Previously on Passions:
October 16, 2012
from: Angela Euna Kim (email@example.com)
to: Filbert B. Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)
How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date. Please do this right now. If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.
Fuck. The fucking car payment.
October 16, 2012
from: Filbert B. Kim (email@example.com)
to: Angela Euna Kim (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota. A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you. You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars. Because you liked the color. Metallic teal. And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome. You fucking whore.
You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer. It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends. What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car? Grey’s Anatomy? God forbid you should pick up a fucking book. I should have killed you when I had the chance. Continue reading
I fucking treasure this sadness. I treasure that I wake up hugging my pillow and in my half dreams I thought it was you. But your hair was just the cat’s tail. I have seriously wept unconscious tears into my cat’s tail– that is a Shakespearean level of sadness in today’s world. If I had something that smelled like you I would smell it. But I don’t. Not even my sheets. The night I realized you were gone I made a pork roast and farted like Vesuvius for hours and hours in my sleep. I tried to sniff the spot where you slept and… it was a mistake.
I fucking treasure this. Remembering your hair. Your kiss. God damn, you were a great kisser. Gentle. Every little motherfucking thing, things too corny to type. I relish missing them. This pain. The way a leper relishes burning his hand on a candle. I can still feel something. This particular thing, desiring somebody, wanting them to be around, and them wanting to be around. Even if relationships like this, between stunted people, people who fuck strangers in toilet stalls– relationships for us are like milk left on the counter on a hot day. But it’s nice to know that it can exist. Continue reading
What is this girl, texting me– she is nineteen years old and works as a go go dancer at an S & M themed nightclub. She says on her profile that she is looking for an older man. She does not appear to be a prostitute. She has literary pretensions.
What do you even do with this information. When you can’t stay up past ten thirty and don’t even want to. My ball hairs are white. My scrotum looks like a disgusting wizard. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with this nineteen year old go go dancer, it’s that– I can’t even conceive of the logistical hassles to get there. She stays up until four in the morning. It’s like a sparrow wanting to fuck a bat– they just aren’t around at the same time of day. What do I do now, invite her over for the pork roast I’m about to make? A nice hearty meal with some roasted root vegetables while the cold winds blow. Nice glass of red wine and a video. The flavors of rural France. I enjoy the things that old people enjoy, except for the part where I need to impregnate a girl whose professional attire is electrical tape over her nipples.
We were in a booth. At the bar there was a guy, with a girl, and he was fingering the top of her ass and her panties. He was wearing a baggy gray sweatshirt, cream colored shorts, and those sneakers that Teva makes that have a huge tread for your cross country needs. How could someone dressed so poorly be in a position to stick his fingers under a girl’s panties in a bar. She must look like a sea creature. She would turn around and it would be like the last stab of a Twilight Zone episode. I had to know.
Make a noise, I said, and with no hesitation my date swept her martini glass onto the floor. It shattered loudly. Women can still surprise you.
The whole room turned to look. The girl was not bad looking. Who knew.
She did not text you back. She is never coming over again. She found another guy. With a bigger dick. She is with him right now. Showing him the movies that she took back from your apartment. As long as the DVD’s she checked out from her college library were on your TV table, you knew she would never leave you. One day, they were gone.
She was with me because she is deeply insecure and lonely. She stayed with me because she needed a place to go at night, and to be around another person. She seemed grateful that I even wanted her around. The attractive 22 year old college student who is exceptionally skilled with her mouth, vagina, and asshole and cleans your house when you leave. Who brings you food and booze when you had a bad day. Who brings movies. God, what a nightmare. What man would want such a person in his life.
She expected nothing of me. She laughed at my worst jokes. She didn’t have to be entertained. You didn’t have to take her out, spend money, drive all over motherfucking creation to go to her friend’s stupid play or some shit. She just wanted to talk about books and maybe eat something and have a brandy and cuddle on the couch. Then fuck. Make you cum too fast with her tight tiny pussy. God damn. I feel like I conceived her in the computer from Weird Science. Continue reading