Well, wuc me gently with a chainsaw.

So. This week’s been fairly Oliver Stone, I don’t mind sayin’.

Or, as the kindly black man says to the portly, ultimately acquiescent Kellerman at the close of Dirty Dancing: lots of changes, old Max. Lots of changes.

First, I had drinks with the gunslingers.

I know, right. I have no godly excuse for such a brain fart. I don’t know why they wanted me, or why I agreed to go. I’d like to call it survival tactics, but that’s like saying Twilight is an existential look at man’s need to live forever. That dog don’t tap dance. It was like sitting across from two sharks, beers nestled in fin, contesting my juicy jugular. E pluribus unum.

At worst, it was strangely inspiring; like attending a high-school reunion where you hated all you schooled with, but to which you’re oddly drawn in curiosity and self-loathing. Like all reunions, then. Twas indeed glorious to hear Cult Boy failing in a job where he’s incompetent in perpetuum (aka routinely-reamed by Schwarzenegger, like Shriver on a Saturday night).

Second, I had coffee with Gay Prince.

I know, right. But, while he’d left our place of work (dropping from view like the boobs of Whoopi Goldberg), he’d also left me with more possibility in the air than bubbles from a drunken hiccup. He’d been building towards something, a kin to crescendo; and the demise of one routine left an opening for another (if you get my Tokyo drift). Probable, even.

This coffee, like all coffee, was the crux. Where our sentimental soufflé would rise to Tim Robbins’ heights, or collapse like Elijah Wood’s career in the early hours of adolescent morn.

And so. Like Indiana entering the Temple de Doom, I ventured forth in hope and inquisition – armed with nouse, nerve and my proverbial Short Round. Further and further into the belly of the romantic beast … to come vis-à-vis with the manicured hand that held the answer. The same hand which once high-fived me in comedic and questionable union. That had stroked my arms and ego. The same hand that led me here, in conspiracy and adventure.

The hand that now … reached into my ample chest and ripped out its pumping heart, before holding it maniacally aloft and tossing me into the fiery depths of singledom.

Not to be dramatic or nothin.

As swift as any Taylor, I was sexually irrelevant. As if someone flipped my plot, mid movie. One minute, I was Sandra Bullock. The next, Meatloaf. In rocky, shocky horror.

Ah, screw it. Our landscape always was Seussian, so what did I expect?

What went before, was not to come. His attention fickle and my luck, dumb. So wave bye-bye and fuck it all to hell. My heart came near, but never truly fell.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

40 thoughts on “Well, wuc me gently with a chainsaw.

  1. Ahhh, the hellish roller-coaster ride that drives us all to the brink…I have to admit that being just one when there are millions of wanton women clawing at my dorr I do have to show some feeling for GP as it not easy being so desired…akin to being that last bit of crackling that many sets of greedy hands reach for at the ned of the meal, no matter how full you are…but back to your pain. Look, I can only offer this once, on a trial, say “appro” basis, money back guarnatee an’ all. I can fit you into my schedule between 0903 – 0906 next Friday, 2013. And that includes foreplay and cuddles afterwards.
    There, you can’t do much better than that now, can you. three minutes with me will put you off men for life. I’m the lesbian movement’s poster boy!

    1. Aaah, honoured am I indeed to have a three minute window with such man candy as your good self, boiled to perfection on the fires of adulation and alliteration. Even if I do run at least ten minutes late for everything, and am therefore as likely to miss it as Ralph Macchio another golden career opportunity. Even if this window exists beyond recommended space odyssey, or yours and my collective attention spans. What hypothetical joy is mine, ‘meister.

  2. The dirty motherfucker.

    Gay prints sounds like the

    Little Prince who clings to petals
    while keeping hold of his baobab tree
    and calls it a heart that sees rightly
    but has only one weeping eye
    and soils the sheets nightly.

  3. I’m gonna staple that last little poem to my forehead. I don’t think my GP will notice though, too busy giving me apologetic puppy-dog eyes. I recently analysed my ‘type’ of man, and realised their looks and personality vary, but they would all make good Jim Henson puppets. I’m not sure what this means, except that maybe I’m a muppet magnet?

    1. That’s hilare. Total extended crack up. And strangely gratifying to learn I aint the only one with a GP. And you’re definitely a mupp’ magnet, Sox Fox. For here you are at muppet central, baby.

  4. Reminds me of the overly optimistic evening when I went down to the local pub and as I settled in, noticed this little chicklet staring at me and winked. “Sotto voce,” she said to her galpal: “Look at the old fart over there giving me the glad eye! ” Amor no vincit tempus.”

  5. Girl you have got it. I mean got IT as Elinor Glyn says in the 1920s. You are the IT girl and if Gay Prince doesn’t pick up on it then he must be a masochist. Your latest blurb was edge-of-seat stuff for me but then I’m the eternal romantic – sturm and drang – Hepburn and Tracy – Kylie and Jason – Bert and Ernie. Keep truckin’

    1. Ah, you had me at Bert and Ernie. You make my happy in my muppet bone (which I assure you, is not a come on). Thanks muchly, highly rated PG (Perpetua Gnocchi recommended).

  6. “You’re off to Great Places!
    Today is your day!
    Your mountain is waiting,
    So… get on your way!”
    But I got too wasted last night
    So in bed I’ll stay!

    I like your Seussian reality with a twist.

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