As he drove us to Aberdeen to meet a potential client, Carl philosophized: “The opposite of love isn’t hate, Angie.”
“Well, duh. I know that. But what is the opposite of love? I’ve thought about this often without coming close to an answer. It isn’t hate or even lust or rage or cruelty. What the fuck is it?!” I enjoyed sprinkling expletives into our dialogue because, as a Mormon, Carl would always squirm at least a little. At the time, I reveled in the fact that I wielded that kind of power over a man who’d never fuck me.
“Apathy.” Carl sighed. “When she told me she wanted a divorce, Karen explained she had simply ‘fallen out of love’ with me. Everyone thinks she was cheating, but it wasn’t that at all. She didn’t necessarily want to have sex with someone else. She just didn’t ever want to make love to me again.”
“Wow. I’m sorry.” What could I say? He hit the nail on the head: the opposite of love is apathy.
Carl’s profound insight forced me into introspection. I had endured the entire gamut of emotions in my current relationship, save for one. I was utterly incapable of feeling indifferent toward him. I would always be in love with him.
It suddenly made sense why he’d inspired both the meanest and sweetest poems I’d ever written.
He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to knock me up or blow my brains out.
David N. and I enjoyed exchanging dating horror stories as foreplay. On the precipice of afternoon delight, we rolled around under his sheets (never before had I experienced the feel of super high thread count).
“Oh my god, you won’t believe how my last relationship ended.” I rolled my eyes in reminiscence while clutching David’s shoulders.
“Probably not as badly as when Meredith torched my Beemer.” He smiled and tightened our embrace.
“I’m glad you have a sense of humor about it. I just don’t understand why you never pressed charges.”
“That would’ve meant I’d have to keep dealing with that bitch. And there’d be a public record of the shit she put me through.”
“So what did that dick munch do anyway? Didn’t you tell me you thought he was The One at some point?”
“Nate seemed like a real catch. That is until he got back with his ex. And here’s the thing: I mean, you know I’m not superficial or arrogant . . . but this girl was like a three, maybe a four, soaking wet.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty fucking ridiculous. You’re at least a seven.”
I posted a poem and drawing from 2015 about refugees on my facebook page as one does, and was surprised although not shocked by a couple of comments I recieved. They were well composed, however they emphasized that the United States is not an altruistic society and how we must save our compassion for our own citizens first.Being the mischievous person that I am, or should I say make an effort to be, I could not leave well/comment enough alone. So ahead of The Fourth of July I will leave my reply here, in perhaps the vain hope that we might feel the rhythm and tether of history a smidge stronger right now:
The US is also the country that has instigated and perpetuated conflict in these regions for decades, are you familiar with that?
Is it not ironic when a country of immigrants and refugees whose architecture is built…
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In the aftermath of Brock Turner’s heinous crimes and Judge Aaron Persky’s revictimization of Emily Doe, a Yale alumna is inspired to communicate with her rapist.
When the fuck did I become a feminist who fantasizes about being a stay-at-home mom?
Sure, I understand that those identities aren’t mutually exclusive. However, the depth of my longing for that lifestyle absolutely confounds me.
I mean, I felt beyond relieved when I made it to 30 without getting knocked up or hitched. In fact, it used to really turn me off when men (or women, for that matter) seemed too focused on marriage and procreation, those loathsome heteronormative constructs.
I guess I’m at a different point in my life now. A point where my biological clock and socioprofessional disdain have converged.
This juncture distresses me on an existential level: more than ever, I don’t feel like the captain of my own voyage.