Truly Romantic

How cliche may I propose that I was born a woman with breasts that would have a man monkey sucking my nipples for food. How cliche may I propose that I was born into a century of romantic enlightenment and that I was born into the most highest of families and prodigious. How cliche was I to marry the most devilish of men that was to be godly faithful to I?

How cliche was cliche itself? As I pen my words down in the hopes that someone will take something from this, perchance a little girl who will not so much a cliche as I, will be able to be something original and unique. Perhaps be gay in your spirit, and not so boring unlike I, for I was to be married like cow.

The product of pure romanticism, I was whipped by my mother the outline of what a good woman was, and she, being the most scared woman next to mother Maria, I didn't question much of what she had said, I found that she was like the reincarnate of Jesus himself, and so when I did wrong, I let her whip me and crucify, and when I did right, she merely patted me on the head like a dog.

Indeed, I did good, and I found it did please her, and like my father, he as well was apart of the whole romanticism era by which he prettied me up and kissed me all over and gave me all the world, but nothing of a personality, that was too original and banal, I was to be a living cliche.

Standing like a corpse to have my portrait painted and etched into the museums of the most high, I was to the face of the romantic era, my hair was done by the most ugliest of women and make up down by the most empty of people around me, and I wasn't the only one who shared this mute feeling, for I couldn't speak aloud how I really felt, for I'd be given a voice, originality and that was something that wasn't allowed for me.

And it seems as though I haven't given you my name, well, since we're by selves... oh nevermind, it doesn't matter, I'm a cliche, I'm sure that you can give me a name and whatever you deem it, I shall accept it.

What was also cliche was the Mozart, Beethoven and other fine rich artists of that time were also empty and boring as well and I felt nothing of their music, merely impending boredom, ugly boredom settling in and I didn't have the faintest thought of escape until I saw my soon to be fiance.

A fine, rich, but cliche soul, just like me! And I for once in my life, I was finally smiling, not one for the portrait of history, but for the lapse of happiness and he too felt the exact same way without even speaking, our banalness spoke volumes and we took pride in that, and what was even more prideful was to solidify our boringness with one another, and we escaped from the clutches of Mozart and soon found ourselves talking of our future.

"Your mother is the plague as well?"

I spoke these words the utmost questioning, finally a soul like me, and he shook his head at me and I found my perfect soul mate.

The black plague that was inhabinating ourselves was it what truly defined this century, there was no romanticism within this plague, not the disease that makes you choke on your own foam, but the kind that your born, the kind by which you came out of their womb and you have to live with them. And they control every aspect of your existence.

"I'm so glad that I found someone like you, you have no idea."

He kissed me then and there and then gave me a hug and once more drowned me in kisses and then he got on his knees and he arrested my hand and I then and there knew that I was going to be given a personality, I was to finally given the next stage of romanticism.

This is what was foreseen by my parents, and all of my family, and sisters and brothers alike knew that I was next in line to be the mantle of Mother Maria, to be able to bare 10 children. All feasting and sucking on my nipples like the good wife and woman, and romantic that I was, and as he slid the ring on my hand, I felt myself becoming more and more cliche, my father was jumping with gay joy, knowing that I was to bare his grandchild and mt siblings were giving looks of approval.

I finally did it, from my inception to now, I was going along and given a single purpose, to create men, to create life and to make sure that I was going to be etched into the annals of romantic history.

I could hear Shakespeare coming down with his pen and penning down my words, I could hear Beethoven blooming symphonies and Picasso painting my queerness and to set it into stone, I finally had reached my purpose.

And within the lapse of pure romanticism, I thought I deemed myself being original, finally having defined my personality, and that no one could take it away from me. And the days leading up to my conceptualization of my life, I was contemplating on my situation, I was finally letting myself live, and finally breathe, I was going to become married and become my own woman.

But this as well was also cliche? But it was my cliche, my own cliche. All 18 years, and it's finally lead up to this, this 20 minutes of wholesome nes, complete and utter originality of our kiss, and beethoven would soon to play me a symphony, and Shakespeare would write a prose of pure blissfulness.

And then the day came and I was drowned in black and white romantic clothes, and my makeup was blocking my face and the only thing that was visible my eyes, but even they were being drowned out by my make up, and I know then and there that I was going to be drowned in love for the rest of my days.

And the clock was tickin and tocking away, and the singing of cupid and the pounding of Beethoven's piano, and I was full of so much empty love that I was walking into my bride's room to make sure that he was ready to be empty as well, but as I opened the door.

And dear reader, I may be truthful and discover that this story was cliche as well, not what I saw, but how I reacted was for once completely original.

My own mother took notice, but her tongue was deep in my husband's mouth, being the cliche bitch that she was, she proceeded to kiss him harder, and he didn't even pay me any mind, he merely throated her back harder.

How cliche was it all? And at that point, I couldn't back out, my marriage, my entire life was at stake, and to complete my family, to make it romantic as possible, I had to then place my lips on his mouth and taste the saliva of my bitch of a mother, and I knew that the kiss would be so distasteful and ugly that even Shakespeare couldn't even write a tragedy as cliche and boring as mine.

He surely couldn't bombast out a romantic and tragedy stricken story as mine, and Beethoven surely couldn't measure up to my romantic symphony that was playing in my heart, for I was the true romantic queen, and I was going to be represent my entire generation, my family, my soon to born estranged children, I was going to accept my fate.

Those 20 minutes of passion and pure saliva infestation just reminded me of my place, and my mother was keen on keeping it there.

What an evil bitch, indeed!! But like everything else up until that point, I was to accept my fate, it was cliche, but it was expected of me to go on and marry my lover and to go along.

How cliche was cliche?

When at the altar, and everyone was smiling and staring at us with empty happiness, and then announced the prison sentence of love, I stared into my husband's eyes and wanted more than anything t spit in them then and there, but I couldn't.

I was to be cliche, banal, and so as I stared, I blushed my cheeks crimson red and picked my lips to his and then he met me half way there and he sucked out all of my personality, my doubts, my anger and melted it with hot, bitch infested saliva.

Ohh, my goodness, my reader, you haven't the faintest idea of how sick it was. How much I wanted to bite his tongue and slap him in the face and to curse his existence into hell, but I didn't.

It was passionate alright, my mother continued to stare at me and nodded her head, and I could see out of the corner of her eye, that tears were crawling out of them.

This evil bitch, she's mocking me!

And then she broke down and cried harder and harder and then the whole crowd amongst us were clapping and breaking up in tears of blissful joy. And I was crying myself, but my husband simply smiled at me and wiped the tears off of my face and kissed me harder, and the whole church flooded in gaiety, and then cupid came down with bleeding, rosy arrows infesting the room, and Beethoven was bombasting us with an ode to joy.

Another romantic achievement, of enlightenment. Those 20 minutes shall never leave me, nor my lips. It was all so cliche, and disgusting. And for the rest of my days, my lips were to be occupied with parasites of my mother and husband and my body was to be a garden for burgeoning children that would soon follow in my footsteps, and the cycle would continue once more. How romantic it would be?