La Petit Mort

Happy Akoma Day, Happy whatever day this capitalist society is pressuring you to spend money on day…Happy Happy Motherfuckers!

I was sitting here waiting on my food to cook, a small meal for one, a protein bowl. My favorite; basmati rice, fresh black beans, fried whitening and sautéed brussels sprouts. I'm not into grand overtures. I'm a quiet, private idealist who loves love. Not the grand gestures displayed in Rom-Com's. Nor the propaganda of eros relationships and behavior being the only kind of love. I know that love exists in Asexual and Sexual relationships and to think or believe otherwise is a betrayal of your naïveté.

My love begins with me. I made dinner, got a few movies in the queue to make me laugh, cry, and perhaps even angry. I was hoping for my regular invitations and random excuses for people to be in my presence, but I must say I am not surprised. I have intentionally pushed back due to health reasons. I do not trust people as I trust myself, and therefore, I am Lonelish. Not stupid, foolish, nor crazy. I choose my health and the health of my loved ones first, which also includes the lives of my possible suitors or suitor.

However, as I have seen the many Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram posts wishing everyone a Happy, Happy with the elaborate displays of flowers, candies, handbags, and whatever else. I have always wondered about those people who will be hitting the sheets. I am not talking about your boring ass missionary; rub my lady three times, and the genie is ready bullshit. I am talking about today is no different than yesterday. I desire you now do share your energy with me immediately, hitting the sheets.

I know it is none of my business. And neither are the gifts you share of your elaborate displays of flowers, candies, handbags and whatever else your mate has offered you for this day…None of THAT is my business.

Some years back, while living in Atlanta, I befriended a person who both chopped me down to pea size and built me back up. Anyhoo, at the time, I was dating a real jackass who bought gifts as a sign of their affection. Gift-giving was not their love language but mine, so I was pleased whenever receiving anything unexpectedly and also suspicious. But Valentine's Day 2010 was a game-changer. I'm not too fond of Valentine's Day; I hate the idea, concept, what people do on this one day for a relationship that looks nothing like it on the other 364 days of the year. It was freezing, and it snowed the week before but not enough to stop the city but pause it for a day or so. I remember I hung out all that weekend; Saturday night, had drinks at McCormick & Schmick's, sat at the bar, of course, and Sunday, went to the Hank Stewart event at the Vino Libro in Glenwood Park. When I returned home, there was a box at the bottom of the stairs with a note stating, "I didn't see your car, so I didn't ring the bell." the box was lite, not heavy at all but oversized taped, and wrapped like as a gift.

When I got in the house, my inner child couldn't wait to open it. Pulling the bow, the paper, and ribbon off, cutting the tape to reveal a "Paper Source" gift bag. I already knew what it was; I'd wanted this wax and stamp set for years but could not convince myself to spend the money. Immediately I called a friend and began telling her about my surprise when she cut me off. And started ranting and raving about the Gucci bag, rose petals, in-home catered dinner, and the red bottoms she was "most certainly going to wear Friday when we step out." 

I went silent. 

I was thrown off and overwhelmed.  

The whole time she talked, I was trying to remember if this was the same guy we saw at the Sundial Restaurant just two weeks before with someone else. When she stopped, I said I forgot what I was calling for and hung up the phone. 

 Of course, I was mad as hell.

So the next day, I called Margo to share my gift details because although I hate Valentine's day, It was a thoughtful gift.

Margo answered the phone as she usually did, "Bonjour Shaun," to which I always chuckled because we met in French Class, she was the instructor, and I was the student taking French 101 for the second time. "Bonjour Margo, Comment ca va? I replied. "Ha! I hear you. "Tres Bien, Merci, what kind of gossip do you have for me today?" she asked.

Well, I began rattling off how I went to the wine bar and when I got home they'd left the box at the bottom of the steps and when I open the box I was surprised…Blah blah blah… of course while I was talking I realized I was doing the same thing to her that my friend the day before did to me. When I finally stopped, she said, "You know what, I was hoping that you of all people were calling to tell me about the sufferings of "LaPetit Mort."

I held the phone, trying to figure out what was the "little" thing she wanted me to share. "La Petit Mort," I kept repeating. She continued, "for this holiday to be about romance and the roman goddess of love; no-one ever makes it," then she paused. When she spoke again, I had nothing to say but okay, I'll see you in class. "Shaun, my friend, I know you have listened to all your friends speak of the things they got, am I right? "Yes," I whispered. "Good, so the next time you find yourself on the other end of a rather boring conversation about the material things they received, you will speak as frankly to them as I am to you now and ask, How many deaths did you suffer?"

Whaaaaaaaa? She hung up the phone as politely as she answered, “Bonne nuit, à bientôt!”

I laughed at the audacity of myself for hours, then I laughed at the fact that she was able to utter aloud exactly what my stupidity wouldn’t allow me to say.

The most revolutionary thing you can do is step back, look at yourself, correct the error message, and continue.

I do not care about what materialistic thing someone has purchased. Especially gifts that I know many of my friends can buy for themselves. 

None of what your lover gives you is any of my business.

 I do not care to hear about it unless it is the story of you being late because you overslept from suffering your many orgasms the night before.

Fuck yo Flowers, candies, bears, bags, and whatever else you received as a physical representation of your love. 

Share your deaths with me. 

Not in detail of what was done to you but how your body suffered and recovered.

How your astral was freed and you were able to see yourself be yourself.

Share how your tiny deaths help you manifest

The dying, again and again, to be reborn into new 

 Who's hitting the sheets.

Happy Happy!