Misogynist

Don’t know why I’m thinking about him today.  It seems so strange, after all these years, that he should have the nerve or the status to occupy a place that is otherwise meant for chocolate, dreams, and actors I find attractive.  I guess it’s because he bears an unconscious resemblance to the other subjects in this category- he is unattainable. 

And then I remember- it’s his birthday.  Fourth of November.  For some warped reason unknown to me, I still remember it.  Always have, I guess.  Some things just don’t leave you.  So here’s a few things about him.

He was a half-assed misogynist.  Really.  Or maybe, he just didn’t like things he didn’t understand.  Bloody genius, he was.  Knew everything, or at least that’s what it seemed like to me.  I think the fact that he didn’t understand me really pissed him off.  I only say half-assed because some screwed up part of me wishes he wasn’t one.

He was unbearably civil.  Sometimes I wanted nothing more than to take his strained politeness, screw up, coat in dog shit and shove it up his asshole.  But then, we don’t all get what we want now, do we?  Otherwise I’d have… never mind. 

He liked things that stayed the same.  Christmas, Easter, Diwali, my face…

He had the most amazing eyes.  I used to tell him they were pretty and he would grin at me like I was mad except what I really meant was “your eyes turn me on and I don’t know how to tell you”. 

That hole’s closed up, now.  Just so you know.  Yeah, that huge one in my chest that I didn’t know what to do with after you left. 

Wait.  You didn’t hear anything.  What hole?