There are things I don't tell myself unless I'm piss drunk. Like I am now.
At such times, it becomes easier to think of her. The love of my life. She's five years old. Well, she will be soon.
I normally write these sordid pieces in a secretive drunken diary. I'm vaguely aware that I'm facing a blogspot editor now. Doesn't matter, does it? Certainly doesn't. It could be unrequited love at this point in time. But surely, surely, there's something called the genetic pull? Surely requited love is around the corner? I've been living my life on that assumption. I work the kind of hours that would put the President of the You-Nighted-States to shame. I don't normally think of her. Not even when my PC boots and I see her propped on my shoulder on my desktop. I quickly launch an application and enter my day. But lately, I'm beginning to think about the other side. The person responsible for the chasm. The person who feels so indignant that she's convinced herself she's Lady Liberty, dispensing justice with her swathe-creating scales.
Damn her for playing Goddess. She has no right. And one day, the love of my life will understand this too.