Friday, June 26, 2009
A/N: written for an AU prompt.
Warnings: language, if you have a thing against F-bombs; general crackiness, obviously.
Disclaimer: own everything, except the pix. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/14735632@N07/2531618778/)
She is unburdened by an intense need to be liked and with enough provocation, makes every sorry sound like fuck off and die. A baker with a tattoo of a dragonfly on her left hip, she’s friends with people, who never resent her for lacking sense and in some cases, a conscience.
She listens to a lot of Anti-Folk and Dream-Pop. She’s convinced her cupcakes would taste like moldy toenails if she didn’t have The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane playing in the background while she bakes. She tells everyone her cookies aren’t exceptional, but her L'Opera gateaus are from Satan’s pâtisserie. Secretly, she loves Martha Stewart. Julia Child, not so much.
Of the people in her life, she’s closest to Zach, a reformed bad boy, who oozes charm like a maple tree bleeds sap. Tall, articulate and a bit of a sex fiend, the guy is not called Commander Sexypants for nothing. They’re planning to get married soon, but with a bun already in the oven, maybe it would be sooner.
Today, she’s thinking how her dog, an Irish Wolfhound/Airedale Terrier named Spock, would take to the baby. As it is, Spock doesn’t even like the Commander that much. She wonders if she would be happy in her new home, a duplex with four bedrooms. She knows that with the money she and Zach spent on the house, it would be sometime before she can open her own bakery. In a few hours, she would force herself to stop worrying about these things. But she still goes to bed dreaming of mansions and muffins.
Friday, June 19, 2009
For the most part, love IS ironic. In the name of love, doing the things you detest seems acceptable. After all, these acts still operate within the framework of happiness, or rather the pursuit thereof. It’s called sacrifice, they say. But that’s entirely dependent on your role in this otherwise symbiotic relationship. If you’re a taker, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. If you’re a giver, well now, you’re in big trouble. (Or whipped like the family pig, whichever you prefer.) Either way, you’re still screwed. Now let’s see if you can still appreciate the irony after this.
Nothing intensifies the feeling of pain more than other people’s pity. Soothing words, consoling hugs—these may as well be radioactive. Because if we are to be honest about it, concealing the gulf between your countenance and the damages your heart has sustained is sheer hell. Nobody likes doing that, unless you’re a glutton for punishment. And if that’s not enough, you’re obligated to feel better because it’s just rude to shun the efforts of the people who—true or not—care about your wellbeing. And if that’s not a testament to the ridiculousness of the situation, more’s the pity.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Thus, it stops—the need to verbalize everything, as I find consolation in words not spoken. Here, ideas are abandoned somewhere between the definite and the perhaps, while promises of a smile die before reaching my lips.
And miracles in their fragile containers shatter as they reach my corner of earth. I’m wondering if prayers divorced from faith can find their way home.
Whereas, the little disappointments accumulate and start to decompose behind my eyes, I am sincerely questioning my right to be tired.