get lost

insufficient funds

Current mood: pensive

in calculating the emotional status of our epoch, i’ve come to a rather glaring statement at the base of my inventory. it reads: ‘insufficient funds’. the deficiency is a result of excess spending and shortage of supply. everyone is in demand. and in the age of disposable everythings, upon receipt of an emotional purchase it is not uncommon that we are not satisfied. it sounded different in the online description. item is not as advertised! send it back before its warranty expires! but, contrary to what we might think about the investment gone wrong, the failure to reach repletion perhaps lies within each one of us.

taking stock of said imbalance i’ve reached the following conclusion, (however autobiographical the testament my be, i feel it is relevant to a rather major populace):

no one wants to feel anything anymore.

not with any depth or severity of intent anyway. and fair enough! by now we’ve all gotten a pretty clear sense of what can happen as a result of freely dispensed ‘feelings’. we invest, invest, invest! only to be bought out, ripped apart, used for unintended proposes, sold at bargain prices, put on the back burner and forgotten about in some abandoned warehouse in some seemingly vacant heart.

now, the kiss of death in this equation of safekeeping and armament is that we’re all still after that good fuck. but in search of only this, not many of us are prepared to leap into a meat packer when we could be at risk of having our funds swallowed whole and spat out into packaged pieces of feather and fledgling. nor would you allow yourself to function as that cold, unfeeling machine that masticates hearts and cranks them out in shattered plastic wrapped bits of digested innards.

so we try to set up rules of engagement. we’ve all taken similar inventory and reached the verdict to compartmentalize our assets; our spending and return. these rules of engagement usually dictate designated allotments of time. putting restrictions then on: calling, texting, one-on-one fun, online flirting, extended weekend daytrips and such. allot: a couple of hours a day. for a few weeks, only. give or take a week or two. ok, this fucking thing is really working out here, so we’ll make an exception in this case, add a week or two contingency. then what you may find is that you’ve put the books aside as the comings and goings of your interactions become too fun and frequent to calculate.

and you develop those looks and nudges that every partnership enjoys. you feel. those soft interiors. and you’d like to keep juicing the fruit, and licking the plate clean. you indulge your pocketbook of emotional investments because you feel you are getting your returns. you get used to the little extra efforts, the funds flowing freely. and the general operations of the machine run smoothly. patterns. no need to reconfigure. no need to fix what ain’t broke. pump. shift. pattern. pump…. fuck. shower. cuddle. fuck. shower….. the rituals become second nature. warm clean skin. hugs. cock parades and cologne. eating habits. drinking habits. speaking habits. one cog working its way into the other. it’s soft and natural to get attention and effortless to reciprocate. a well-oiled progress maker that works two autonomous and fully-operational programs closer and closer into cohabitation until they become one. production can now be left on automatic by the two machinists. no need to pay attention to the gas peddle when you’re in cruise control. you stare out the window as the other one drives. contented by every little projected image of perfection. taking stock of all those memories you’re storing in your vault. the sensation is one of repletion.

until that moment… you’re both gazing happily out the window. when you come upon the inevitable obstacle in the road. the liability you didn’t account for. the machine comes to a halt with the squealing of breaks. you pop the clutch and go into neutral. sit idle while you look around and find your entire enterprise in a state of arrears. there’s backpedaling and recounting. there’s an attempt made at compensation. then there’s swearing. “jesus christ! why weren’t you looking at the road signs?!” “goddammit”, “idiot!” “we weren’t supposed to go off course!” (one of you didn’t even know you were on a course to begin with). (the other is still yelling about it), “we were supposed to go north, and we’ve been heading south for days!”

and as one person tallies the score, the other is already speeding off down the road, back to their auxiliary funds, the overage they kept in case of such emergencies. while one is on a path to save their own ass in this venture gone awry, the other is left in a state of bankruptcy. coughing up the dust of internal debris. trying desperately to balance their self-worth. finding that a vault full of recently discarded memories is of lesser value than one filled with what could have been a steadily inflating capital of self-interest.

or is it?

how bout you be the treasurer. and i’ll be the treasured?

DISCLAIMER: PRIOR TO ANY EXCHANGE OF FUNDS, A DETAILED ACCOUNT OR QUOTE OF FORSEEN AND UNFORSEEN EXPENDITURES IS REQUIRED.


(postscript: symbolic of our world’s socio-political and economic states to date…. can and/or will our own personal, emotional deficiencies ever come out of deficit?)

Currently listening: You Can't Hurry Love By Concretes Release date: By 14 June, 2004