Archive | April 2014

1:27am

Sometimes I simply hate people. On occasion my tolerance for feeling like an outcast in my ow skin becomes overpowering. I shrink down within myself and can see only the raw outlines of interactions that engage me. I’m tired. And angry. And filled with this disgust that I think starts with me and flows out from me and into others. I’m disgusted with how I don’t fit in, always the piece to the wrong puzzle. Similar look, but nowhere to fit. I don’t think it can possibly be true, how wrong I fill. I can’t actually be as awkward as I seem in my head. I’m smooth and confident with 90% of people. But that last 10% is just all encompassing. Rage, pure and simple and clean. 

Sia: Bipolar Suicide Survivor

I’ve been here before. I get it. I don’t have the lifestyle she does, but I recognize a lot of things she’s talking about. Especially the idea that even if you have the ability to do incredible things, sometimes you don’t have the health to back it up. And then you have to find ways to pass the gift without destroying yourself. I would rather be satellite than a shooting star. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/20/magazine/sia-furler-the-socially-phobic-pop-star.html?smid=fb-nytimes&WT.z_sma=MG_SFT_20140424&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1388552400000&bicmet=1420088400000&_r=2

On anticipation and the frigidity of a bed (Not by Me)

It is two fifty-four in the morning.

The party is winding down.

You leave out the back—the way you came in—and pleasantly surprise yourself lumbering

down the first flight of uneven wooden stairs in your heels in the snow without falling.

You have drunk two shots past Everything Is Fun And Why Aren’t You Dancing.

When you get home you are going to eat too much granola and watch Episode 5 of HBO’s

Looking, the happy one. You might even watch that whole other fucking webseries again, the

one that really resonates with who you are and close enough to how you identify, it’s only seven

webisodes anyway, it isn’t that late.

No one is coming home with you.

That guy that you met that one time at that other party—the cute one who asked you for your

number, which never happens—wasn’t there, not that you really expected him to be. You kind

of fucked things up with him anyway.

You still turned around every time the door opened, just in case. It’s too bad you regressed to a

high school mentality as soon as you entered your contact into his phone, but it isn’t your fault,

not really. There aren’t words for people who can love you, not yet; you’re allowed to regress

to a high school mentality out of the exciting promise of a new prospect and the paralysis that

follows such vulnerability. For these reasons you tell yourself that you forgive yourself for your

behavior but you don’t, not really. He would have been a great kisser.

You have reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs. Time to trek the long six blocks

home.

You carry your keys in your coat pocket, clutched firmly in your fist, so that they are easier to

quickly retrieve and use as a weapon if necessary. It has never happened before that one of the

homeless men who like to linger outside your apartment building has attacked you—damn that

stupid bar downstairs for attracting them here—but, as you remind yourself every weekend at

this hour: Tonight could just be the night.

You carry the corkscrew you forgot to remove after sharing a bottle of wine with your friend

earlier this week—and not with that guy that you met that one time at that other party—in your

other coat pocket, also clutched firmly in your fist, also to be used a weapon if necessary. You

reserve the keys for muggers and the corkscrew for rapists.

You wish you had borrowed a friend’s bra and stuffed it with toilet paper.

You wish you had shaved just once more before leaving your apartment.

You haven’t stopped moving since 9:16 this morning and you’re tired enough and you’re drunk

enough to actually stab someone if it comes down to it.

The stubble is growing through your makeup.

In daylight it is never this bad. In daylight you have always shaved more recently although that

means your bare legs are pink and bumpy with razor burn and while you never expect people

to be kind, they will at least leave your perverse physical body to its own undoing. There are

exceptions, of course, outliers, people who look you in the eye in class or at the supermarket

and tell you how beautiful you look when you’ve really put in that extra effort to doll yourself

up for the day. But they tell you this not because you’re beautiful, necessarily, but because they

recognize the dissonance between the canvas and its paint, and liberal-minded good-hearted

people that they are feel the need to overstate their solidarity with your DSM disorder that bars

you from health care, jobs, education, travel, love, and sex with a little affirmation of your

beauty. But this is not daylight.

