Laconic Psychiatric Masturbation

When the sight of a kind act reduces me to tears, I think firstly, what a terrible world this must be. Secondly, I ask myself, Did I take my Premarin today? Some people like to blame the mascara melt down on hormones every time. I think they just like the way hormones, if said properly, can insinuate a tawdry tryst. It feels good rolling around in their mouth in a laconic psychiatric masturbation.

Being a woman, I know that the Revlon rupture can sometimes be entirely linked to an irregular glandular secretion; one of Mother Natures random acts of violence. Keeps men on their toes. Those that dare run the gauntlet and succeed in calming a woman on a premenstrual Jones without using the H word will bring home the gold in the sexual scrimmage for verbal dexterity. The rewards endless.

I find the overuse of the word red flags a sub-normality that is positively bovine. Anyone deriving too much pleasure from the hormonal lampoon has libidinous tunnel vision.I really don’t see why some find it so socially unacceptable for a man to show emotion. I like to categorize my pedantic little world and I have assigned three categories to the male stand on sentiment , the automaton, that’s the guy that has no emotions (love and remorse included), and there’s the social climber, he has them, only he doesn’t want anyone to find out (insecure waste of time) and my Adonis, the I am man (he simply is, moment to moment reacting naturally without fear).

Granted, that women and men of leftist sexual orientation are more likely to be unconcerned with others witnessing their enraptured compassion, but there are still those intensely hot I am men out there too.

When I was a child I believed that people cried for one of four reasons; pain, fright, loss and manipulation. Things got a little more complicated as I got older. The theoretical root stayed the same, only I began to figure in contributing factors, demographics, religion, geography, political party and anything else to cloud the results and confuse the shit out of myself. It only took my four year old grandson fifteen seconds to clear the fog.

I smashed my finger in the door and bit back the verbalizations I usually employ in such a situation. My teeth clenched and my eyes reached saturation point as I squeezed the distraught digit. He asked me if I was going to cry. Then he asked me if I was pretending , lost my finger, hurt it, or if I was scared. I told him it hurt, I was scared for a minute but I didn’t lose it so I’ll be okay.

Then he said, Good ‘cause if yer pertendin’ momma won’t fink it’s funny!

Do you believe in coincidences? I don’t. My mother has told me that things happen for a reason. We don’t always find out why they happen. If you’re lucky the reason will be revealed before you completely forget about it. So I guess I smashed my finger so that the logical simplicity of life could be returned to me before I got so engrossed in dissecting answers that I would forget the question.

That question being…Did I take my Premarin today?

6/26/2005 2:41 AM

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