcome proposition without pretense to make me feel a better human being and welcomed to share God knows what in her life when I well know that sharing has never been humanity’s defining attribute.

“Babe, yesterday I was drunk with your hormones and other pheromonal stuff it slurred my speech. Did I say something I might be sorry of? Of course no, I hope. But if I said, I am sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I told her when I came to my senses.

She gave me the look (that a woman would give you when you’ve just called her ‘bitch’) and said, “Seriously, Dave? Yeah, whatever” and with that slammed the door shut on her way out.

Pregnant

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out. She now had my attention. “I’m pregnant, J…” “I heard you,” I said, a slight tinge of irritation getting the better of my voice. A

The Crying President

She turned to the cameras and pressed the back of her wrists to one eye. She had used the methylated chapstick that her personal assistant (and campaign secretary) had placed on the podium to dab the edges of her wristwatch and pantsuit coat with menthol. The sting drew the required tears.

Do You Want To Hone Your Writing Skills?

Register today for creative writing courses

error: Content is protected !!