Some guy in a popular 80’s band, the sort of band that people make fun of sober but never fail to sing along with when they’ve had a few too many drinks in them, once made the claim that “Everybody wants to rule the world.” Sure, this guy may have made some questionable hair choices, but who among us isn’t guilty of some decade’s faux pas? Let (s)he who is free of fashion sin cast the first pot of pomade. But, the sentiment behind the statement is succinct. The ideology, especially if you’ve been raised in Western Culture, is familiar. 

We’re taught from an early age, despite what school guidance counselors try their best to convince us of, that being the “best” is what should drive us. The best among us shall receive the biggest reward. Failure is not an option. Go big or go home. Full of win. Like a boss…

Everybody wants to rule the world, but Aleister Pitts would just settle for a jelly donut. 

The youngest of ten children, Aleister’s parents ran out of steam long before they could teach him about ambition properly. His older brothers had hogged up the looks, charm, talent, and brains. His older sisters had taken all of the brilliance, grace, beauty, and heart. All that had been left for Aleister was an insatiable appetite for fried bread and a tolerance for laziness that could have made a sloth hang its head in shame. 

Sure, some people may have been tempted to feel sorry for the “poor slob”, but Aleister Pitts was the kind of guy whose entire life’s endeavor — the root of finding true happiness for him — could be sated by a single powdered-sugar-dusted pastry. 

Everybody else wanted to rule the world…

Honestly… who do you think had a better chance of making their dreams come true? 

We met during flu season. I ventured out, despite being terrible ill, to pick up more cold medicine. I caught a glimpse of him while I was waiting in the checkout line. He had a look about him that was impossible to ignore. Even though I was dressed like someone who had just escaped from a mental ward — sweatpants, slippers, and a drugged out of my mind expression — he didn’t shy away when I approached him. He had a bit of lint clinging to his jacket, and I boldly smoothed it away… 

We had a brief but epic romance. Over the next few days we spent every waking moment together. I had never met someone who had made me feel so alive. When I was with him, I felt like I was in another world; he showed me things that I had never imagined; things that made me feel in ways I didn’t know were possible. 

But as our tyst came to an end, we both knew that it couldn’t go on that way… there were just no more pages left for me to read.

As I closed the book, I knew I would always remember him fondly. He would always be my favorite character.

_____________

[The Life I’ve Created For You In My Head Series]

[Request]

My bed smells like motor oil and peach cobbler. It smells like various exotic desserts and domestic detergents. There’s also the faint aroma of men’s tears. I keep a chalk outline on the sheets and an old-timey looking reporter, wearing a fedora, on the payroll. My bed has a firm cover and a soft two drink minimum. You’re not allowed to smoke unless you’re willing to torch the sheets and fuck in the ashes. It only serves the last man standing.

Miriam stood on the doorstep with the weight of her bag pressing down on her shoulders, like it was a sack of uncomfortable words and heavy sentiments that she wanted to keep close to her person. Or maybe it was more like a pig in a poke. Something of the same size and shape of real feelings to barter away during lean times. People always seemed hungry for the meat of sincerity, but upon sinking their teeth in often found the flesh to be too tough to swallow; something that forced them to keep chewing until their jaw ached before spitting out the hunk of discolored goo into their napkin when no one else was looking…

Homecomings were never easy. Homecomings after you tried to kill yourself were even more awkward, understandably so. Well, it wasn’t so much that she had tried to kill herself, not her whole self anyway. It was more accurate to say that she had tried to kill just the part of herself that she was done with… but as it so happens it’s impossible to section off desirable parts of yourself from the undesirable; or at least a bottle of pain pills doesn’t recognize such distinctions…

And that was exactly the line of rationalization that Dr. Barnes had warned her about. Miriam rolled her eyes defiantly at the memory, but then took a deep breath and resigned herself not to backpedal. Whether her intention had been just to kill parts of herself off, that didn’t change the fact that those parts were also attached to the rest of her. 

The bag hit the porch with a dramatic thud. Miriam sat down next to it, not quite ready to make being home official; on the other side of the threshold there were a million questions to be answered, a million things that had been left unattended, a million reasons to pick up her bag and go directly back to the hospital.

