The weekends were delicious. I didn’t do much but sleep and eat or sometimes walk around Los Angeles at inappropriate times. I’d eat whatever was available in my pantry which was mostly rice and beans, peanut butter and jelly and the occasional instant miso soup.
I’d usually wake up several times throughout the morning since that damn internal alarm didn’t subside on weekends, and return to the comfort of my bed when being awake for too long bored me.
My phone hardly rings but when it does, it’s mostly people in need of some advice or my willing ear. It’s one of those hypocritical aspects about me that I can’t stand. I feel hate for most people but take great pleasure in bringing some sort of balance into their lives.
I suppose that’s my ego at work. That’s my well-endowed ego wanting to be in control of people’s emotions or at the very least, able to influence how people perceive themselves based on my words. What power these imbeciles give me.
But my God how much love I have for them, for their vulnerabilities, their fragile souls and bodies being held together by their malleable carcasses. They all think they’re immortal too, don’t you? These little pains you feel are so goddamn important, aren’t they? Everyone else’s turmoil’s are nothing in comparison, right?
Yah, yah…I know…
Your need for details and for decent traffic, your need for this contiguous reality to cater to you and meet your specific fucking needs, am I right?
Don’t forget to take perfect care of your body, of your insides, the “gastroenterological you” whose need for organic food makes your vocabulary change, and your eyes turn to slits when you see someone not ingesting organic crackers with their home-made soup.
Keep that flesh scar free, beautifully intact in case the man or woman you marry has perfect vision. In case you don’t want a story to tell, just a blank canvas ready to be adorned by whoever is willing to hang their ornaments.
Speak three octaves higher and twist your mouth into a smile that speaks to all hidden demons.
I’m probably just jealous, jealous that I wasn’t dubbed with such characteristics. It all looks so easy, so natural, the way words flow out their mouths while I struggle to not say the wrong thing.
I was made wrong, handed traits that collide when they come to know of each other.
Contrasting rudiments that make a very unattractive human being.
I see it when I’m walking alongside a beautiful female, the way I’m ignored, thrown aside.
And then I ask myself, would I want that kind of attention?
The craving of my sex, my honey?
Shouldn’t I spread my legs for the worthy, the kind, the blind?
God, I spend entirely too much time deciphering men’s desires and the lack of my own.
I think I’ll drink tonight, I’ll pretend I have something worthwhile cooking in my brain and speak of all the books I have yet to write and all the movies I have yet to watch.
There’s nothing wrong with carrying around your fears and crudely soothing them with poison. I’m a drinker Monday thru Friday and take the weekends off, but not today. I have a budget strictly for it and plan on making the most of it. Drinking alone isn’t all bad, I enjoy the sound of my music and the smell of food cooking, Food I took the liberty of marinating and dressing up to suit my palette.
It’s date night.
Date night with myself.
The time of the month when I indulge in my own presence.
The time of the month when I’m not bleeding and I’m not emotional.
I’m stable and starving.
I take real good care of myself then. I set the table and let Miles Davis set the mood.
This whole gender role bullshit always had me twisted up in a knot. I never wanted to give into the feeling of being a woman. I thought it weak and malignant. I could never be those things correctly, I thought. I could never live up to all the women I’d see in the streets, on television, read about in literature or was even friends with.
I lacked some sort of Venus aspect.
My mutable masculinity permeated my every move, the tone of my voice, the way clothes hung on my body, the way I held a fork or smoked a cigarette.
But someone would come along, I’d tell myself.
Someone would look at all those things and love them.
But no one ever did come along.
I waited and waited.
I searched and pulled away in hopes that maybe someone would see me from afar and feel this unbearable pull towards me.
That weight in the pit of the stomach, the need to stare into my eyes until they could see their reflection in them, until they could count how many specks of black adorn my brown retinas.
Until I could smell their breath and taste the pungent aroma of cigarettes.
I’d like to remember what it feels like to have a mouth on top of mine.
To feel the anticipation of nervous nerves and fumbling heads positioning themselves accordingly. Poor nervousness, contemplating love based on the amount of butterflies flying in the gut.
If I think real hard I can remember my first kiss. The first kiss I count as the “first” anyway. A sloppy sort of mess with a boy named Randy. He wore yellow shorts and was shorter than me, and I’m 5’2.
What an atrocity.
I’m surprised I can still recall such a tragic event.
We started this “kiss” standing up and graduated to kneeling. What fools we were. Trying to have that fleeting moment “mean something”.
Firsts are always a joke. Most people romanticize the idea of a first since it’s brand new and you have no prior anything to compare it to.
I like to think back to the times when I had already gone through the agony of my first and I mastered the essence of whatever it was I was tackling.
When I became a good kisser, a giving lover, a good woman to keep around for as long as you’d have her or until I’d get bored and move on to the next lesson.
What I wouldn’t give sometimes to be clueless and beautiful, to have a rotten personality attached to a beautiful face. I think life would be easier then.
This wine is terrible.
Tastes like olive oil.
I’d hoped that perhaps a bit of lime juice would do the trick but no such luck.
I decided to cook some brussell sprouts, potatoes and carrots.
The stereo played James Brown and I could hear the neighbors fucking if it weren’t for James’ singing.
I didn’t care if James resonated through the halls or that my bass playing bothered sleeping children. I paid rent just like they did, and I deserved my sanity.
Most days felt like a cartoon.
I felt invincible and drained from the years of lost sleep. I had the same pair of boots I bought 15 years back and they were in dire need of new soles.
Shit, I was in dire need of a new soul, but at the very least it was only going to cost me 45 dollars to fix them boots while my eternal damnation weighed down on my shoulders.
I could hear teenagers outside my window, yelling and touching each other, forgetting that their flesh would one day either rot in the earth or burn into cinders. I wish I’d felt immortal at that age. I wish I could’ve thought that I’d never die so that I could’ve taken more risks and hadn’t been so fucking dull.
I had the occasional blackouts and the drunken nights with hard bruises of lusty kisses on my neck, but nothing more than that. Most days all I did was walk around watching myself from the outside in. I never understood why most people passed me by. Shame really, but a co-worker of mine once told me that you’re not only judged by the people that like you but also from the people that don’t.
Gave me hope.
Maybe I’m just too picky, I expect too much from people. We are only human after all. But to stand so close to someone and listen to them speak without them saying a single thing made me question the constant bickering that plagues my head.
Who am I arguing with?
What does it all mean?
Will I finally come to a final answer before the big sleep?
Music helps, but not always.
Phone conversations help until the person on the other end decides they’d rather be doing something other than talk to you.
It’s hard to stay motivated as the traffic passes by and the love of humanity withers. I wish I didn’t care so much about dying and started to live. I wish family was the soil I stepped on and friends came only when I needed them. Lovers I’ll take any time of the day, the need for it can drive a woman mad with undigested emotions; the kind that simmer in the spine and erupt in bus stops and hospitals.
I don’t want to erupt; I want to slither out fashionably late with painted nails and cigarette in hand. I don’t want my lipstick to smear when I kiss and I hope that one day someone’s hands will touch me and sigh at the exchange.
One can dream.