By any means necessary

My writer seems unusually eager to get out today and though I have been trying to set him free for the past few days he has been unwilling to be complicit - preferring to get out on his own time on his own terms. Truly this writer is my offspring.

It's the witching hour - it is still, quiet, peaceful, the tranquility of this witching hour is disturbed by the sound of my alarm. Yes, this time it was deliberate to leave the warmth of my bed at that time. I spring from my slumber to pop some pills, the unfortunate consequences of the neglect of my dental hygiene. I can hear the boisterous conversations of the creatures outside, briefly silenced by my intrusion; this is not the time for humans they whisper. As I enter my kitchen I am greeted by two loafer bastards who insist on living here rent free and being a nuisance. These two roaches a nibbling away feverishly at my banana laying on the counter - this hour, is the hour that has been pre-ordained, and I bid them adieu with a quick burst of baygon.

In my sleep on this night, my writer has been at it, toiling, whispering, beckoning me to the table, to the pen, to the note pad. I dreamt in thoughts with dotted images of a man and a woman with a recurring theme; "women are collateral damage in the life of their men." That makes no sense - what is this bastard trying to say to me, why does he want me to write this crap. But I have long surrendered my will to my writer; I think my writer is my north wind.

Ok, so this is it, this is what this bastard of a writer wanted me to write about. Was it? Stuffing my face with flaxseed cookies and home made cherry juice (not that powdered shit), more awake now than the passing hours of the previous day - like I had just slept for 8 hours and not the mere 3, I write. My pen bleeds blue onto this yellow paper - my thoughts now visible beyond the distortion of my mind.

Men are instinctively manipulative bastards; yes we are, especially when it comes to the opposite sex. We don't often if at all, pursue women for friendship (then again friendships are not pursued, they just happen) or because we are kindred spirits. Forget the fairy tales, the stories of "true love" of how we met - it sounds nice, it sounds even nicer when the story of conquest (conquest to men, otherwise known as love to women) is told in the presence of one or two bleeding heart hopeless romantic potential victims/conquest. Whether you believe this or not the underlying reasons for most of our actions is yes, you guessed it - punnanny. That mound of joy positioned between your thighs - some times it feels for some nuts some times it don't.

We pursue that delicacy between your thighs with the tenacity of the great civil rights leader Malcolm X - by any means necessary. The pursuit is so calculating, deliberate, that the person to whom this flesh with a slit and some hair (or not) belongs to becomes a mere attachment, an attachment eclipsed by the joy that lies between. The person, the emotions, the character of a woman slowly fades to black until such time as we have succeeded in having that oh so sweet delicacy - then our eyes are no longer wide shut to the person, the woman.

Men pursue women like predators, with caution, patience and a voracious appetite. We must have "it" - yes "it", not you, "it." We say and do anything we must until we find ourselves buried nose deep or hip deep in "it".

The psychological, emotional, spiritual and physical damage which we cause in our blind pursuit is irrelevant. We have accomplished our mission - divide and conquer (literally); the entrails of the woman left languishing in our broken promises is nothing but collateral damage. Much like politians do to the electorate every five years.

All the world is a stage and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and the entrances and one man in his time playing many parts ...

My writer is now sated, now ready to rest until next time when I become collateral damage to his desire to make my pen bleed.