Real Rage

Peeled, paltry, and withered, the African daisies at my office died prematurely after a long weekend in the sun. Their lightning-quick death seems like a cosmic joke, because there they are still eerily fresh and colorful-- kind of dead but smiling.

Like a dolphin slaughter in Japan, they all died together in one big, wild group. But I'm not envious. I'm not into the collective thing.
See, here's the theme for this bit:
"Please Use Revolving Door"

Everywhere you go in Seattle you'll see it. Banks, businesses, libraries. Relationships. Wherever there's a damn revolving door you will use it. YOU MUST: Conserve yourself! Conserve traditional values! There are messages from everybody: Everybody is trying to get you to conserve something!

Shall I conserve myself? Should I-- must I-- dump and dump again to be happy? Should I keep on til I'm-uh happy?

No one lives up to the expectations of the individualistic, intellectual daters in this community-- NO ONE. That means I don't--live up to theirs-- and they don't-- live up to mine.

The story of my Seattle relationships. Plays out like a bunch of silly, dead flowers: They look fresh-- but they're DEAD.

Do not come to Seattle to get married. And if u are "hell-bent" (pardon the pun) on marriage, I suggest going to the Mars Hill church in Ballard. The new-fundamentalist hipster church will make you a fervent believer in NEVER getting married-- it will make you an individualist, a feminist, a Wiccan, even, before night's end.

A muslim. A moroccan. A teletubby. Anything, anything, but a marriageable Christian fuck.

The anti-intellectualism of this neo-church is maddening. The rhetoric is frightening. The way they bash you over the head with orders to procreate, to dress-up like they did in olden days and smile pretty and gap-toothed at a man so he can later have you barefoot an pregnant in his kitchen-- it's terrible, terrible, terrible.

And if there's one thing more frightening than going to the Mars Hill church, it's seeing the guy that you thought was cute, your date who brought you to this thing, poised like marble, like Abe Lincoln's statue, head down in prayer, in harmony with these nuts.
It's the biggest turn-off EVER.

"One person only-- ever-- and kids, kids, kids!"

Yeah, it sounds cute... But What's the price? Tell me John Brewer-- At what price?

At the price of never knowing yourself.

I thought it would be hot to fuck a conservative jock with values. But I got a cult-freak. And my libido turned off. And that was the real beginning of my rage.

My old bf, 40 and wheezing his way to VD and male-pattern baldness (I'm sorry, Babe) was single forever. Which you will read about in my last post. Even though he is a fervent individualist-- je suis ma libere-- he's extreme about it now. Because he's too late.

Tell me Brian, at what price will you never marry?

At the price of knowing only yourself.

Where's the medium? I don't have the answer.

But for John Brewer, yes you say I wished imminent death on you before in a dream, and 'tis apt: Die now. Die during beauty. Your ideals for matrimony, for happiness, OR EVEN STRICT INDIVIDUALISM will only make you fat, ugly, and limp at 40-- you won't know yourself cause you never had time to be acquainted-- and you will hurt, and pine away for the days when the thought of atheism, the thought of real romance beat in your young, muscular breast. And it will be too late.