Ring. Ring. Ring. Plus 4 more long-ass rings. Beep.
Good Morning Sunshine. It’s only MoHagani again for the-only-God-knows-how-many-times leaving a message on your voicemail. I really love your new ringtone. Prince “If I Was Your Girlfriend” is my favorite song in the galaxy. Look... sweetie-pie.... all I wanna know is how come you don’t call me anymore? I’ve crashed brain cells into neurotransmitters for answers but all I get in return are disconnections. I fell apart under each and every kiss you planted on the back of my neck. Yep...right there behind my earlobe. I never once had to show you my spot. You knew how to make me lose all hope of chastity; holding on for the stars to align before my nostrils flared wide open and poof! I found myself wrapped around your finger.
Today you don’t answer my phone calls, respond to my voice messages, reply to my text or even react to my comments whenever I see your exquisite smile pop up in my newsfeed. It’s been 9 long months waking up to your photo framed standing horizontal on my nightstand. I don’t bother to swipe my lipstick stains from the glass. After pressing my lips against a glass smile for three quarters of the year you are unclear but I do remember you pushing me aside for other fast tails and psychedelic good times.
You don’t call me anymore and it hurts like crushed tomatoes, minced garlic and crumbled toast. It’s not like it’s 1998 when it took five tiny dimes to make a phone call. Email is free. Shit, you can send a message in a bottle for all I care and I will use tweezers and a delicate hand to pull the letter out of the bottle without damaging any edges of parchment or even a napkin if that’s all you chose to write on.
How come you don’t call me sometimes? I pay my phone bill on time every month. Debt collectors, wrong dialers and election poll takers call everyday so I know my phone works. I think it might be on the fritz as well from missing the frequency, tones and inflections of your sultry voice. Oh I don’t know... maybe I just need to trade this phone in for an upgrade or a brand new model. Maybe this old love has played itself out...probably happened yesterday when you chased me down with empty promises and a weak rap game that I dismissed because I thought you were so damn fine.
My second thought, “…must be a nasty gigolo.” I discovered you were indeed a player. I hadn’t done any warm-ups or sat down with my coaches to discuss strategy before the game started. I let you score a home run on your first chance at bat. 3 innings later you left the stadium with your world series champion victory dance. They call it a mercy win since I scored no points of my own. I never even left a scratch on your back. I had no desire to claw into your body for deeper passion once we got down to doing the nasty and I like doing the nasty.
On third thought...lose my number in File 13 under Situation #9. Lemme stash this photo on my nightstand under my collection of historic yellowed newspapers clippings at the back of my walk-in closet beneath a stack of empty shoeboxes. Your lovemaking was lame the moment you marched onto the field. We never made it to the 9th and final inning because I faked pleasure during the bottom of the 2nd just to end the game sooner. You bored me but your smile captivated me so I desired to talk to you....maybe play another game with you just too see if I would ever let you win again.
My best friend told me 8 months and 30 days ago I was only a fantasy fuck. I rolled my eyes and smacked my lips then just as I am doing now so don’t worry about calling me back anymore. I would kiss your lip smudged photo once more just to say goodbye but now I can see clear. That smile I adored is actually a smirk. I know whatcha thinking but I must say it out loud for the first and last time. Let it forever be etched in the stones you have for brains that MoHagani has officially closed the candy shop on your ass. She no longer welcomes your pimp shady wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am lack-luster moves into her store ever again. So whatever you do on Earth don’t ever lift a finger to call me anymore. Click.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Plus 4 more long-ass rings. Beep.
Hi, it’s MoHagani... again. Forget that last message.
-M.C. MoHagani Magnetek
Comments