An audible “Ugh.” pushed past her lips as her stomach turned a little in response to a twinge of anxiety. She decided to lie down on the front porch, staring up at the ceiling planks. It wasn’t the sort of first impression she wanted to make, but she heard the front door open. She expected to hear her father snort in disapproval or her mother scold her for being so unladylike. But there was no response, just the sound of sneakers against the wood. Then, a pair of thin arms extended around her. Miriam’s little sister, Violet, had snuggled down next to her. Violet didn’t say anything, she just nuzzled close and squeezed Miriam like she was never going to let go. A few minutes later the cat, Mr. Mew, crept out onto the porch. He decided to hop up on Miriam’s chest and make himself cozy.

Between her little sister and the cat, Miriam felt overheated and a tad suffocated; she smiled. 

Maybe homecomings weren’t so bad after all. 

I’m bent over in the stall of a public restroom. There are fists jammed inside of me. My ass is being stretched by angry knuckles and furious flesh. I mean to grit my teeth, but I accidentally bite my tongue. The flavor of blood hangs heavy on my taste buds, it seems to accent the gravity of the situation.

I’m not a man or a woman right now. Hell, I’m not even a human being. I’m just an object being used and abused for the entertainment of others. Oh! There are others. Many others. They’re all lined up outside the stall; the lobby to my office. See, this isn’t just a hobby. This has become my profession…

Fuuuck. It feels like I’m being torn apart from the inside-out. My hands brace me against the dirty toilet, which is actually lucky because I’m feeling sick now; overwhelmed by the raw sensation of being fucked so brutally. Why am I letting this happen? For sexual debasement, self loathing, and hard cash; the unholy trinity of self-destructive motivation. I’m not enjoying myself at all… and that’s exactly why I’m enjoying myself. Maybe that sounds sad, but you want to know the saddest part?

This level of humiliation is nothing compared to what’s going on in places with names none of us can seem to pronounce right or don’t sincerely give two shits about — until someone makes an internet meme about it on… Getting gang-fisted in the ass? It’s a goddamn walk in the park by comparison. This is only a first world problem…

Welcome to the fucking human condition.

“What do you want, baby? Let’s do what turns you on… Don’t you want it?”

I’m sort of feeling drained, like something you forgot to plug into the wall before you left. Something that you reach for often enough to assert that it belongs to you, but sometimes you forget to maintenance because it’s always just a little out of reach, or tucked a bit too deep in your pocket.

I’ve been having a long, serious conversation with your wireless phone and we both agree that we’re running out of time; turns out that both of us could use a recharge. And sure, I understand; I get it. Your existential wallet is kinda empty, but maybe if you could reach between the couch cushions of your reality and spare just a little change for me… and your phone?

You still turn me on, but I have to be honest… I miss when you seemed so eager to press my buttons. Back when I thought that you might void my warranty with the ardent pressure of your attention. When you used to slip love notes between the folds of my instruction manual. 

I try to give you a little spark, but you just seem to suck on your slightly numbed fingers and murmur, “That’s cute.” 

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a valuable part of your everyday tool kit, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish I felt a little less utilitarian these days… 

“Don’t you want it? Don’t you want my love?… Or do you know someone who does?”

I heard somewhere Earth and Moon are caught in a doomed love affair, started by chance; separated by necessity. But Moon still lingers, orbiting the space around the body of Earth, always ready with a wanting glance or kind word. They’re slowly drifting apart, and one day Moon will be swept away by the cosmos. Both Earth and Moon will always keep the other’s memory. Some day Moon will look down and Earth will look up, left with nothing but longing for what was in that empty space… but not yet.


______

Joy. 

Girls are like stars. There are a billion of us twinkling off in the distance, lightyears beyond your reach. You stare up in wonder, imagining what it would be like to commune with our luminous bodies. Making wishes like cosmic to-do lists, aching to have all of your dreams come true; served to you as a delicacy, on a silver platter… or gifted like exotic flowers plucked from the glowing tendrils of the sleeping moon. Something luscious to be sampled. Something lovely to be had. You love us from a distance, simultaneously cursing and praising our presence; which you accept in awe, but covet with contempt. 

And sometimes, on occasion, when you least expect it… one of us burns a little brighter, with curiosity, catching the beautiful way we shimmer when our light is reflected in your eyes. As we creep closer into your sphere of influence, attracted by an irresistible force of gravity generated by your desire and need, we fall for you. Burning, as we plummet towards the earth, to enter your atmosphere.

