not a naked chef

my fingers grease the keys. waxed and well-oiled for the first time in many, many months, inspired most probably by the seemingly premature bulging of my belly and the steady demise of this summer's muscle tone. or perhaps just the glaring fact that nothing, nothing ever gets done. damp laundry collects mildew in the washer, garbage bins overflow, stale semen speckles all horizontal (and some vertical) surfaces of my space, dishes dance around the crusted splotches, begging to be gathered, cleaned, my world throbs unhygienically, strewn.
cheese, eggs, bacon, buttery toast, not barfing.
some trade-off.
i have to remind myself to internalize beauty (although she called me, cuttingly, cynical and completely negativistic yesterday); somewhere in me there was something sort of pretty.
my feet have gotten ridiculously ugly and i have got to stop being such a superficial fuck.
a ripe plum today: his digits are now completely distinct, perfect little conches on either side of his head, genitals forming, cementing her fate or perhaps proving me wrong.
his words disturb me to the core. but entice me so immensely i can't pry my eyes from his written desire to corrupt her innocence. and i know what happens to little girls sexualized too soon. on the phone with him last night, mental list of my favorite works, nothing is healthy, nothing is untortured, painless or simplistic. everything is twisted, lurkingly insidious, doomingly diseased. this is sort of what she meant yesterday. my sense of humor, the things i gravitate towards....it's all a little broken.
i'm still trying to figure how, where and why he fits into the disaster of my desires. possibly just that there's a kindred inkling.
the post office is twenty-five minutes closed. the actual mailing of my spiteful letter will have to wait till monday. i hope she reads it and knows i mean it, senses how badly i yearned to seal it with a bomb. he echoes in my ears: stuck with that bitch for life.
that my religion was her primary concern boggles me completely. perhaps if i ascribed to something, i would better comprehend this demographic urgency. faithless, floundering me. better that, i think, than thrusting myself blindly into the throes of a church rampaged by men forced into pedophilia as a sexual outlet because try as they might they could not pray away their erections or their evolutionary urge to spill. alternatively, they may have chosen the church because they knew priesthood would engender a trust sturdy enough to shroud their misbehavior. which might be worse. happily atheitic me.
his picture the other day stared through me. perhaps i should have directed them to international adoption, to AIDS-orphaned , love-starved kids like him instead. had i their resources, their urge and their impediments, it's probably the route that i would take. but then genes matter less to me than most. which is why i could tell her on the phone despite her gasps that, in fact, i hate him.
family is a striking difference between the two of us. i have cleaved so readily. perhaps not healthily, but it is done. their influence is marginal and i alter myself for their benefit not at all. if head-butting ensues, i root myself, stand my ground. i can't stomach forced mirages, which seem much more palatable to him.
she yelps with hunger and he after her. responsible, responsible, responsible. i scramble for clothing.