The trophies plundered amid our copulation were already tarnished, but they weren’t trifling until today’s naiveté exposure.  You are a pathetic tragedy; no, you don’t deserve to bask in the esteem of that word.  A real tragedy shares library space with the finest – you hardly deserve a bookshelf, or a cardboard box in the basement, or the volume you’d occupy chained to a rock at the bottom of the ocean (those poor fish).   To me, a tragedy requires a dilemma, a decision, a flawed protagonist; it requires something, anything, to summon my emotion and justify the time I’m investing; it requires, at the very least, a morsel for my curiosity.  You are only capable of arousing a fleeting feeling within me, and even then it’s less than pity.  In fact, the regret that overwhelms me for extending a droplet of dejection on your behalf far surpasses the pity itself.  Such a waste; we danced wonderfully, our kisses were passionate, we drunk fucked hard in my kitchen, drowsy sex’d at dawn, and ate a beautiful breakfast.  All the while I waited for your twist. “This can’t be it, can it?” my mind repeatedly pleaded as I hoped hour-by-hour that you’d have more to offer.  If even one remarkable thought had left your lips I might have forgiven your mundaneness, and it was disappointing to eventually accept that you are Nothing.  Now, after I’ve made it abundantly clear that wandering anywhere with you is less appealing than wandering the forum bowels of the internet, the smelly bowels of the sewers, or the rotting bowels of a corpse, now you’ve returned with such a repugnant question: “What could I have done differently?”

Madam Nothing, we’re ex-lover landlubbers trapped ashore.  Please, follow me down one of the many mountainous roads in this man’s mind…

 

Driving my BMW M coupe through the embassy embedded streets of Northwest Washington DC doesn’t dampen my desire to crawl along a destitute country road of Caroll County in a Chevrolet Chevette.  Existing as life’s paramount doesn’t preclude me from appreciating the novelty of our world’s garbage.  So it is with material objects, so it is with women.  In the beginning, my dear, I was drawn to you like Sinbad was drawn to the sea.  A new night, a new challenge, a new adventure!  I understand how Brad Pitt could fuck an ugly K-mart employee behind Angelina’s back; I understand why Hugh Grant paid for prostitutes when his accent could have effortlessly wooed most hoes for free; “Newness” is a vagina’s most appealing attribute (unfortunately, it’s also impossibly fickle).

“Your neighbor’s wife looks prettier than your own”

I didn’t properly comprehend this proverb until Cornelius Turbo recently sent me a link to “The Best of Girls Gone Wild”.  I watched in wonder.  I had fucked hotter women than this, smarter women than this, even wilder women than this… why was I adolescently aroused by their actions?  What was the root for my unnatural urge to ravage these Girls Gone Wild?  I called Cornelius and he explained my impassioned state relatively easily: my throbbing loins had little to do with the look, manner, or sins of these “Girls”; they were simply women I’d never fucked, women with “newness”.  You, Madam Nothing, are not a Chevrolet Chevette but, in all fairness, you are also not a BMW.  Plainly put: there was nothing wrong with your physical presence before my penis came inside you.

However, once I was no longer blinded by novelty, I confirmed a frightening suspicion: you lack replay value.  Tetris was about the number of lines or, for the douches, the number of points – it’s riveting to repeatedly compete against one’s self to Russian folk music.  Street Fighter was about mastering the special moves, learning the character’s stories, and seeing the various endings – plus beating the shit out of Chung Li with a variety of ill-mannered men.  You share nothing in common with these classics.  You are an old plastic Nintendo cartridge that I would beat once and give to a friend because, even though the graphics weren’t bad, the plot was predictable and the bosses were easy.

You also bled your biography of any further entertainment value through deplorable story telling skills and a tendency to quickly reveal the juicy details. For self-respect’s sake keep some sacred secrets you silly slut!  What’s worth my marvel in the remains of this relationship?  Yes, if I dig deeply then I’ll probably uncover unsolved mysterious, but I refuse to seek out a reason to find you compelling.  The onus of interest belongs to you; I shouldn’t have to search for your story’s paragraphs that end in contemplative ellipses…

The University of Maryland signed a new Football head coach in 2001, Ralph Friedgen.  “The Fridge” led us to an ACC championship that year with an innovative offense and the clutch kicker Nick Novak.  Unfortunately, The Fridge has been unable to consistently adapt since Novak graduated and since defensive coaches around the country adjusted to his tactics.  You, Madam Nothing, rival Fatboy Fridge in rigidness and are therefore incapable of learning to repeatedly move my balls down field.  Your pussy didn’t quite match Novak’s leg strength and you didn’t demonstrate any potential talent worth recruiting.  On the bright side, I suppose your oral offense down the middle kept me unbalanced for a few pleasant plays.

It wasn’t an accident that I opted to discuss your question using automobile, video game, and football analogies.  My advice: expertly familiarize yourself in this manner of diversion.  You are a transparent woman destined and designed for a hollow, two-dimensional, common man.  The two of you will enjoy the new car smell together while driving to Fed Ex Field after a long Bud soaked morning of Nintendo Wii with boring married friends.  Don’t worry… he’ll care for you; he won’t have a choice with the life he’s chosen.  He’ll share his beer, his Sony TV remote, and his PS3 controller.  Your suppers will consist of charming conversations regarding trivialities at the office, sales at the grocery store, and long weekends with the extended family.  If there were more in you, if there were more to us, if there was more under the covers (and I’ve already looked), then you’d have enacted a strategy to regain my attention.  Instead you asked “What could I have done differently?” and you seemed such a feeble child, and you stunned me with such ignorance, and you had me ponder the situation, and you had me take blackberry notes while I thought, and you had me write a thousand words, and you had…

… wait one fucking minute.
Holy shit.
You deceptive whore!

Have I been tricked?  Were you that perceptive of my torturous analytical tendencies?  Have you fed my extreme arrogance to cause an intellectually intimate moment and as a result this spludge covered page?  Did you throw the ball knowing I’d get called for pass interference?  Was that night just this game’s beginning levels?  Did I test drive that engine with the rev limiter enabled?  I must have waxed on and on, and you must have seen through my veil of bullshit; I love to bathe myself in pretentious self-fulfilling nonsense and you used it to your advantage – perhaps you possess a manipulative astuteness that I didn’t initially perceive.  No matter, whether ’twas your facility or not, Madam Potentially Something… hoist the sails!  Let’s embark yet again on my quest inside you; pressed alone thigh-to-thigh a wet journey for two!

Sinbad’s groundbreaking voyages always ended well, why should it be any different for Angelo De La Vega?

 

Shaharyar was fooled by Clever Crayola Scheherazade…