Wednesday, 8 March 2017

He gets me (take it any way you want).

The Pacific doesn't want to hear my troubles today. She's busy keeping level, keeping the wind threading through her waves, keeping the tides moving on schedule, keeping small blonde people out of her many leagues.

Little does she know that sometimes, if the wind is blowing, I can't hear her anyway.

Little does she know PJ's holding the ties of my coat today. Even if I got a running start I wouldn't get a drop of saltwater on me. Not today. Not anymore.

Lochlan threatened to bring me a bouquet of french fries today for International Women's Day. I scowled a little, mostly because dinner is already planned and now I can't stop thinking about french fries, but also because I'm not exactly a feminist. I get a little attention for being the female leader of an all-male cult, a female general of an all-male army, a queen bee surrounded by worker bees but all of that is an illusion. I don't run their lives, I stand behind them, letting them fight my battles for me. Sometimes with each other. I promise them things and they turn to each other for comfort when I fail to follow through. I use sex as a reward and attention as a bribe. I fall back too easily on helplessness. I'm not the picture of a strong independent woman.

I need a man.

I need a few of them. More than a few, even.

So if we're celebrating that, have at 'er. Bring on the fries.