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Monthly Archives: August 2009

She needs a fix, she’s going to the bits that she left uptown; maybe she left them downtown, she’s not sure.

But she knows she needs a fix.

Maybe her fix is someone to talk to, but her usual someones haven’t been around.

She really needs a fix.

Work sometimes helps. But she’s got no work to do, because no one has a job for her.

She would really like a fix.

Maybe a drink could be a fix, but she won’t risk that idea because that way lies potential trouble.

Goddammit, she wants a fix.

Maybe typing it out is a fix. Is she fixed?

Why can’t she get a fix?

You sit there, regretting your past. Regretting the future, regretting this unproductive limbo in which you find yourself. Do you really find yourself there? I hope you don’t. Limbo isn’t really a good place to find yourself. People are supposed to find themselves when they help starving kids in Mexico or move to Sweden or finish their lives in existential novels- they shouldn’t find themselves languishing in the lackadaisical. You’re likable, but lazing around in your land of too much of nothing is no way to love yourself. How can you claim to love anyone if you don’t love yourself first?

Sit down and shut up. I’m telling you how it is. You can’t sit there and beat yourself up; you’re making excuses by taking the blame. It’s socially simpler than making amend, but saying sorry just won’t cut it, sister. You’ve got to stand up and start rocking the damn boat. That’s right, now you stand up after I just told you to sit down. But stay shut up. You don’t have to whine, you don’t have to apologize, you don’t have to explain. In my new program of productive production, you do not have to say anything. In fact, speech is discouraged. The time for words has ended. The time for tears and nagging and arguments has passed us by. We will be fine in this commune of mutes. We will listen to the trumpets (with and without mutes) and we will not say a word, because we will know. We will know how to work it out. You sit there waiting, passing the time, no- letting the time pass you. We’ve got to take charge of this time business. We’ve got to hang on to the horns and not let it swing us around, and if we get thrown we have to find a new bull because no one’s going to help us. Everyone else has their own damn problems, they don’t need ours. We are our own damn problems, and so we can fix us ever so easily. Let’s do it, bitch. Let’s get down to business to defeat ourselves. We will not stand for this crap any longer. It’s game time.

How dare you. How dare you say things like that. How dare you talk about something you know NOTHING about. That’s what I want to know. Except that I know it already. Your ignorance is brazen and crude and it gives you the garish audacity to spout shit from your vocal chords, squirting it all over me. Can you tell that you’ve incurred my wrath? Because you have. You do not ever, EVER insult my mother that way. I cannot believe you said that. “The love dies after years; then they just choose to be together out of routine and convenience.” You really said that. About man who never forgot to tell my mother that she was beautiful, not because he was doing it habitually but because he never stopped thinking it. About the man who was mouthing “I love you” to my mother as he was dying, desperately trying to gather breath so that he could actually say it, so that he could be sure that she heard him. My mother, who asked me so many times how she could live without him. You seriously think their love died after 22 years? You know nothing. You are so suspicious of people that you cannot imagine being so in love with someone that you wouldn’t “check” to make sure they are where they say they are. My question is, how the hell can you love someone like that? Always looking over your shoulder, never ceasing in your inability to trust them. That’s so much work. If you have to check on them to know that they love you, that’s not love. That’s convenience my friend. Many long marriages may be convenience, but you can’t take the generalizations you learned in psychology class and apply them to all people everywhere, because guess what? So often, they’re wrong. I know more about people than you can ever learn in a psychology class. I’m not always right, but at least I don’t sit there judging people I don’t know. Who the hell judges a case when they don’t know all the arguments? I judge cases based on their merits; you judge them based on your own naïve biases. Even if you do apologize, I’m not sure I’ll ever be friends with you again. None of my other friends EVER piss me off this much, let alone do it twice. I don’t need to have fights. I really don’t. I am sick of your narrow-minded bullshit. Do you understand that? You think you’re so philosophical. You’re not. You just move shit around in your mind in a way that makes it sound good. It’s like remixing a crappy song. It’s no worse than the way it was organized before, but it’s still crap. This is why I hate talking about things with you. You like the theoretical, and when I disagree with you by offering evidence, you just decide my evidence is somehow irrelevant based on no evidence of your own. I’m pissed, and I don’t like it. I think this is the end; have a nice life, sir.