Your thighs have become cold like the steel blades of worn ice skates within the first block

because you don’t own many pairs of leggings yet and the ones you do own don’t match your

dress but you had to wear this dress because you deserve to show off your ass, God damn it!

What else do you go to the gym for if not to eventually have sex with a guy who you will meet

at a party and who will know to throw you against the wall—but not too hard—when you’re

making sweet sweet love at three oh-six in the morning, before spending the night and kissing

and talking ‘til dawn, finally going out to breakfast with only an hour of sleep because He Too

loves going out to breakfast above all other meals and already recognizes that something special

in you that you thought that guy that you met that one time at that other party also recognized,

but apparently didn’t, for he still hasn’t responded to your text from last Tuesday?

No one is coming home with you.

You remember the last one who did: the accidental nature of it all; how he had come over

“just because” after a play and stayed much longer than intended; his lips that fit perfectly and

tasted new and of something you’ve long since forgotten; the imperfect, persistent passion

that followed; the almost-love; the sex; the love; the better sex; the time; the suddenness of its

ending. The un-reasons he gave. The later realization that it had something to do with the heels

that now plague you on this motherfucking ice.

In May you will go to Michigan to your cousin’s wedding and see all of your silent hateful

family. They will ask your brother about his love life and they will ask you about school. There

is nothing to tell them about your love life but you would like them to ask you anyway. You

crane your leg stepping over a snowbank and make a mental note to find a boyfriend by May.

You wonder what your aunt—the one who made an extra point (like the liberal-minded good-
hearted strangers who care) to tell your mom and you that you were “BOTH” invited to the baby

shower, as if for some reason you wouldn’t have been (i.e. your genitalia, about which everyone

preoccupies themselves)—will say the first time she sees you in a dress. You wonder if her

pointed acceptance of your condition will survive when she is surrounded by her conservative

Catholic wealthy white friends. You kind of hope it doesn’t, just to see what happens.

There is someone walking toward you about half a block up or so. He looks big. The lights

from the bar behind him cast him in silhouette. He appears very unknowable in this way. You

cross the street even though you live on this side. Not knowing is better than knowing something

bad. Or is it? Wouldn’t you rather know that the liberal-minded good-hearted people in class

or at the supermarket think you actually look quite stupid, but call you beautiful just to up their

political karma for the day? Wouldn’t you rather know that your aunt thinks you’re going to

hell, that the smiles they plaster on their conservative Catholic wealthy white faces are no more

genuine than their attempts at leading meaningful lives from the front seat of an empty minivan?

Wouldn’t you rather know that that guy that you met that one time at that other party hasn’t

texted you back because he’s realized, finally, that deep-voiced, flat-chested girls like you don’t

make for good girlfriends, so why would he want to love you in the first place?

The man crosses the street as well and your fingers clench around their pocketed defenses.

You are ready for him. You can see the whole thing playing out now: a misogynistic remark

followed by an unwelcome grope that would discover, in turn, an unwelcome appendage, before

he promptly turns to violence, punching you, the blood bleeding into your lipstick and blush,

beating you senseless like all the other girls you hear about on TV, raping you anyway, maybe,

pulling up your dress and splitting you hard, the blood bleeding down to your now-broken heels,

your keys and your corkscrew dangling useless from your shaking fingers.

As he approaches you see that he is white and you relax a little and you hate yourself for doing

so. He passes you and says nothing, does nothing. He is gone.

You walk the last little stretch to the light of your front door. No homeless men tonight.

You turn the key, you go in, you stumble upstairs, you remove your stupid heels and eat too

much granola and watch something that only somewhat resonates with how you identify because

television writers don’t write your people into their shows, you go to bed, alone, again, too late,

to the sounds of birds already singing a song that sounds better lying next to a lover.

In the morning you will shave.