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 benign. I could never be those things correctly, I thought. I could never live up to all the woman 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 make me remember my worth.
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.