11185 visits since 03/07/01 -=Mail/MSN=- sprained_soul@hotmail.com -=Featured Link=- Listening to 11.975hz - The official webcomic of #a!. 09/30/06 Cocktail Time Kill. 12/11/03 Conveyerbelt dreamscape. 09/24/03 Studded leather Envy. 06/26/03 Your very own anything. 02/11/03 I am part Hamlet, part eunuch. 11/17/02 I liked you better when I didn't know you. 10/13/02 No one likes you and you're going to lose. 09/13/02 I'd sell my soul for a Klondike Bar. 09/12/02 From lonely to only. 06/14/02 Spoonfulls of sidewalk wisdom. 05/11/02 Spontaneous human combustion on a bus. 03/24/02 We are all there is now. 03/18/02 Know what I'm talking about? 03/11/02 I wonder what it's like to be dead. 03/07/02 Lights off, Insanity on.			I am part Hamlet, part eunuch    When I was eight years old, I learned through my mother that women cannot be counted on, believed, trusted or loved. It was a basic understanding I had come to with myself, an universal truth that I was forced to accept and swallow. Waters wet, the sky is blue, women are not to be trusted. I have not spoken much with my mother since I was eight and I have still yet to completely trust a woman. Everything they say is suspect, every gesture of their hand an exaggeration of a lie, their every movement echos of maternal violence. But there was this girl, I met her before I met myself - we were born in the same hospital. What's more, her mother and mine shared a room during our births, I think I could sense her before I had my first breath. We grew up, she filled out, I dropped into depression. She was someone with a name in our high school, I was the neighbour she didn't want to walk home with, she was the girl my friends and I dreamt about, I was the guy they made fun of in the halls. she was the girl who spelt destruction every time I saw her walking, I was the guy she referred to as nobody when asked about. We graduated high school. She didn't sign my yearbook. We graduated college. She was in a sisterhood on the other side of campus. We moved to the same city, our apartments were 5 blocks away from one another. I never spoke more than five words to her. I wish I could have loved her. I rode the bus downtown like I always do on Saturdays, sitting between an old black lady who contented herself with knitting and a businessman who read the paper like it contained the obituaries of people he loved. At the back of the bus was a group of teen girls, giggling and pointing, the brashness of their youth soon to blossom into the sophistication of temptresses. A crackhead got on the bus and sat in the seats directly across from the girls, they looked like he had just pulled out his dick and shoved it in their faces. The crackhead sat and shook, convulsed and coughed, he probably hadn't had a hit in about two day. Everyone gets off the bus at one stop or another but only Mr.Crackhead and I get to our destination knowing that not even god can love you like a drug can. We were also the only ones aware that we weren't innocent in any aspect. Ok, you're out in public now, keep that face straight. You're not spastic, you're not freakish, you're not creepy or scary, you're a another warm body walking. Don't look them in the eye, look into nothing, straight ahead like you always have. I think I could coach myself into a march through hell, I could force myself to smile while eating my own flesh. Focus your eyes on the streets and the city, what do you see? I see street merchants and street prophets. I see a giant television sky painted test-pattern gray. I see love for sale. I see a giant banner covering the side of the largest building in the city, it's an advertisement, a picture of Jesus drinking a Coke and giving a thumbs-up. I see Jesus compromising his artistic integrity for your sins. I walk the dirty streets swarmed by gold-plated businessmen, adrift on a sea of bobbing and chattering heads that stretch off into the horizon. Busy people chasing junk-dreams, junked out people busy chasing any dream at all. That's when I saw her, THE girl, a black mini-skirt and leather jacket bending the street sideways. I ask how things are, if she found a job, if she's happy. I say it's weird to meet her in such a big city, how small the world really is, my life is fine, I define happiness, I've really changed. Like the little trooper she is, she takes it all in stride and somehow makes me feel three feet tall in just as many words. She's an iron-cast, fire-breathing, one-woman emasculation factory. Then her pimp comes by, takes some money from her and swats her on the ass. Her pimp. I have found that girls that seek to comfort me are only doing so for their own good, to feel like they have made a difference in some way. It is not that they feel responsible for such a condition in me, they feel that their maternal powers are the be all and end all, the one thing that can heal the wounded and savage beast. Their concern for me has always been in self-interest. Through me they just might justify themselves or validate their mode of thought. "Oh that was just a friend of mine." She looks nervous. I never noticed her lips being that chapped before. I can see goosebumps on the side of her neck. It almost looks like it could be tarnish. "Listen, if you're not busy, maybe you and I could, maybe, I don't know...Get some drinks somewhere?" The girl of my dreams will fuck me for money. "Oh, well maybe some other night? It's kind of lonely here, I don't have very many friends." The girl I've wanted since I was able to want will suck my dick and if I throw in an extra twenty, she'll tie me up and spank me. Her pimp! When I was eight years old I learned all I ever needed to know about women. I didn't learn it through speculation, I gained this knowledge through pure experience with the aid of an intuition unafraid to draw conclusions. This isn't misogyny, I'm sure lots of guys are able to fall in love, I'm sure there are men out there able to trust women. Those are the guys able to not flinch when a girl raises her hand, able to make eye-contact with a girl, able to say the word love out loud, able to think of the first woman they fell for without wondering what she charges an hour. When I was eight, I had to conclude that water's wet, the sky is blue and women can't be trusted.