Somehow, I’ve found it and lost it simultaneously. What is it? Maybe I’m sure, but perhaps I’m not. I think I won’t tell you. You’re gorgeous. I hope you know that. I hope you sit on your roof in a swimsuit and shades, soaking up the summer sun into your skin and miraculously not burning or tanning, just basking in the warmth and the light. Maybe you’ve got a bag of apricots up there and you take one out and bite into it and make seductive sucking sounds with your beautiful lips, slowly consuming the delectable flesh of the sunny fruit. Is it just me or is summer the most sensual season? It’s hot, it’s delicious, so much of it is spent on the beach in tiny amounts of clothing… it just seems like the perfect setting for physical love. I adore being buried in the sand at the beach. The weight and the contrast of the coolly wet under-layers with the dry floating grains above makes me feel enveloped in the embrace of the shore in it’s fully sexual symbolism. I remember the first time my English teacher told me that the ocean was a female symbol in literature- between the sea and Saturn’s chopped of balls, Venus was born. How horrible is it that the goddess of love was the result of a castration? Poor Saturn was turned into a steer by his own son because there could be only one bull in with the heifers. What a sexist society. Really, couldn’t they have settled for just some of the women? I can settle for just SOME men. I don’t need that many, really. It’s funny, I always feel so protective of male bits. I hate it when someone gets hit in the groin, I really do. It makes me feel like carrying them to a safe place and sitting with him until he feels better, and then staying with him forever to ensure that his balls will be safe from attack. Oddly enough, I think that’s still my weird maternal instinct coming through. I just hate to see people in pain like that. I can’t see people in any kind of pain without having sympathy. I can see the hurt on their faces, and it makes my forehead crease and my guts churn and my chest ache in a way that suggests that their pain is double what I can feel and that I need to take it away somehow, that I need to help these people. There are so many people in so much pain in the world. They mourn and weep in this vale of tears. Sorrow often causes me to think of my Catholicism, like right now. Sometimes I wish my friends understood my relationship with God, but it’s not their fault that they don’t. I suppose it’s like anything that is uncommon among my social circle- love of football, cars, calculus. At least with those, however, I know someone else that likes them, and I don’t feel uncomfortable that my friends don’t like them because it’s not personal. My relationship with God is so personal, and not only that, any conversation with my friends about him involves some reference to the fact that they don’t even believe he’s there. And I know that they have justification for thinking that, that I cannot blame them or judge them for it, but I also feel like it’s so disrespectful, like talking about someone who’s right in front of you as if they aren’t there. And I know he doesn’t mind, that it doesn’t bug him. But it bugs me. It makes me feel so bad for him that people talk about him like that. Hell, it makes me feel terrible when people say things like “If God existed, he wouldn’t let things like Hurricane Katrina happen.” All those people who are angry with God, who actively hate him- it just makes me sad. And can you imagine how he must feel when he sees signs at funerals that say “God hates fags”? Taking the Lord’s name in vain isn’t about swearing, it’s about using God’s name to give credence to things he would never approve. Being God would be like being eternally misquoted in the news and never getting to write letters of correction to the editors. And yet somehow, he’s serene enough to deal with it. This is why I’m a Catholic. I cannot begin to understand how God is so great, but I know that he is because somehow, he deals with it. He deals with all the pain and suffering of the world and he manages to not break down and destroy the whole damn thing just because it’s too much for him. Because it’s never too much for him. Somehow he deals with the denial and the hatred and all of the other things that come his way, and somehow he finds time to help little old ladies and cheating middle-aged men, dying children and whiny teenage girls. He finds the time, and he cares about everyone and somehow, it’s never too much for him. He just keeps going, doing his piece with the grace and peace of his being. I suppose with that, I wish you good day.

I’ve done morally ambiguous stuff lately, and I went to band camp and made all sorts of jokes about my invisicock, and I felt pretty good because people at band camp genuinely like me. But for some reason, it felt weird. I couldn’t figure out why until Friday night, and I realized why and I didn’t want to deal with all of the jokes and fun which everyone else was having, so I sat by myself, contemplating the thought that stopped me from being surely okay with myself: would my dad still like me if he were alive?

I know it’s a fruitless thing to wonder, that I shouldn’t think about it, because I was so vastly shaped by his illness, death, and my nearly 3 years of life without him. But I still wonder if he would approve of the person I’ve become. I was a sweet little girl- sometimes really bossy, but sweet. Now I masturbate and I have a “guy card” and I’ve slept with a guy who was cheating on his girlfriend. It’s not so much that I regret doing these things, or regret being the way I am- it’s just that I don’t think I could hide my lack of innocence from him now if he were still alive. I think this would be the point at which he’d realize that I’m no longer the sweet little girl. And I don’t know how he would deal with that- I’m the last one. And I suppose it depresses me to realize that I’ll never know if he would’ve been okay with the way I’ve turned out.

I didn’t tell Eric and Jeff about this because I didn’t think they could say anything to make it better, and I didn’t want them to think about it. But I was so glad they came and talked to me anyway. I’m pretty sure most of my friends wouldn’t even have noticed that something was wrong.