Brewing

By now, at a ripe-old 28, I should have been married. I should have miscarried several of my ex-boyfriend's children, been seduced into marriage by my hormones. I might have even changed my name to any one of those that I scribbled naively in my notebooks, with a Mr and Mrs in front of it. But no. Gwen Stefani, though you may have made 1950's hairdo's and husband trolling popular again, this was not my biology.
Serisouly, Gwen did it. It was soon after the "Simple Kind of Life" song came out that "Desperate Housewives" debuted on whatever network. Girls rushed back to the pages of wedding magazine and flirted with their destiny by pointing a flowery fingernail at the dresses of their dreams.
It all started.
People rushed out to buy real estate. Home prices flew high and then crashed. What? the American dream spilling over into reality?
Now, 51% of women are living single. That's right, so if you're not paired up yet girl, you can count yourself in the majority. That doesn't mean it's the new black. I just think it means people may actually be using judgment, rather than society, to dictate their lives.
Once you say "I do", the letters need to stop going, and coming. The perfumed stationery must be thrown away, or burned. The hidden connections cannot be explored, and the water must be still and deep. Life as a head-banging, ball-crushing, soul-pervert must come to an end.
There may be little hope in losing your libido, keeping your crushes from gushes, and hands on the wheel rather than on the er, lever; as long as you're like me: A lusty, crazed, eccentric with a flair for drama in their soul, a willingness to take chances, and a divorce card waiting in their pocket. But the therapists say no. The priests say no. Even some religious boys who would make great fucks say no. And I applaud them.
But still, Pandora's box has been opened to reveal games, gadgets and gizmos that strikingly resemble feathers, leather cuffs, strap ons, and other pleasure giving devices. And next to them are the faces and bodies and souls of those who you KNOW would like to be satiated, soul-satisfyingly, and that's the problem.
All artists are lechers. I am one of them. I am bad. I am repugnant. I am damned.
I am sorry, Mr. Youngbuck, for dancing on your youth with my heavily callused, age-old, time- hardened, worn-old feet. I am sorry for liking you so much that it nearly disrupted the universe's promise to be nice to me in 2007. And I am now going to fully apologize to every delivery boy, bike-messenger, UPS man on the street I've winked at over the passed few months. And I am sorry to my boyfriend, for nearly breaking our fragile contract that binds us.