The Hyphen-Ranting-Girl

“People have this all the time”, you think. “It’s only normal, the yearning”. Maybe something is wrong... or at least not completely right...with it being so forced and all. You lay on the table facing down, press your chest against the hard wood, bend your knees and lift both your legs, crossing them in the air in an attempt to provide the observer with a glimpse of an innocent gesture, but instead it comes out dislocated, and all the wrong angles become oh! so painfully evident... Wrong place, wrong time, wrong school-girl position, wrong thighs, wrong tongue, wrong right, and wrong wrong. Just plain old what-the-heck-do-you-think-you-are-doing-you-stupid-bitch kind of wrong.

So you collect your knees and elbows, pick up every single one of your vertebrae from the table and pretend you were only reaching for something, besides the piece of dignity that just broke off and fell under that chair, over there. “Thanks for coming”... or not coming, however he wishes to look at it...but you only think that, you don’t say it, so you get to do one of those inner smiles, one of those I’m-so-witty, this-right-here-could-be-part-of-a-sitcom smile.
The “thanks for coming” will suffice for the moment. You’ve always been a the-glass-is-half-full kind of gal... but also a the-bra-is-half-empty kind of girl. That’s a bad combination. Bottoms up! Why did he bother to come at all? To upset the feng-shui- balance-vibe of your apartment, clearly. He finishes another glass of your “special” wine, the really, really cheap one you serve when you really, really think you’re about to have sex, so it doesn’t matter what you guys drink ‘cause you got it, girl! But no. You don’t have it. There is not even an “it”. Not for you. For you, there's only cheap wine.

Suddenly you lose it. You totally lose it... the same “it” you didn’t even have in the first place. You arch your back while making a sad, recently and unfairly injured puppy face, and go... “Why won’t you fuck meeee?”. Oh, shit. You didn’t. “Why, baby? Common, is it my thighs? Am I too fat for you? Do I talk too much? ‘Cause I can be cool as ice, sweet pea. I can be a cool-ass-ice bitch right here! Get it?” Oh, no, you didn’t! You didn’t just say that! Not that! It’s so typical of you... the pseudo-assertive and self-sufficient, politically incorrect, one-liner, modern, miraculous female of the 21st century... turning into the cheap version of a cheerleading high-school reject that totally wants to prove everyone wrong, while telling the world that having bad skin is nobody’s fault and that you are the teenage messiah that will finally break the stereotype of what a beautiful girl should be... but you don’t even look like a girl, so...

Needless to say, it doesn’t work. But you knew that already. He leaves and you pretend you just found out he was a not-so-distant cousin you picked up on some wedding, so... who would want to fuck him anyway?