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Every Connection is a Missed Connection by Sean Kilpatrick

If you cherish someone with enough anachronistic tenor, and stay unwavering in your devotion, they will be driven to torture you, unwittingly, unconditionally, by contrast. A relationship runs on whatever benign conditional ordinance established it, then coasts itself dead into a smitten lap. Substantiated or anonymous at its declamatory ground zero, the love coo functions as fact, then fiction, and registers between recipients ambidextrously, regardless, the countersign of an ideal human connection based on frequency alone, an abstruse pattern extracted from (the rest is turbulence) the pitch of whoever drew your chemicals on, both culprits problem solving their groins into an equation, the tuft of pubic tendency for which there is no pill to quell. Thankfully, the worst potential reality is always what just happened. Neurochemicals spur our collective matrimony fetish through a libidinous recycling of partners at least once a decade. Any spectacle of profound exclusivity between lovers is one-hundred percent façade, a damp gamble of who your pheromones strand you with, beneficial for the antique purpose of disgorging microbes by the brood. Wedlock monomania self-anoints its fraud, leaves us the compounded passenger of our perseverance, isolated inside procedural marriages, economized on a seesaw of laundry, the placeholder for an unnecessary amount of DNA: that stuff they’ll take off of you in samples when I’m done. No atrocity I bake up during the following treatise will match this territory’s vanilla dimensions. Whoever I defile is part of the same seductive pulp, mutilated until there is no practical amount of blood to fawn over, sprinkling till we part.

The priest leaves you at the throat of your other. Despise yourself enough to fall in love with someone who can make no exception for your kind and reduce them to your own exception, in vain. Find who exploits your basest flaw as a form of masturbation and let their guilt morph into their fear of being murdered in response. Have your faux pas pried apart in public by someone who forces you to prove nonessential facts. Put your urinary tracts on autopilot. Embalm the provider with your snatch. Get your pud in a state at her expense. He is categorically gross. Her period authored the constitution. Speak like zombies until nature disappears. Take your spouse’s insults as gospel. Be neurotically passive aggressive about each other’s pasts. End up their mockery in court. Backfire in unison. Submit to the bipolar scrutiny of whichever humanism against art pays the most. Monger through the counterfeit uproars of each media blitz. Never become lethally valueless to your homeland. Use your product to contrive a semblance of dignity and thank what little god there is. A god could bless you, if it hadn’t long ago and quite effectively recoiled its whole flank from our galaxy’s ghetto. Refuse to pass judgement until people provoke you into skipping them straight to the death penalty. Rewrite every countless rape in history as a tickle with good intentions. Displace slurs magnanimously. If neither of you will play the victim, sex is over. Ignore that fucking is warfare at your pettiest contrivance. You must both long for death and never withdraw from it with selfish, paranoid neuroses at the thought of one another. Explicit, pent up outbursts belong to him. Cold and silent brutalities belong to her. Every monogamy kills its girl. There is an empathy too cruel for condescension. There are abuses too refined to be recorded. Hate carries sublimities beyond blame. Love is a chemical spill of sophistries. Stay together, especially if death is the only response.

I now pronounce you commendable nemeses stocked with ovaries that are financially solvent. Do they retract if you dare show patience? I’m a little preemptive with my rapes. Such is my gender’s habit. No doubt a certain panache can imbue the act. What I admire does not involve procreating the specter of each other’s resentment and withering under the outdated fulfillment of your predisposition, but a torture classified beyond distillation. Which rebellion inspired the other first, pimp or product? By way of example, to match the psychic damage your personal brand of discomfiture inflicts (miss beloved), as I cannot replicate this particular martyrdom myself, I would have to search my talents and devise for you a cage, to stick the bars, conjoined, through your many softer outlets, keeping you, my contraption, on what passed as knees, five years down the line, pottying in your mouth for sustenance, and somehow, at the end, have you come away still loving me for my crime. This is an impossible accomplishment, and a great betrayal to the power scramble my gender dignifies, because I am not likely to hurt you outside of the fantasy necessary to keep this sort of behavior vaguely relative, posolutely in my pathetic case. There I have failed you as a comatose provider. You want a man just psychotic enough to be another accomplished father and husband. To draw out the platitudinous suffering of your kin together. I am a psychopath for the sake of a far less profitably bent cause. My revenge is only enacted if you read these words. Surely you will skim them. So did I. On the off chance that you notice familiar vapid effronteries on your behalf within these pages, I am grateful to donate myself to grudge-making as a consequence. My anecdotes intend to corroborate that you, too, were another blip in our overlapping spectra of cursory lovers. I write letters like these, as I write all my work, and love all my loves, in gratitude to the dumpster they are destined to embellish. If I could be lynched with your panties, my death might equate your level of tepid sexual dispensation, and the happy, gurgling ukulele noise coming from my protoplasmic maw might provide a sufficient mockery of nostalgia itself.

Each trauma makes less of a distinction, stretched across the rack of your fermenting bilge. Nothing competes with the distending crotch of time. Maybe I can institute the status ascendency you yearn to have arbitrary approval from, since you already took my inventions for hurting you and used them to buttress a sitcom lifestyle. The reason I am harmless is because no army, no matter how cruel, would be capable of inflicting the damage of my recompense, even if they grew old trying. Allow me to delineate your statistics with a couple of pointless tales in the newspaper language of your kind. My vanity comes less from the contorted word, more from that I hold out hope that you will one day be mine to spite the world, not to fucking join it. With this in mind, I drew us up some vows, vows the fashionable beau you fake your skin near would never approve of, because, coming away from them, he might be freed of his delusion of control. That loss scares men, or sets them thumped into their inarticulate spittle, but, sorry to say, poets capture such invigorations nightly and for fun.

