Syrup

Today I fought a ticket and caught myself reverting to my signature slow nod when asked if I knew that it was not okay to cut through parking lots. Just a wide eyed, slow nod yes as Mr. Officer said "I understand you spoke with Lt. Shada", I'll dismiss the cell phone ticket but I can only reduce the other to a blockade. Why am I rambling about this? Because in a time when I'm working not one, but two, shitty, remedial jobs and doing horribly at both I have to find a way to tell myself that somewhere inside I have some sort of skill or talent. Otherwise- why even bother getting out of bed? So, I may be poor and unable to hold a "respectable" job but I have perfected my own art. It is the rescue me/fix these broken wings broken little girl game. Coupled with the right amount of cumdumpstery, this makes me and the gentleman caller feel a (completely faux) deep, sensitive connection. "What happened there?" he asks as he looks at my branding scars on my left upper arm, done with a coat hanger and piece of jewelry (at two different times) at age 12. This is when I respond by looking down or away and saying "nothing" or "just a brand from when I was a kid" and then I'm probably thinking about what I'm gonna eat when he leaves or how many cheques I've bounced this week but I keep a deep gaze off into nowhere just for a few moments, then back to him, usually with a gentle kiss. This gives the illusion that I am a complicated, yet troubled, soul (which I am, but, come on). And, eventually, I'll need to go to him for something OR I'll be crying about something and the male rescue reflex will kick in and do something for this damsel in distress, albeit usually something tiny and worthless like a few bucks or drugs.