Memoirs of an Empty Heiress

She looked into his gaping eyes with hers, searching in that last moment for a piece of familiarity. Even in the darkness, she could see the glaze painted over those baby blues, entranced with pleasure, such pleasure.

She sat back up, to see the whole thrashing picture. One hand clutched the bedsheet for dear life, twitching ever so slightly. The other went above his head, tightly wound around the black headboard grills. Closing her eyes, tilting her head back gently, she thrust her hip just right. Graciously, he gave an animal like groan, moving parallelly underneath. Like a pavlovian reward association she learned from way back when, the corners of her lip curled up into a tiny, lustful smirk. With the assurance of a master artisan, her hip gave a couple more well timed thrusts. They moved in unison, his grunts escalating with the force of her movements. Her roving gaze wandered from his brawny tricep, lingered on his elbow for more than a brief moment, and finally settled on his firm chest. With her fingertips, she pronouncedly traced the territories which her eyes had conquered.

He reached up to grab her in a most tasteless manner, as if to direct her focus back onto his face. His expression made her want to laugh and cry in ecstasy at the same time. It was so subservient, so helpless. His mouth opened for a slew of rancid pleadings. She toyed with time, with him. When the last drop of power had surged through her veins, she glanced at the clock and decided she was weary. The game ended quickly, predictably.

They laid down in silence. Him out of breath, her dying for a cigarette. She was interrupted mid-contemplation, somewhere between addiction and exhaustion, as he tried to spoon her. That made the decision much easier. She got up and walked to the window, where a lighter, Turkish Jades, and a stool awaited her. The girl was all too adept at opening jammed windows, second only to the skill she had just previously demonstrated in bed. As she inhaled the delirious taste of nicotine, a severe cold draft reminded her what season it actually was. In the midst of all this feeding frenzy, she had forgotten she was not alone. A low hum, like a smothered snore, indicated his absent presence.

"Hey where are you going...Do you smoke a lot or just now...well I'm going to sleep, g'night." She realized he had spoken, made a weak stab at conversation. Why did they all feel this excessive need? She was fine with silence, preferred it actually.

She was on her lost-count cigarette, when the blue sky, tinted with an orange hue, called her back. She was powerless against it. Looking scathingly over at the bed, a familiar scene with an unfamiliar occupant, the girl decided it was time for a scalding shower. Everything was out of habit with that one.

Afterword: Don't shit your pants, this was FICTIONAL. I was inspired by reading about Cleopatra, the great Egyptian seductress.

State of Being

So I feel like just shooting the shit, the way a father and son would throw ball, casual, distracted, hurried, and usually before dinner. Only it’s 3 AM, I’m in my pjs, absolutely starving for not food, but attention.

To be honest I don’t know where I’m going with this, with any of it. I normally have a blueprint for my entries --Geez, I feel like I’ve just admitted something awful. That not only do I constantly think about blogging, but that I’ve just divulged a secret into the method of my madness. Still, I know it probably didn’t come as a shock to anyone. So no blueprint today. Writer’s block, after all, is just a state of mind and I’d like to see what I’m really made of –Geez I just called myself a writer. Misapprehension.

[Fingers drumming] Although I don’t smoke, I feel like this would be that perfect moment. Train of thought? More like train WRECK. The many merits of planning ahead are coming to mind, but none of which I care to discuss. [Take a puff of my hypothetical cigarette; put it back on the ashtray] It’s 3 AM and I’ve woken up with the sudden inspiration to write anything and everything. My only source of light is the monitor screen, strangely like a calling. I have so much courage right now, but no outlet.

All day I’ve tried to put my finger on this sensation, some form of malaise floating around but never coming in to land. I can feel it settling now. Anxiety is torture, I spend all my waking moments pondering about the future, about the grand scheme, almost lamenting that the days can’t speed up. But right now, I see a different light. I see that this is my life, and it’s going, each second wasted by my pining for what’s to come.

This was directionless, but at this instant, I’m ok with that.

Everything is Open, Nothing is Set in Stone.

