Before I actually launch my originally completed, ready-to-wear content whose scheduled publishing time of 3:17a.m. today was scrubbed due to unforeseen haplessness, here’s the email I sent one trusted friend along with this read below, too impatient to not share with at least one kindred soul. I wanted her to know. I fell for you.
Luck o’ the Damned? LMA💀 ! I can't even re-frame how livid I am that I am locked out of my Substack because I cannot recall (or type correctly?) my password. Even after a reset? Attached. To publish tomorrow. Depending when in actual fuck I am able to access account. Kiss ME. I’m dead.😘💨🍀⚰️ Enjoy and thanks for reading!🙏
Now. To the rest of the story. Where wasn’t I?
I’m sipping my bev and thinking about you. I’m sipping my tequila and thinking about kissing you, those happy lips. I love tequila, it’s like water to my soul and it makes me horny. You know? Not horny like horn-dog gotta fuck that but sensual and soft and endurance-enhanced liquid to make me go all night and love the object of my desire, which has not existed for quite some time so, thus and therefore, etc. and such and so forth, I am Hermcel.
Oh. You do not know?
Hermcel is an accidental joke turned genuine concept. Hermit Celibate. By choice.
It started when, a few years back and hearing | reading the term repeatedly, I wondered aloud to my bro, “BRO! What in the actual fuck is ‘INCEL?’ “
Thus, in honor of the disheveled, displaced and dejected, Hermcel was born to affirm:
• We The Hermits can get laid any time.
• We The Hermits do not aspire to
a. “wreck that pussy” nor
b. storm the Capitol and finally
c. prefer solitude
The last one a choice over being lost in the maze of a woman’s cycle, the menses’ magic swirled in blood, wrapped in loving chaotic churn of primal roots, raw emotions and carnal physics, coupled with the abomination of a nation which has been subsumed by a vicious, vociferous and violent mob minority to undo progress and rights on a human scale for all “‘hu’mankind,” reminding the few of us who actually have a clue and give a fuck what matters now, what has mattered in any time.
Peace. Love. Shelter. Food. Warmth. Hope.
Tell that to the Ukrainians or the Palestinians or any of the objects of this shitty republic’s war mongering turpentine, fed over and over again over centuries of conquest, pre-dating U.S., it being the British and The Ottomans. Fuck. You. Empire.
Oh. I am sorry. I digress.
I love you.
I met you in a space and time that was sober, out of body and mind, in a florescent lit gym, noise and people and human frailties crashing in, me making small talk and mesmerized by your smile, your eyes and the softness of your skin. You, dropping your phone on hello as I retrieved it and asked you your name.
I was smitten.
In all the weeks I’ve told myself “Don’t bother, Bro!” I cannot get you, do not want to get you, out of my mind or, after that first hand shake, my skin. I am smitten.
When I trek to your work place, the one you mentioned at 5:34 a.m. on a cold, damp Monday morning, I think it is because I fell for you in that instance, that moment and when you step into the bar at your punch-in hour, about thirty minutes after I arrived and met your co-worker to inquire, I am smitten all over again but the worst is yet to come, arrive in your box, if I am to be honest. 🤔😳🤦😬 Your inbox.
The time I while away with you, on the coat tails of a very successful and prudent and meaningful if sad day, flows as easily and deliciously as the tequila you pour me with The Siesta and La Paloma, talking casually and comfortably about working out, our mutual love of heavy weights, your biceps flexing as you Tom Cruise the cocktail and I am aroused, melting with your pour like sands of my life strained through the mixing glass, surreal that, in the face of a growling, growingly spasmotic world, mayhaps that love, indeed, conquers all, even now, four years since our then-POTUS declared— finally — a state of emergency, it’s as if it never happened while all along the Hermit tower’s watch, I observed so many micro-moments of love that approached and then, sadly, if realistic and inevitable, departed before too long. I don’t know. No comprendo mucho, Friendo. I do know one thing.
You. Are. Magic. I saw you. I felt you. My love for you is reaffirmed from that awkward meet, our status together on equivalent feet. I don’t know what I’ll do if I do not hear from you after I furnished my digits. I will soldier on through, I suppose and before too long move on but I shall never forget about you.
You are magic. It is true. I can get carried away. So what?
Happy St. Patrick’ Day. Luck of the Irish. LMAO. Yeah. Ask the IRA.