Ah, we’re not quite stars, are we? We’re actually fragments of other things, like spaceships or satellites. Even whole worlds that came into being and then broke apart, before you ever set eyes on us. We’re certainly not the celestial wonders you imagined in your fantasies. We’re just ordinary beings with the extraordinary potential to devastate your existence; shake up your reality. 

But, it’s too late to stop it. There’s too much momentum to be slowed by fear or regret. Impact is inevitable…

Will you stand your ground, or flee? 

I gasp when I tilt my head back, to bare my throat, and you sink your sharp fangs in; but it really steals my breath away when you wrap your hands around my neck while you slip your bad ideas inside me.

You give a teasing squeeze, and feel my pulse flutter between your palms like you’ve caught an anxious little bird in your hands… I just stare up at you, my eyes twinkling with elated anguish. Glossy with need and fear. Glassy with tears of gratitude and pleas for clemency… “please” for more.

My eyes are stars burning against the infinite cosmos of my desire for you, begging to be enveloped by the darkness of the universe; channeled through your hands. 

Your eyes are meteorites, plummeting towards the earth of my consciousness with voracious velocity. I know that they’re the end of life as I know it… and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before…

I’d gladly trade my last breath for it. 

“I wish you could get it through your stupid brain that I want you. I love you. I want to be with you.”

“Words are cheap.”

“You only think that because they come so easily for you. I have to scrounge for them. And every time I say something to you, I have to worry that I’m just sounding like an inarticulate idiot…”

“I worry too.”

“About what?”

“That I just sound like an inarticulate idiot.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I get so anxious about it that I just spew as many words as I can at you; hoping you won’t notice. I think words are cheap because I can sell you a million of them… without ever saying what I really want to say to you… I love you too. I want you. I need you. Because I’m afraid you’ll go away as soon as I admit it out loud.”

“…”

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I’m still here.”

I was a small, trembling bunny trying to find shelter somewhere in the stubborn base of your wooden affections. That complex system of gnarled roots, so tightly woven, I could barely find a place to squeeze through. I could scarcely breathe, let alone burrow. I tried to slip my head in for just one curious peek, but found myself caught with your love grasping my throat like a collar. It wrapped around my neck like a noose. I struggled, but I couldn’t break the grip, or free myself from the tangle of inescapable ardor. Distracted by my violent thrashing, I didn’t hear the swoop from above. An owl’s talons clutched me up, or at least the half of me anyway. The owl was strong and stubborn. I became the rope, in a feral game of tug-o-war. The bird claiming its due, the half of me that hadn’t been claimed by you. I was torn apart, but not split into perfect halves. The owl flew off with most of my body, but my head was left with you.

“After you were allegedly sexually assaulted, by someone who you until just recently described as a friend, what did you do?”

“I waited until he fell asleep, and then I hit him over the head with a desk lamp. I tied him down, and I raped him.”

“You must really hate men…”

“I don’t hate men. A man displays willpower, self restraint, self respect, integrity, empathy, dignity, and honor. I could walk down the street intoxicated and naked, and he might look at my tits, but he’d offer me a coat or a cab. He’d call the police, or just leave me the hell alone to sleep it off. It’s insulting to suggest that the person who raped me is a man at all.”

“But you admit that you raped him. For vengeance? Out of spite?”

“Both. Also, so he would know what it felt like; to be violated by someone he trusted. But mostly… so that when people like you ask me snide questions that boil down to, What did you do to deserve it? He would have to ask himself that same question too.”

I want to go out with you, on a Tuesday night, and get you so drunk that when I say “I want you to hit me as hard as you can,” you forget that I’m a girl, and relate to me in a violent way — that makes me believe that we could forget all about sex… and gender. That maybe we could be partners in crime; equals.

Because I’m looking for the kind of thrill that leaves my jaw throbbing. Something that makes me feel alive; that reminds me that I’m real. 

I want to smash open a storefront window together, and then drive away in a stolen car. I want to turn up the sound system and have the radio play methamphetamine blues. I want to keep rolling, just to keep on rolling… I want to be the shotgun that you keep loaded, and I only want you to introduce me to the people you hate. 

I want a lot of things… but almost of all of them having something to do with you… or you… or you.