The Old Irish Sheep Dog Gives Me The Heads UP
There I was, home alone one day while Mr. Chris was at work, when the phone began ringing. I never enjoy answering other people’s phones. The shit isn’t going to be for me, so really, what the fuck is the point. Whoever it is on the other line doesn’t want to talk to me and 9 times out of 10, I don’t want to talk to them. So knowing better, I picked up the phone and who was it? The Old Irish Sheep Dog, another one of Mr. Chris’s past fucks come back for a seasonal haunting. This one, unlike the others (Mr. Chris seems to have a tendency to fuck younger chicks) was close to the nursing home, a good 20+ years older than myself but clinging with all of her osteoporosis might to youth’s illusion. Really, it’s just shameful, as under her modern clothes, her knees calcify and skin withers.
An unfair and heartless description? Sure. An accurate one? Of course. Facetious? Decide for yourself.
I n the Sheep Dog’s defense, I sort of liked her. Aside from being a complete drunken, drug-wrecked mass I’m sure she’s a good person. As a matter of fact, I will testify before God’s jury that she should one day be an angel of the apocalypse. So then, why is there malice for Ireland’s best? Because although she’s a genuine person, and fully herself beyond doubt (something I have tremendous respect for) she has failed to get any of her shit together (even though she’s had a good half century to fucking try) and besides that, it’s fucking funny. The way I see it, if I’m closer to rolling a wheel chair than driving a car, and I still can’t uphold some sense of either human decency or mental stability I’m pulling the plug.
On Aging
We will all one day be this human tragedy. Sorry baby, there is no garden of Eden or fountain of youth, only a shallow well filled with polluted ground water. I could see myself becoming her, an old raggy sheep dog with big black eyes, roving around towards a grave dug by the master’s shovel under the back porch.
On Aging and What’s not Sexy
Mr. Chris once described how she attempted to seduce him, slowly jiving, gyrating, dancing to the death rattle that most certainly shakes it’s ass in her future. Her existence transiting, closer to the tomb than the womb. How slighted she must have felt when he refused, given that he would fuck a toothless cow if promised a sweet liquory treat.
Against Myself Yet In Defense Of My Words
Enough of how horrifying the aging concept is to someone as young as myself. And let’s face it, I’m hairier than a Sasquatch, and I’m “plump” (by no means close to morbidly obese) but the way I look at it, chubby chasing will gain cultural popularity long before geriophilia (elderly fucking) ever does...which of course, establishes my superiority over her.
Back to the Sheep Herding
The Aged One called and told me to come over. I offered to bring a bottle (turns out she was flat busted and needed a drink...knowing I was a tourist chances were in her favor that I’d not only get her drunk but also listen to her bullshit). As soon as I walked in the door I knew I had once again made a fatal misdecision. Now, like most people, I don’t like being tested or having my brain picked. Sure, I respected her honesty, even though it’s intent was purely malicious...she wasn’t trying to use the information as a warning or with any concern for my well being, she just wanted to watch me squirm.
“T’when I was wit Chris...”
“T’when me and Chris were together”-
“They have great sex”-Barked Old Yeller. “He ain’t gonna stop fuckin ‘er...”
“He really fucked me head”-Sheep Dog said sheepishly, “like completely”.
(This is a stunning example as to why when someone’s done with you, or you are done with them, you quit fucking talking to them...but I related).
“He’s a cut throat ya know, he’ll drop you in a heartbeat, a selfish prick, have ye no doubts about it...he hurt me so bad. I tuk care of ‘im fer so long, I culdn’t fuckin believe it”-as she swelled back another shot.
“I began gaining weight and getting all dumpy”, she said looking me up...her eyes moving up my body and how much I wanted to gouge out those eyes then.
I started really seeing the connection between me and this woman, the Old Wrinkled Boot. Oh, Wrinkled Boot, you cuntish Irish Sheep Dog, how dare you try to embellish a falsified friendship with me for your own advantage? Here is your reward, your own soiled section of shame in this barbary.
I had to exit stage left and quick. Pretending to give a fuck wasn’t going to be possible much longer. I didn’t want to hear any more blabbering...so I gave her some money for beer just to get her off my fucking spine and ran away...back to my solitary dementia.
Once back at the apartment, I laid on the couch rudimentarily grinding the facts over and over in my mind...becoming more bitter by the second...resenting my own weakness towards Mr. Chris, Wrinkled Sheep Skins (I’d bet money that her cunt looks like a battered pig skin with the guts hanging out), and the rest of the used up jack rags whose sticky camp I had joined. I had been turned into a calamite that wanted to be free of the pederast.
Ramblings of an Insane Idiot
Maybe I love a charity case? What do I think I am? Fucking Bob Villa wanting to fix up the fucked up houses? Since I can’t save myself, am I trying to save someone else? I must honestly be in love with hopelessness. I need to learn to turn a cold shoulder to these people and their sob stories because all they do is drag me down with their baggage, addictions, obsessions...I think it’s obvious I have enough problems on my own.
I ’m sick. My mind is sick. He’s like a poppy field and I just don’t fucking care anymore what he knows or doesn’t know about it, about my fucking problem with him.
Everyone must understand that only those capable of the most sincere hate are capable of giving the truest love (Nietzsche rip off). Those who can love many and easily...their love is cheap. In order for me to give a fuck about someone, they must deserve it in some way or fool me into thinking they do.
For all the harshness of my words, these scalding steely frustrations...beneath the crude ugliness of my vision lays dormant a bountiful, glittering beauty. Torrents of praise and adoration waiting to be discovered, opened up and revealed...but such things I protect. I will not paint pretty pictures of piles of shit. The horror of my disease is squashed by the limitless epochs of my heart.
Pain is easily exploited and cheap. I give it freely, but joy and pleasure are precious and to derive these things from me, you must be equally extraordinary. What love I know and am ready to give. One hand full of diamonds the other broken glass and blood. I hope some day, some person will pull sonnets and odes from me instead of mini-Hiroshimas or nuclear melt downs.
As much as I love him, I have never showed it to him nor have I attempted to and very possibly never will. I have made a conscious decision not to. A hell that is much more tolerable to me than wasted effort.
Doesn’t anyone fucking get it? That it doesn’t have to be this way? It just is this way?
We’ve made it this way.
