© 2010 lefron

It’s Twenty Ten, Bitch

There’s anxiety in my fingertips; I’m aching to write, to splurge my thoughts into the letters of my keyboard which forming words and metaphors will exploit my needs and wonders to those foolish enough to listen…yet my thoughts seem not yet formed. Perhaps my hypochondriac  symptoms are symptoms, though maybe my excess/compuls/obsessive behavior are signs of BPD like the internet tells me. Or maybe, that my future self is contingent on choices, and not a potential flashback fail. More likely, I know what I want to explore but the exploitation of these needs and wonders are too much for the public eye.

Ah of course the latter is at fault. But that shall remain my mystery for A Little Longer.

I am not in any sort of rut. I am not in lack of plan nor in lieu of another. I am not fearful of my future, nor am I experiencing my usual woes of falling short. Yet I still have this sense of longing. Perhaps I’m doomed to long forever, I am a woman after all, and we’re classified longers. I long for lust and love, passion and romance, I long for adventures and dangerous journeys through exotic landscapes, I long for luxury and leisure…These longings are no more concrete than fantasies; they aren’t my wants, my physical/material desires, nor are they my aspirations or dreams. My longings are figments of bliss that while hypothetically possible, aren’t tangible representations of their connotations.

Which is utter bullshit. I’m classified a longer? I’m classified as one who wishes–not for actual bliss–but for a  figment of bliss? Is this some crock of shit they made up in the 50s so women could “have a dream” without any fucking follow through? “Sure honey, you long for that dangerous journey, let me know when you wake up Bitch. I’ll be at work making bacon for that trip to Mexico I’ve been wanting. Bitch.” When did longing denote a negative implication? How is longing significant of fictional hope? Why is it that my (and by my I mean any little lady with a longin’) lifelong dreams are discounted as fantasy just because they’re described in floral and feminine language?

Screw it. I will have my longings. I claim the classification and bestow my aspirations worthy of blissful decoration. My adventures will be exotic and dangerous because I long for them to be so. My love will be passionate, lustful, and romantic if I long it. And not because I long it, but because my longing requires it; it inspires such embellishment and care. My concrete desires will be paved in intricate color, delicate design, and vehemence, not a simple, conventional, homogeneous grey.

And you better believe my ass print will be right in the middle.

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