With Great Power

I ripped a muscle in my neck last week, so I've been a bit high on painkillers and such.  So if this next piece which I wrote today seems worse than all the other bits of trash, let's blame the drugs.

I had a conversation with an old fling of mine recently about how hard it is to find a dominant man.  And sure, we might have been talking about it in a sexual nature, but I mean it in a relationship way as well.  I realize it sounds absurd to say that, what with us living in a patriarchal society and all, but I have found it to be true.  All of the emasculating things in our culture lately have been making a new breed of man, one that asks what YOU want to do, and can cry, and wants to know what you're thinking.  Which is all great, but I want a take-charge dude, and we seem to have lost that somewhere along the way.  I don't mean a cruel man, but someone who takes the initiative and makes executive decisions (Pardon the boardroom speak, I guess I'm just a very corporate villain).

This becomes a problem for me in that I tend to be a very powerful lady.  Not like, stronger than a speeding car or whatever, but emotionally.  I am a loud dominant kind of chick, but I still want a guy that can stand up to me.  A guy that I can't just trample.  And because I'm such a strong proud person, people often seem to forget that I need emotional support too.  Yeah, I'll be fine, I'm a survivor, but it's nice to be asked once in awhile if I'm ok.

Anyway, before I have the chance to write out all the things I hate about this next piece until I just throw it away (#selfsabotage), I'll just post it and let you out there make your own conclusions.

Whale Oil

I am a warrior, and you are behind enemy lines.  Amidst all the shrapnel and the red mist that comes from exploding flesh, it is easy to forget that I am a porcelain doll under these fatigues.  Never able to wash off the war paint and the harsh grimace of the world-worn that seems stuck on my visage.  I am so tired of Florencing all of the broken fucking nightingales I come across, and I’m running out of bandages and patience.  Just for once, I’d like to be the one lying in a cot waiting to pinch the ass of the lady in white stockings.  Instead I find myself being used again as the spoils of another man’s war, the rape victim of soldiers high on their own adrenaline.  “God dammit, this tough bitch has a gooey caramel center!” I want to scream as they shove their bayonets deeper in.  I crave the knowledge that in the end I won’t just be buried in a mass grave full of all the desperate and lonely, choking on shovelfuls of dirt.