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War of Attrition
26 October 2008 15:00Love sucks a lot.
I remember the surprise when that first arrow went in. I remember the agony of pulling those barbed tips out. The secret, people say, is to twist the arrow like a corkscrew when you’re yanking it out. Do it slowly. It’ll still hurt like a son of a bitch but it’ll hurt less.
Well, I’m not sure what’s up with cupid but you know those people that fall in love once in their lives? That ain’t me. I swear cupid hits me once every couple of months. It’s like he’s using me for target practice.
So fuck cupid. The last time I got shot, I just left the fucker in. I walked around with this arrow sticking out of my back, bleeding and in pain and in love. I didn’t pull it out and I didn’t ask anyone to help me pull it out.
My jackets and shirts have to be custom made now. They have slits in the back for the arrow to poke through. I have to be careful about people behind me in restaurants and I have to sit sideways in cars.
Aside from the agony, it’s alright.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
I thought that at any given time, a person could only have one shaft sticking out of their heart. Cupid would only put another arrow in there if you pulled the old one out, I thought.
No such luck. Cupid, that little jerk, doesn’t seem to care if a person already has an arrow in them. Two weeks ago, I was having a drink at a bar when the arrow came flickering through the skylight, down through the connective muscle attaching my neck to my shoulder and thudded, tip to tip with the arrow already there, into my heart.
I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my glass. A girl across the bar glanced over and BAM, she looked incredible to me. The way she moved her hair, the way her brows knit in concern, all of it. She shone with a celestial light. Everyone I’d ever met paled in comparison to her. She took my breath away. She walked over.
I ran out of the bar. I ran home.
A few days ago at a stoplight, another arrow came minnowing through the windshield of my car and rammed into my chest head-on. A woman rear-ended me. When she came up to apologize, I realized with all of my heart that she was the one for me. She had this indefinable quality of self-effacing ease that I instantly clicked with. A smile touched my lips.
I screamed when I realized what was going on. I stepped on the gas with a scream and sped away from the scene of the crime.
There have been six arrow strikes since then. I look like a pincushion. I am taking none of them out. This is war. I will not be brought down.
Cupid is laughing. I can hear it.
tags
I remember the surprise when that first arrow went in. I remember the agony of pulling those barbed tips out. The secret, people say, is to twist the arrow like a corkscrew when you’re yanking it out. Do it slowly. It’ll still hurt like a son of a bitch but it’ll hurt less.
Well, I’m not sure what’s up with cupid but you know those people that fall in love once in their lives? That ain’t me. I swear cupid hits me once every couple of months. It’s like he’s using me for target practice.
So fuck cupid. The last time I got shot, I just left the fucker in. I walked around with this arrow sticking out of my back, bleeding and in pain and in love. I didn’t pull it out and I didn’t ask anyone to help me pull it out.
My jackets and shirts have to be custom made now. They have slits in the back for the arrow to poke through. I have to be careful about people behind me in restaurants and I have to sit sideways in cars.
Aside from the agony, it’s alright.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
I thought that at any given time, a person could only have one shaft sticking out of their heart. Cupid would only put another arrow in there if you pulled the old one out, I thought.
No such luck. Cupid, that little jerk, doesn’t seem to care if a person already has an arrow in them. Two weeks ago, I was having a drink at a bar when the arrow came flickering through the skylight, down through the connective muscle attaching my neck to my shoulder and thudded, tip to tip with the arrow already there, into my heart.
I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my glass. A girl across the bar glanced over and BAM, she looked incredible to me. The way she moved her hair, the way her brows knit in concern, all of it. She shone with a celestial light. Everyone I’d ever met paled in comparison to her. She took my breath away. She walked over.
I ran out of the bar. I ran home.
A few days ago at a stoplight, another arrow came minnowing through the windshield of my car and rammed into my chest head-on. A woman rear-ended me. When she came up to apologize, I realized with all of my heart that she was the one for me. She had this indefinable quality of self-effacing ease that I instantly clicked with. A smile touched my lips.
I screamed when I realized what was going on. I stepped on the gas with a scream and sped away from the scene of the crime.
There have been six arrow strikes since then. I look like a pincushion. I am taking none of them out. This is war. I will not be brought down.
Cupid is laughing. I can hear it.
tags