Our instructor did that with THIS
"what music do you like?" is such a stressful question like what do you want to know??? genres?? artists?? albums??? time periods?? 25 most played?? what i’m currently listening to??? what i listen to at different times of the day?? be more specific??????
I change my hair as often as I change my partners. It was wavy and to my knees with him. He invited me into his bathtub after sex and rubbed lavender-scented shampoo into each ripple. I asked him why he owned something that smelled like flowers. That was when I was learned about his girlfriend. I had him drive me to the nearest barber shop, and had eight inches snipped off while he drove away, wearing a look of disappointment.
It was hip-length and burnt straight when I caught his eye. He coaxed me to his car by boasting about his “kick-ass mixes.” We kissed listening to a CD with songs from Abbey Road and Revolver on it. The only original thing he did was tell me I’d look good with short hair. I tried my hardest not to listen to his carefully combed mustache and pressed plaid shirt, but it was to my shoulders the next morning.
She tried to plant kisses on my wound-up curls, said all the boys had kissed me wrong. I bit my lip in desperation and said I had to go. I didn’t have enough curls to cover the fear and hunger working my face into strange shapes. She told me I knew where to find her if I changed my mind.
I worked bleach into the ends of it that night, trying to burn her name from me. The next afternoon, I was eyed by a thirty year old with a beer belly he’d spent his twenties earning. I smelt nothing but middle-age bitterness on him, but still, let him press him against his motel sink out of pity. He huffed and puffed as I studied the afternoon light making shadows on the floor’s chipped tiles. When he was done, he tugged on my bleached ends, and said it was my hair that’d caught his eye. I smiled and said I had to, “do lady things”, as he scuffled off to watch the news. In his shady motel bathroom, I found a pair of rusted scissors, and left every piece of blonde for him to clean up. He was half-asleep when I walked out, his pants still unbuckled. On the television, a stern man informed me that the country I was living in was at risk of war.
At five p.m., I was the girl with a pixie cut, crying on the steps of a museum. A wrinkled old woman came up to me and said, “Don’t worry, sweetie. We all make bad decisions.” I think she was talking about my crudely chopped hair, but I tasted every morning regret when I nodded at her.
If you’re looking for me, I’m the girl with remnants of a haircut on her shoulders. Give me a wink, I could use a snip.
— I’m Not Looking For A One-Night Stand, I Just Need A Hair Cut | Lora Mathis (via soggypoetry)
one of the the saddest things on earth is witnessing really devoted people slowly lose their passion, and one of the most beautiful things is seeing them regaining it.
all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
women were the ones who started wars
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
“The truth about impotence”
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running
And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.
For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl.
She wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.
Hey, I am a giant failure. Bye.