What if, in trying to become a good person, I lost all the parts of myself I liked?

What if fucking just to feel sensation was the last honest thing man did?

What if the appeal of a relationship with a woman, for me, is simply the opportunity to be the man in the relationship and behave as selfishly, inconsiderately, and entitledly as all the men I’ve been in relationships with have?

men, in theory

Lately, I’ve been interrogating my beliefs and feelings about men. Not the men I know or have known—I have a pretty firm, unshakable understanding of those men. I mean the general concept of men. Men, in theory, are actually…perhaps okay. Maybe even nice.

It’s kind of like high-end designer clothes. There’s an appeal. They’re pretty on the runway—gorgeous and flowing. And there’s an underlying desire to be like the gazelle-svelte model who wears the $10,000 gown so well. I suppose that if I had that body, that team of stylists, makeup artists, and assistants—and if I spent my life stomping down runways beneath flashing lights while celebrities applauded on either side—it would be a dream.

But alas, that’s never been my life. You know, I *could* buy some unreasonable couture dress from a high-end fashion brand. I could be wearing Gucci pants or Yves Saint Laurent, but I’m not. It’s not even the money, though that’s a factor—I waste money daily.

But look at my life. Does Prada fit into working from home in cat hair? Cutting flour into biscuit dough? Washing a toilet? Squirting a syringe of liquid medicine into a cat’s mouth? No.

Can you imagine a five-foot-tall headdress made of peacock feathers at Walmart? Me neither. Besides, I would have to travel *so far* to even find something like that. And I can barely tolerate dragging around a coat! Even if it were lovely, I just don’t have the patience for any of that. Too much upkeep and effort.

Yes, I could have a $3,000 purse—I’ve got the cash—instead of a bag I got from America’s Best Thrift for $4 because it was the discount color that day. But I don’t. I mean, how would I dare slide it onto a chair covered in cat hair? How would I walk around with a purse worth more than what’s inside it?

I need something stain-resistant, not dry-clean-only. Something durable, practically one-size-fits-all. Something low-maintenance—something that takes care of itself and needs very little.

And maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe all I need is me.

Anyway, this seems like a bunch of “What the fuck is Caroline going on about again?” Because it is.

But I think men, in theory, are like couture: pretty nice to look at and appealing as a basic idea. But when it comes to putting them into practice—incorporating them into my daily life—there’s just no angle, no wiggle room, no way they could fit, be comfortable, and work.

Kind of like how I love classic cars. The weight of them. The pure steel. No plastic. Purring engines, leather seats, sleek chrome lines—it’s all very, very, very nice.

But practical? It is not. How do you transport a stressed-out dog to the vet on pristine, vintage leather seats? How do you deal with a leaking grocery bag in a backseat that requires a specialist to repair? They’re possibly unreliable, expensive to maintain, too flashy in the parking lot, and I don’t even know how to drive a stick shift.

Yes, a practical new car is the way to go—something in an unassuming color like black or silver. Sensible. Reliable. Easy to maintain.

Which, alas, is an improvement.

There are men I don’t hate, but they cost too much, are a tad too rare, and are too nice for me to mess with. So, in conclusion, I will enjoy watching from afar and not engage—you know, the way I treat high-end fashion and classic cars.

Beautiful to look at. Terrible to live with.

freak 4 freak is a type of true love

Intimacy is more than fucking;

even gooning online

begins with one person

trying to touch

another through glowing glass.

Maybe it's the astrology—but I swear to God this is the baddest bitch I've ever been 

trauma response (self-interrogation)

You say you haven’t fucked like a freak in forever,  

but I think you mean never—  

because what counts  

when you’re barely there?

Even infants suckle:  

the body’s first reflex,  

natural, instinctive,  

seconds out of the womb.

I think you were just a little girl  

rehearsing a movie scene,  

watching from between your mother’s fingers  

as she covered your eyes.

Ta-da—you bowed  

for the applause  

that never came.

Neither did you.  

Everyone else did.

Is that what you haven’t had  

in forever?