Basically A Shit Plot

This city is dead. Has been for I don’t know how long. Well, maybe I do. My life has, after all, been one gross exaggeration of the truth.

You don’t want to know my story.

Oh, I say that not for the usual reasons. There’s mild gore, some smutty scenes. A sprinkling of true love, angst, and action.

But no. This isn’t for you.

See, I lived my life for me, and for him. Not for you to fill your head with fantasies about my body, my past, and my Olympian obstacles.

It’s always been about me and him.

About us.

It’s a simple reason why. Why you don’t want to be made aware, I mean. The following is no exaggeration: You don’t want to be confronted with the fact, the actual representation of true love, and be forced by your weakness and self-hate to deny its existence.

So listen up, sugar. I’m not telling this story for you. Talking to the wind failed, just took away my words like so much grave-dust. Too deep for the likes of that cute waitress at the diner.

You, however. You are just too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

Did I mention the gross exaggeration?

I found him waiting for me at the corner of Death and Insanity. Okay, more like Juniper and Ash. But whatever, there he was, waiting on that nasty ass bench for the equally projectile-vomit inducing public transit bus. Fucking commoner. Not that I’m an affluent member of society, but even trash like me has some standards. The elderly and creepers are not among them.

You know that moment when you see that person, man or woman, who is just so exactly, so poignantly and gut wrenchingly what you want? Maybe--probably--not what you need. But there they are anyway, completely oblivious to your want and need. Your instant and fleeting obsession.

In this instant there exist two kinds of people. Imitation, and the real-deal. It’s akin to flavoring. Here you have me, the imitation vanilla extract. Made up of god only knows how many different ingredients for this single flavor/image. Now add me to your food/social situations. Most other ingredients/people present will fail to notice I am unnatural. There it is though--I’m a cheap, affordable alternative to the real thing. And if there’s one thing I know about humanity, it’s this: nine times out of ten they’ll take the cheap off brand over quality. So really, I enable humanity to cheapen my existence by being a poser. Sad but true.

Then we have him. Pure vanilla. Beautiful in his simplicity. Nothing more than what he is. Sure, some of you won’t appreciate his singularity. Plain Jane, lacking in the spice of life approach. You’re wrong. Those rich and heavy undertones, that warmth twined with a bitter tang. And most of you probably won’t catch onto the fact that he is the pure essence of what it means to be human. Like I give a shit.

He sat there holding a worn paper back in his lap--insert lofty literary reference here. I don’t remember what he was reading. Frankly I didn’t even care at the time. For me that tattered volume was a means to an end, my way into the cockles of his heart. I traipsed my way over the slushy and shit-strewn sidewalk and plopped my ass down next to him. To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye at my proximity, not seeming to mind the scant few inches I left between us. And before I could even open my mouth to ask the obvious question, he raised that solemn and clear-as-rain gaze to my own mud brown eyes. He smiled, his lips pulling back from not-perfect teeth in a grin as sweet as honey-suckle. My mouth dropped open (how cliché) and no words came out.

As if the natural and subdued attractiveness weren’t enough, the words he spoke to me cemented him in instant soul mate status.

“It’s basically a shit plot, but you can borrow it if you want intellectual torture by way of inane babble.”

Mhmm. A sharp and vulgar tongue. I think I’m in love.