I’ll Lie Back in the Chair I Inherited From My Dead Father and Scratch and Feel the Call of Nothing Accomplished

The thought of being a victim catapults me back to the handful of women I’ve loved so deeply I stopped seeing that they had fallen for the intelligent and talented artist in me, and not for the man at the dark bottom of that pool who looks and smells like me, who walks the way I do or holds his head the way I do.

It took me four decades to realize I attract narcissistic women and that while I certainly was victimized over and over by them, starting with my mother, yes, it’s been validated, thanks to decades of psychotherapy, I’ve thought little about how to attract modest women who might be attracted to me for the very opposite reasons, for say, how dumb, unimaginative, petty, miserable, poor and ungracefully angry I can be at times.

Who’d want to be with that more depressing me, I asked myself, when they can be with the me that gets lots of attention for being sardonic, self-assured and classically attractive? Well, that rerun never gets off the air, even with age and “rose-colored glasses.”

Except how quickly their admiration turns to resentment when they realize your intelligence isn’t going to put food on their table all the time, that you’re content with the struggle of being poor, and that you’re not going to stop making art all the time even if there is no money or prestige coming from it. That’s when they’ll start hating you for your peculiar intelligence.

It’s why I’ve been thinking from now on I’m going to make it a point to stop being a victim to myself, really, and in an effort to repel the narcissist’s proboscis, start celebrating the me who can’t make rent sometimes, who can’t afford a vacation, the one who doesn’t leave the house for sometimes days, and who washes his clothes every other day in the sink.

I’ll lie back in the chair I inherited from my dead father and scratch me man-parts and feel that call of nothing accomplished underneath me the way all victimized artists do, who, after smashing against a raging river of loved one’s resentments for too long, just want to step out of that honeyed casket of a lover wanting to wear your particular mode of artistry only so they can relieve themselves in it and delight in watching the beautiful colors run.

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