When I was younger:

I held no dreams.

I didn't fantasize about my perfect wedding, perfect job, perfect husband, and how they would all fit together to make my perfect life.

Instead I studied, was forced to study, and came to hate studying.

My parents used to say that if I watched 1 hour less of TV, played 1 hour less with barbies, hung out 1 hour less with my friends, I would grow up and have the life I'd always wanted. Perfect, except there are just two things wrong with that. ONE: I didn't have the slightest inkling as to what I wanted my life to be like. TWO: Apparently, years later, I am finding out that their idea of a great life and mine don't quite match. But why would a 9 year old question semantics? So I believed them. I took their dream life and made it mine.

Well what a rude awakening freedom of choice is. Today at the ripe age of 23, 22, (shit how old am I) I am paying for it all. I have no sense of direction in life, and I am fickle. God am I fickle. It's a deadly combination. I envy people with passions, pursuits, even if they are pursuits I may never agree with. At least they're not fumbling around in the dark, wasting time by trying on pieces of clothing that happen to be in reach, making them fit even if they don't.

When I tried to declare International Relations as a major, my advisor incredulously laughed at my transcript. "You've got, what is all this, greek and roman mythology, food, writing, scandalous arts???" I responded by declaring Econ as my major. Econ, with its steady hand in numbers, its lucrative opportunities, most importantly it's least amount of credits left to graduate. This, was, my pattern, my protocol for life. Blindly try everything and when I finally realize time is running out, settle on the default. Blindly try everyone and realize too late that some people are just not a good fit. Some would call it an open mind, I call it a directionless mind.

People who are stuck in jobs they don't like, with people they can't seem to justify, are people who have no idea what they really want out of life. We are the waking, walking, wandering, lost.

La Douleur Exquise

A cafe cashier read me on Saturday.

As I reached out to grab my 2nd cup of whip cream, with latte on the side, the cashier confronted me about my nails. I have decided to omit a picture and let you have the liberating luxury of imagination, how magnanimous of me. It used to be my right thumb, which now observing it carefully, will probably remain concave forever. I've been working on this one since high school (or was it middle), it is not likely to heal. What surprised me, and her too obviously, was the left thumb. I was so good for a while, devoting all my energy to the right. But if I learned anything from a solid education, it's the importance of consistency. Yea that's probably not funny. My left thumb is more bumpy than concave, but it looks worse.

"Your nails are missing, did you do that yourself."
"Oh, yea, I did--I do."
"Are you some kind of a masochist. Do you get pleasure from ripping the nail off your bare flesh like that."
"Pleasure? I--It's more like I'm trying to fix and smooth out the uneveness. Even when I had nails, they were so close to perfection but not, it really bothered me."
"And now?"
"Well I guess I'm still trying to smooth them out...I dunno."
"I don't buy it, I still think you enjoy the pain. Maybe you like the sensory shocks."

Afterwards.

I stared at my thumbs. There was almost no nail on either one to smooth out. I had chewed it all off in vain, in a quest for perfection? Maybe I WAS addicted to the pain. I racked my brain for examples. A string of them, in which I derived some kind of pleasure from inflicted pain. A piercing, a high stress job, exercise, self indulgence. So isn't almost every activity at risk for some kind of pain? As long as I continue to put myself out there, to make conversation, I am subjecting myself to one of the worst kinds of pain, rejection. Yet social interactions are indispensable. Pain is here to remind me that I am very much alive.

So how do you tell. Are there such things as good pain and bad pain? Then surely, chewing my nails would be filed under bad pain, but apparently I secretly enjoy it. On a even larger note, what about the infliction of mental anguish through other means. Say attempting to attain the unattainable. There are those of us, who walk the earth, silently wishing for someone or something. Aggravated and exhausted, knowing deep down that they'll never succeed. Maybe I started out really believing that I could fix the blemishes on my nails. But down the road, when it became clear that I was doing more harm than good, I still didn't stop. Somewhere along the way, I must've gotten addicted to the exquisite pain of failure. For lack of a better word.