manuscriptx
New Member
Like a distilled taste in fine wine; I already know I am as toxic as can be. I am a complete loser whenever it comes to recognizing women for what they are and who they are. They are an advanced species capable of anything. It would have been almost twelve years ago that I almost became one of these assholes lacking in moral character with an equal distain for a successful wife holding much more than an accomplishment over my head; while still managing to grow beyond the role of a “convenient penis”.
What women want are the sensitive men. Call it evolution, call it reality, but it’s something and it’s not pleasant. We were never the same. We were never meant to be individuals feeding off the trough of a middle class salary. Carrying the weight ourselves was our natural God-given right. And somewhere along the way we lost sight of what we became. Our way to freedom is within family and chores; sweeping, mopping, wiping babies’ behinds. Feeding animals we don’t appreciate and dealing with people we soon learn to dislike when we minded them the times we had a job.
Now it’s our turn to feel helpless like the women we made suffer perversely. We are cheated and leashed like the animals we kept in the corner kitchen – peeing on the linoleum, whimpering in the night, growling at every footstep by the door; tearing away at the stuffing inside rough thick sofa cushions. The technician that works at the library where I stand says it never ends. You will feel this way forever.
(I title it Being WolfLarsen because I thought of him and his writing this morning when the idea for this piece came to me. )
What women want are the sensitive men. Call it evolution, call it reality, but it’s something and it’s not pleasant. We were never the same. We were never meant to be individuals feeding off the trough of a middle class salary. Carrying the weight ourselves was our natural God-given right. And somewhere along the way we lost sight of what we became. Our way to freedom is within family and chores; sweeping, mopping, wiping babies’ behinds. Feeding animals we don’t appreciate and dealing with people we soon learn to dislike when we minded them the times we had a job.
Now it’s our turn to feel helpless like the women we made suffer perversely. We are cheated and leashed like the animals we kept in the corner kitchen – peeing on the linoleum, whimpering in the night, growling at every footstep by the door; tearing away at the stuffing inside rough thick sofa cushions. The technician that works at the library where I stand says it never ends. You will feel this way forever.
(I title it Being WolfLarsen because I thought of him and his writing this morning when the idea for this piece came to me. )
