Beautiful

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part I: These Beautiful Cars

Keri Hilson 2

Women are the givers of life, the wonderful and caring creatures thaaaaxcclqiwfivneowvpropeicc…you get the point; I almost put MYSELF to sleep. They’re gorgeous and deserve our respect and all that, of course. While they do turn heads, they also leave us with our faces buried palm-deep in frustration quite often. Men are simple; women are not. Men are stupid; women are crazy. It’s some Circle of Life shit or something, I don’t know. Whatever. There are just some things I don’t understand about y’all. Namely: everything.

I agree that men are dogs. That makes it easier to compare women to the cars we chase up and down our neighborhoods without some hypersensitive feminist kickback about objectifying these broads. Not that any of that would matter to me anyway. Again: whatever. Women are cars. They are wonderfully flawless cars with exquisite paint jobs and polished wheels that attract us the minute the sun reflects off those beautiful exteriors. We chase them instinctively only to be confused and slightly aggravated two minutes after we get that driver’s side door open.

The interior SEEMS just as striking but that’s well before you start to notice the controls on the console aren’t properly marked. You try to turn on the windshield wipers only to see the high beams flickering on and off. Pumping the brakes turns on the AC somehow. The left turn signal pops the trunk and lowering the passenger side window makes the entire vehicle cry and question where you’re even going in the first place. Obviously, getting anywhere is a hassle and you sometimes look out your window and shake your head before grabbing the keys and walking out the door.

Yeah, your car probably frustrates you. It probably makes you want to smack the dash and bang your head against the steering wheel. It also gets you to where you need to be. Every button you press and every lever you pull might not do what you expect but eventually you figure it out, right? The trips are unorthodox but get much smoother the more you drive. In fact, some of those drives are amusing as you watch the eyes locking onto that exquisite paint job and those polished wheels that glisten in the sun. The car- your car- is still beautiful as hell. So yeah, a lot of these vehicles are bass-ackwards, emotional, and I joke a lot about them; I’d much rather be driving my own. Preferably that sand colored, ’14 Draya Michele.

A.J. Armstrong still takes public transportation. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Beautiful Mistake

I followed my heart but every time I do, it gets me lost and left in the dark/But I think it’s clear this time, I guess; we’re just not compatible…

We were terrible for each other. I get it; we were both so self-destructive that we needed each other to justify why we were so fucked up. Our intoxication was killing us and we didn’t care. We kissed with numb lips and altered emotions. The arguments took such a toll that you finally realized how unhealthy our encounters were. It would be for the best…if I weren’t so worried about your wellbeing.

I didn’t even know you were in so much pain the first time we decided to deal with each other. You hid it just as well as I hid mine. You laughed with the same halfhearted smile creeping along your face; it fooled me at first. The jokes didn’t mean anything to you, either. I never noticed and kept feigning confidence and goofiness. Who would have thought a friendship birthed out of keeping up appearances would become something much more? Our arms show the stress of life’s obstacles and each alternating puff alleviated us from it all.

The worst part is that I barely remember. Every vodka-chased pill and loosely rolled Swisher Sweet was more than temporary bliss. Everything was so hazy; it was picturesque in such a terrible way. Descending into a hellish trap never seemed so desirable before. Judgment wasn’t allowed to exist in this glossy-eyed microcosm. Every vulnerable and slurred sentence only spoke to the shared injury we wrongly attempted to run from. Every blank stare became so irresistible and made everything that followed so uninhibited. Desperately holding onto someone falling off the same slope felt oddly comforting.

It is what it is…

I cling to the memories, trying to leave out the toll it eventually took on us both. The final argument was unhealthy and both our stubbornness was only fueled by the intoxication. The very thing- our thing- that made us close tore us apart. Our hands never stayed off each other but this final encounter was created out of the wrong passion. I whispered terrible things and grabbed for your neck clumsily. I saw fear in those dilated pupils and can only now cope with those actions properly.

In our self-destruction, everything was so impulsive. I just hope the death of our friendship provides a healthier lifestyle for us both. Our relationship wasn’t created in sobriety so I never act on my many passing thoughts. Those hazel eyes and slender legs came with a price I almost killed myself in paying. All of those altered times meant everything yet left no moments I can specifically recount. Clarity didn’t come easy because of what I barely remember and I can only hope you feel the same.

A.J. Armstrong is a relieved friend of both and the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities