¡Ay, qué rico baby!

Tonight’s love affair lays in my bed, dead to the world. I’m in my “office”. There’s a fruit fly darting around me in circles. I feel a very strong urge to kill it.Every time it enters my field of vision, I feel a surge of anger. It’s a nice change of pace from the nothing scented apathy that has settled in for most of my waking hours. I stay my hand. I feel it’s not something I should do, it’s not my place to end its life simply because it annoys me. Over the years, I’ve romanticized the idea of being the kind of person who has compassion for all things. I’m a huge fan of the bodhisattvas in this way. A person who is able to reach nirvana but delays doing so out of compassion in order to save suffering beings. I would love to be like one, but I enjoy the taste and texture of meat far too much.

mesquite pork

bowtie macaroni

grape tomatoes

garlic

fresh basil leaves

a carnitas carbonara if you will.

It was delicious. It’s hard for me to say that about my own cooking, or anything I do for that matter. While I was cooking she let out a guttural noise, I dashed into the bedroom panicked to make sure she was okay.

“It smells so goood!!!”

I chuckled, I couldn’t really smell the food at all.

Have you noticed that when you’re the one cooking you can’t really smell the food?

We sat on the picnic bench in the backyard eating, wailing praises to the weather and her delicious breeze.

It was only when we went back inside the apartment could I smell the cooking I’d just done, it really did smell so good.

I was able to admit, to say it, and to really believe that what I’d just cooked really was delicious.

The baby fruit fly is now walking on my chest.

Today was a good day, I want to get into the habit of acknowledging those. Maybe if I do so, and thank them for their presence they'll feel more inclined to visit more often.

We ended up on the bed. She played her game of civilization, I painted a lewd image for some anonymous stranger on the internet, and then I put her to sleep.

Her kisses were delicious too.

I should be basking in the afterglow of it all, but instead, I’m nursing a small node of guilt. I feel terribly for my family, I’m tempted to text my mother. At the same time, Someone in the village upstairs reminds me of all the stress and pain they cause me, they chastise me about my propensity for martyrdom. I will most certainly suffer if I allow them into my life again, and then perhaps this cycle will begin anew, ending up back at the same point.

I had just started to feel free, I wish she hadn’t come to my door, but I’m glad I got to see her. She has a streak of grey hair that wasn’t there before. Still she has no wrinkles, her skin is as dark and beautiful as ever, her visage still evokes the spirit of an owl. There she is eternal, my mother in all her glory.

Would it bring me closer to nirvana to render myself once more the sacrificial lamb? It would be a betrayal to myself I think.

I don’t want to betray myself anymore.

I’m day dreaming now as I type, searching through memories. Where did my hands go? hips, neck, hair, clit? I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter, she’ll tell me it’s delicious anyway. She’s good to me. They all were in their own ways, but I suppose that’s never enough. My lust is insatiable and my love is fickle.