Sicut (Just As)

 

Psychopomp. A guider of souls.

I am that.

I am many things.

Psychic, witch, angel.

Conversations with the soldier, he says I protect people. We are the same in that way, I am not alone anymore. I have him fighting beside me.

He asked me why psychics never win the lottery. The answer is simple dearheart, I am unable to see anything about me. Good/bad/dangerous/safe. I can only see what is coming to those close to me.

Someone else read my future, I don’t get to stay. This I know.

I cannot protect myself either, I have an agreement with the universe, she sends me soldiers and lost boys, sometimes both in the same body, always bearing lessons.

I have to learn them, take all the pain so I know how to shield others from it. In return I get adventures without happily ever after. It’s alright.

I have things to teach and be.

The most relevant thing that I be at the moment is the Sister to All Women.

Some girl I have never met, I think her name is Christina, has been getting the weekend visits I was offered from the boy I wanted.

So now I don’t want him.

Well I kinda do, but my soul says no.

I have watched lesser women rip each other to pieces over lesser boys. I hate it when women compete. Stop honey, that is your sister and he is just a boy.

I’m trying to negotiate with the universe so she can keep him if she wants to. Having trouble establishing a timeline. I am hoping it was no more offside than … he saw me, I asked him out and he just had to try. I get that. I too, just have to try sometimes. Hail Mary passes et al.

I already know that isn’t true.

The lying? I cannot abide.

I should be fluent in Fuckboi by now. “I’m not coming home until after Christmas” loosely translates to “I’m 26 and don’t have the finesse to figure out how to keep 2 girls going just on weekends”.

His pedestal looks more like a footstool.

One date and one of the ugliest ‘poofs’ I have experienced as of late.
I put him in an article with Gelfling. The reigning Elven King of Cheesy Poofs. Now I know why.
They are the King and Prince of Neverwhere. They even look a bit alike.

At least I got a nice dinner out of it.

That is what I keep telling myself anyways.

Here is the thing. I had him in my house and I didn’t fuck him. I had to fight not to. I really him, from the second I saw him. Even more when he spoke. I liked the way he looked and the way he looked at me. I’ll tell you a secret, if he’d had me there wouldn’t be room for others.

When is a Fuckboi not a Fuckboi? Never, even when you don’t fuck them apparently.

Lesson learned.

During the collapse of the Dothraki Empire wherein I couldn’t figure out Drogo. There was nothing to figure out. Sicut.
I spoke to the Hulk. I wailed to my big green monster I said I felt disposable, only valued in absentia. He went through the list of things I ought not to do, fucking on the first date was on the list. It was the list.

The week before I was fussing at Young Un about the same damned thing. I said “I need to date a rock star or an athlete or something. Someone who has something more important than me so I can keep the things I love like my alone time and my crazed fits of writing.”
And copious amounts of sex, without rules, limitations and timelines. I fucked him before dinner and he is still around. Drogo too. It is part of who I am.

He said  the one I was seeing wasn’t good enough for me. That phrase is common amongst my friends, every time someone hurts me. I will concede to this way of thinking when someone conjures me a God, or an Angel.

I managed to manifest myself an athlete, who quickly became another pretty ghost with a pretty mouth. And I didn’t even get laid.

So I’m a necromancer as well, we have established that I only date the dead.
I don’t know if I would have the slightest clue what to do with a real boy.

I’m not exactly safe.

I am also Chaos. The thing all great changes are preceded by.

My work here is done. He doesn’t marry this one either. Sic erat scriptum.

Sic transit gloria mundi.