I know. Today was Wonder Woman Day. And this was by far the most charming photo:
BUT THEN! I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit! It was awful! Stupid bathroom bs in my stupid boardinghouse! The landlord looked like this, the late (and mightily missed) DENIS JOHNSON:
(God, Denis. I can’t believe you’re gone. I wish we’d met, I wish we’d shared a smoke and a drink at 9am and talked about god.)
I was so outraged! I was furious! Accused of something I did not commit! First World Problem: so many men in prison are currently incarcerated for crimes they did not commit! So I stormed around, grimacing, making fists, sneering at the sky (like a Michael Moorcock hero), until I realized…
I needed to tie up my super-powered girlfriends.
All of my girlfriends had super powers. All of them. Why else would I have been with them? Because they had powers that dazzled me.
My ex-wife, for example, is a 4th degree Black Belt. Karate. Our second night together? She put on black tights, barefoot, and slashed around her (very small) kitchen, cutting the air w/ Sais like fucking Elektra, and I was like OH MY FUCKING CHRIST I’M GOING TO MARRY THIS GIRL.
I did. We got married. She had super powers. ‘Nuff said.
My sisters had super powers. My mother had super powers. Every woman I’ve ever been attracted to has had super powers.
So, like a dope, like a complete weakling—I needed to bind the pretty sexy girls I liked and wanted and needed, I needed to tie her up
I didn’t realize this until later—way later. She was so powerful. Bronze bare skin my hand ached to touch, like an exploding sun.
She will wake, she will rise, she will break free. (And I’ll probably be wicked embarrassed by this post tomorrow, but fuck it. I love my super-powered girlfriends.)