Woman problems

As I sit writing this, I’m congratulating myself for an excellent choice of beer: Highland Brewing Co.’s, Gaelic Ale. I’m sitting at Chicora Alley in downtown, Greenville. Chicora is a hip little restaurant/pub situated on Main St. Their Chicora Burger rules the Known Food Universe.


But I don’t feel that great right now. I’m worried about my girl–America. I love my country, so I worry about her. She’s having menstrual cramps, she’s grumpy and doesn’t seem to care about her man’s needs.  It’s all because she’s thinking about that other guy–Iraq.


I want to smooth her beautiful hair back, kiss her, but she won’t even let me touch her.


“Just calm down, Honey. It’ll all work out in the end, because we’re in love, right?” I say. Just a scowl.


It isn’t just this other guy, Iraq, that’s the problem. It’s all of her “friends”. They’ve been talking to her on the side, telling her to leave, forget about who made her great–me, the working, semi-anarchistic American. She used to love the bad-boy in me. No more. She wants an NPR listening, pipe-smoking, vegan. She used to dig my tattoos and the fact that I did what I wanted, when I wanted. But this Iraq dude has her all teary eyed and longing for better days. She may even vote for a guy for president just because he has a deep voice and a great haircut…


I’ve tried everything. She thinks these are the worst of times. I try to tell her about the good ‘ol days, make her remember the tough times we’ve been through and how we came out all smiles in the end. She says I don’t love her anymore, because I put underwear on a guy’s head when I was at Abu-Ghraib and took a liking to water-boarding. I remind her how she wanted to tear my clothes off, do it right there in the parking lot, when I burned Dresden to the ground and razed Nagasaki with a nuclear fire-storm.


But she’s having none of it. She’s infatuated with this new guy. I know I’ve made mistakes. I admit that. No one’s perfect. But does she think she’ll find love again, a love like mine? No–this new thing she has is cheap and something to cover up the depression she’s fallen into. She’s been under so much stress lately. I’d like to say that medication would help her, but I’m not so sure that hasn’t contributed to the problems we’re having.


No one loves a warrior; no one gets it. I’m a steetfighter at heart .She’s forgotten how my rough-and-tumble ways got her everything she has. How she appreciated my strength when I knocked the crap out of the Mexican Empire. California’s nice, right? Texas? Way back when I first began to court her, America sat daintily, sipping tea, as I shattered the British Imperium (twice). She rubbed the soreness out of my shoulders after that bloody affair. “Poor boy,” she said. “Work and fight so hard. Poor boy.”


Then there was that time when I got really drunk. Started having black folk do all the hard work for me. I messed up, and I knew I’d pay a price eventually. I just didn’t know how to get out of my situation without a lot of pain and suffering–and lots and lots of blood. More blood than you’ve ever seen in your life. I still walk with a limp from that fight. But I won the war with myself, and that is the toughest war anyone will ever fight. And the greatest thing is that my lady still loved me.


I’ve been in so many fights. I have so many scars. Scars used to be a symbol of manhood. No more. She wants the tender skin of the effete, now. Doesn’t she see how hard I’ve tried to do the right thing? Does she think it’s easy to be as self-critical as I am, to always be questioning your own motives and actions? That’s what I do, too.


I mess up. Everyone else messes up more. She wants me to change. She wants me to be more like that catamite, France. But like someone said, “We can never cease to be ourselves.”


Come back, Sweetheart. I know I’m a little rough around the edges, but if you look into my heart, you’ll see I’m a lot better than all the others. If you’d understood that when I fight, I have to break some bones, it would have been over by now. But I tried to make you happy, and win a fight at the same time. That was wrong of me, and it was wrong of you to expect no blood.


This Iraq guy will be gone soon. I’ll be waiting, America. You know I’m always here for you, no matter where your fluttering heart wanders.


Come back. I’ll try to do better.


1 Response to “Woman problems”

  1. 1 How You Doin Blondie
    April 14, 2008 at 7:20 pm

    I must be moody, that post made me get all teary-eyed.

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