My Magic Powers Make Me Feel Lonely

I WENT TO AN ALL GIRLS BURLESQUE SHOW at the Producer's Club last night. It was my first and I am not a strip-club goer.

When I was watching my favorite performer (JJ), I was doing my best to focus on her, the whole person, and not merely her delicious looking body. I wanted her to know that yeah, I wanted her bad, but I wanted, her. That I appreciated how sexy she, was. Her performance was sexy. Her art was sexy. 

The gumption, intelligence, rebelliousness and lustiness to make it sexy came from her guts, her head, her heart and her ovaries. 

Her character. Her personality. Was hot. Very very hot. I wanted, her. And I wanted her to know I wanted, her.

*****

I can hear your subconscious, self-conversation.

Your inner monologue? I get the gist.

I can hear, body language. I can sense the motivations for your reactions.

HOW:

You are looking at me because of the way I'm dressed and move about and handle myself. You are paying attention to me and what I do. You are reacting to my reactions, especially of you.

So I can hear, you. Your subconscious thoughts.

I "observe" casually -- my hearing is like a sonor operator on a submarine -- and I know why you're thinking what you're thinking, because I'm making you think it.

FOr EXAMPLE:

Last night I had the prime spot at the burlesque show. I was in the back corner, anchoring the room as I like to do. All the performers saw me watching them. And not every performer I found hot. The ones I did could tell. And my ravenous attention was fuel for their fire.

*****

INTERMISSION

*****

The subway is dangerous. For every reason an above ground train is safe, the subway has reasons making it unsafe.

A train train isn't underneath a hell of a lot of earth or water or both.

I trust something I've built. Open space hasn't been built. It is.

Above me is human engineering. I wish it was open space. Also there are weirdos down here that I want to get rid of. But I need to win my election to do that.

I WILL MAKE THE CRAZIES GO AWAY. To a nice place. Really. FREE HOUSING AND CASH FOR HOMELESS PEOPLE SO THEY GET OUT OF OUR FACES ASKING FOR IT. Courtesy of the billionaires.

No more homeless cocksuckers (boys) bothering you on the subway. I don't plan on Daniel Pennying any of them, but I do plan on getting them to shut the fuck up and stop harassing you.

*****

Spitfires you are seeing me but you're not attacking me. I asked one of you, Jemima Kirke, the hottest of the four girls on "Girls", who followed me and she doesn't follow many, what the story is:

The title of this essay admits to the fact that I am not succeeding, yet, at getting you spitfires to hit on me. It admits that I feel very, alone. While waiting for that. I am not interested in casual friendships with men. I am not interested in getting shot down by you either.

So I am not being aggressive with you if I like you. 

I am waiting for you to be aggressive with me. 

I am not. Going to hit. On you. 

You can tell I want you. That's enough from me. It's your move next. If you like me you'll approach me. You'll talk to me. You'll make it as obvious as I made it to you that you like me and you want me.

Then, I will be aggressive.

CONSENT. It's not just about sex. It's about your attention. A boy who wants you normally doesn't give a damn if you like them. They want you and will try to get you using every trick.

I know some of the tricks. I don't want to use them. I want you to grab, me, by the belt. I don't want to corner you into talking to me if you don't like me. That's a waste of my time and you don't like it.

I am not interested in arguing you into liking me. Into charming you into liking me.

Because that means I've chosen you. I don't want to choose you if you haven't chosen me first. 

I do not want to get rejected. I hate it. It's awkward and horrible. 

More importantly, I want you to be so into me that you won't let me get away.

Because how do I know I'll like you? I may like the way you look. I may like how you are in public. But will I like the real you?

If the real you has the gumption, intelligence, rebelliousness and lust to approach me, then you're the real deal. You are the kind of girl I want and I don't need to talk to you to figure that out. So when I do talk to you, I won't consider "do I like you?" I'll get to consider all the wonderful reasons why I like you. And I won't have to try to get you to like me. You already do. You told me point blank. You gave me your consent to hit on you, by hitting on me.

This is not how the love game is supposed to be played. I don't care. That's how I'm playing it.