When you suggested casual dating is amoral, excusing yourself for dissimulating our relationship, I thought perhaps you should be condemned to host your own talk show, but the covert proposal you meant to assert was that immorality itself was exclusively your domain, to the extent that any mere amorality could never massacre enough people into loving you. Now I applaud – as I have for the too few acts of momentous violence perpetrated against me – in retrospect. Yet, I am incapable of imagining a greater amorality than allowing multiple partners to think that their love has been interpreted by you as something unique, while you dangle each rube in stasis, passing, unmoved, between them. You like to encourage a perfidiously catered obsession. I realize you have been parted around some inductive reasoning in favor of your biological clock. You stuck a hat on that instinct at my expense and I aim to boil you and the alpha who survived inspection, once you reach the final trimester, for the crime of commonality and in the name of population control. Not for any moral reason, but because I am aesthetically unaroused by having fucked a winner, and that is how you accidentally occasioned a reversal of the continuous rape between us, underestimating the more diverted, slightly less typical field in which I am an expert, at which I am gloriously, and finally, a success. So, sleep soundly on the foundational testing grounds of my affection, because I will devour you there. I used you to practice being in jail.

Another Missed Connection

You were reoccurring in vasocongestive lingerie dyed black across your sallowness and not considering you my type was the reason you finagled me into some lamentably magnetic kissy face. The white trash bar you debased us in serenaded you by the marrow. You turned your passing interest into a load of disgust faster than your alcoholism would have otherwise prevented and I always harbored a debilitating paranoia of girls, any amount drunk, who demanded sex. If a girl wanted to fuck, I was probably the reluctant dildo she was trying to rape herself with, the middle man for a crime inconsequential to my intentions. Much to your amusement, I had totaled my strife on two girls. The second was a supermodel who announced, after sex, that she was tasked with a full blown Nazi’s child, and referred to me as her kike, even though my race was mostly a scribble. You were so sexualized, I posed you around my room like a private cabaret, like a fashion photographer capturing his own car crash, because I had no idea what your goals were in slumming it with me, or how a music video could give off warmth. Not that you were warm. My reflection roasting in your pupils like first date roadkill, one in a vast series of your exes threatened me with such incompetence, having shot out his eye on purpose to end a session of your rather toothy fellatio, that I bid him good luck and turned my back to whatever he disappointingly did not muster. It was the kind of bar where men knocked off work early to issue empty threats, puffed up like roosters who couldn’t afford bail. Every time I met you there, someone you had fucked, or would soon fuck, was leaning on you while we talked. You cackled like a vulture hungry for its own bra. It was: hang around you and your entourage or spend years mating alone to the idea of anyone else’s mind inside that body. You had a retail lesbian on each shoulder stupid enough to think that made me jealous, instead of hard, and men with mullets who served their country and other random, active goons you passed genetically down my throat when we kissed. One kicked the restroom door open while I was washing my hands and stood there giggling like the principal had his mom on the phone. I put your cigarette out on my hand to thrill the drug dealer whose apartment you trapped me in. You had recently blown him in a derelict gas station. No recollection of which irresponsible dalliance allowed me to leave you in the car, windows down, while I checked on my sick grandmother, but you sure alluded that you could, at any point, have bikers kill my family, if I ever provoked you, which hadn’t come up yet, even as a vague topic. Unfortunately, I never became violent, another turn off, except for a few lazy curses at the end, and, even then, not because I was so disheveled as to ever care about you, or expected monogamy – ha-ha, no, no – I didn’t require monogamy at the zoo, but because you hadn’t returned a DVD. Your biggest insult was thinking I cared about being alive. I thought I proved my suicidal nature by somehow managing to come inside of you. In no regard were you impressed, but I made you share a moment with me now and again. We were square enough to kiss pointedly in the rain. You held my hand like someone drunk had dared you. Almost vulnerable outside of a wardrobe – this was the person I might have tried impressing in bed, if you hadn’t made that impossible by initiating our first time with a drunken challenge against my masculinity, in a cigarette-inflected bar skank vernacular – which had me, considering the circumstance, still impressively, to me, sixty percent erect, and coming fast, not out of excitement, but to get you over with. You had Bukowski’s lines down your immaculate back and informed me I was a sellout for having published, an accusation I assumed his fans grew out of by age nineteen. You hid away terrible verses that should have stayed deep inside of you, where the real talent for etcetera got laced. For another brainless logic I can’t resolve without a bullet, I met whoever dispensed you. We were drunk, of course, and you had me chasing a pet. I’d hit my head on a tree branch and was appropriately gushing blood when I shook her hand. Whoever your mother let molest you should have kept going until you were a vegetable. Such negligence, developing propitious amounts of SSI money to dot your fragmentary life – where were all the incompetent and unreliable men when you needed a good castration? Female circumcision was your only hope. You stroked me along your superb torso, wearing bolt-sized rings on every finger, an unbidden handjob from a Transformer, and the converse reaction of pain my body expelled in endless gouts all over you was an achievement I rested my then inexperienced laurels on – only because it was both very cute and very impolite of you to subsequently hop against me and smear us. However, I never regretted insulting someone in return before we met, because you went on to perform an unparalleled act of ritual divinity and it expunged your perfidiousness, and had me missing you, on occasion. Yes, all is forgiven, you Russian doll slit, you legend cunt-first, because you cut me with my butterfly knife so well I didn’t stop bleeding for a week, my most important donation, and you proceeded to inch the entirety of the slickened blade, without injury, up your shockingly tight pussy, eroding the steel into a paradisiacal stench, committing multiple fantasies for me, the venereal sister I never had, an event it would take the writing of several books to come close to recreating, and my skillset cannot contend with magic of such depth.