nothing after this is true – real-time hyperfiction is #dtf

“I hope…”

Yeah, let me stop you right there. There is no hope. You don’t get closure by giving hope to your ex. Your soon-to-be-ex. No. You simply take them out of your mind. Or, when they come up you think about mint chocolate chip ice cream. And if you need it, you can indulge. Buy the ice cream. Enjoy today.

It’s hard to enjoy today. The power was turned off last night at midnight. I knew it was coming. There was not much I could do about it. At this moment in time, I’m failing my obligations. I’m doing great on my creative bloom and bursts of inspiration. Not so good on the job search and closing the deals on my next real gig.

Meanwhile, I’m applying for $15 survival jobs again. This is no way to become a genius. Poet laureate of AI. This is my calling. I need the public, my audience, to support my next 10 books. I’ve done nearly everything to make ends meet. Stealing. Cheating. Dating for meals. Sleeping over as an offensive tactic.

I’m over that shit now. I want stability. I want easy. Low drama. A high-drama, high-reward woman with a body that reminds me of an unhealthy high has been redirected. Bliss of the eyes and hips. A glimmer of the afterlife simply by fucking.

Really blissful stuff. Eyes wide open sex. The good stuff. Maybe the best. Shit.

What’s worth letting that go? Can we just agree we’re going to be together after your divorce and act as if? Just be loving and kind. Let these old trauma issues wash under the bridge.

“You’ve got some internal pain too,” she defended.

“Of course I do.”

“Is it just about the sex. I hope you like me for more than my body. Right?”

I don’t take the bait.

“Riiight?” She was persistent. It wasn’t confidence, it was a question. Seeking reassurance.

“It’s not just about the sex.”

“Don’t get mad. I’m just playing.”

Sarcasm is one of the first horsemen of the apocalypse. Mind-reading is the second.

“The sex is good, it’s okay to admit that. It’s just… It can’t be all of it. Right?”

“Of course, I’ve been trying to tell you…”

“Look at you now, all pouty!”

This is the conversation that needs to stop taking place. The sarcasm, passive-aggressive teasing and other smokescreens. Say what you need to say.

“Please, don’t yell at me.”

A line that will kill desire. My yelling?

Do I appear angry to my friends if I’m such an egocentric ass? Just doing my thing. Minding my own business. And you come along, telling me I’m *so angry.* Doesn’t really make sense. My son has a similar line about my rage. Also, let the record show, my daughter would say, I’ve never yelled at her in her life. Which is true? What is the lie? Am I a mean and hateful person? Did I write something to harm someone? Am I doing it still?

There’s something else.

I’m focused on the wrong things right now. I need to get the power back on at my house. And, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ll camp out here today, not take any of the three invitations popping up in my text messages to go play in the mess-around cave.*

I am calling in well. Taking a quiet day. A NO day. A rest day. A powerless day. A break. Only acoustic instruments and pen and paper today. Solving for the larger debt is the critical path. Sell, sell, sell. What have I got to sell? Fuck. I’m still in this place of loss and hopefulness. I’m looking for loss and hope. In the face of loss, we find hope, or we fold ourselves into different, smaller versions of ourselves.

Today, no motion towards or away. Nothing is as important as I think it is. She is fine. She will be swept up in a sea of willing and able men. How shocking that’s going to be for her. Dating is a bit frightening these days. Everyone is apathetic. A swipe is a vote. It’s also a superficial indicator of the swiper’s imagination.

I’ve sworn off Bumble and the rest of them. It’s like casual seeking. No one is very diligent. I am attentive, funny, and have spelled out my desires. Bumble is/was a distraction. I’ve deleted the account again. No more swiping. Only something I just made up: Eye-sight Dating. See someone and say hello. That’s it. No pressure. No invitations. Just listening and lighting up.

I’ve had a hard time in the past overproducing my romantic swarm. Too many charms, too many creative ideas and rambling monologues about me and mine. I want to hear about hers. What’s her dream? What is she looking for? The online dating profiles are stupid. And… People lie. Use younger photos of themselves. Smoothing with AI. Enhancements either digital or surgical, will get you a pass from me. In ED (eye-sight dating) the false cheek puff and boyant boobs will numb my interest. You do you. I’ll keep my natural-look, hippie aesthetic.

Last weekend I was happy to find my tribe again. The Freelove Festival. Maybe next year I will perform as a musical act. With a band. Yeah, not until my cash flow comes up a notch. I need to stay focused on what’s important right now. It’s not a woman, or a band.

I need cash.

*”Let’s go to the mess-around cave!” – Fraggle Rock.

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