To Say These Words

I confess that death has a certain novelty to it. Just like the way so many things theatrically larger than life becomes, I dream about it; it provides me a certain dark comfort ever since I had enough intelligence to at least voice it aloud in my head. In the same way silence is indefinitely pronounced when you exercise it, the very novelty of ending a life seems to magically dissipate the moment you say them aloud. It’s as if death should only be a secret in your head.

When I speak of death; when I speak of the death of myself; when I think of creating the death of me, I feel I speak on behalf of another part of me that truly believes if only I had enough courage I’d find a way to put a trigger to my head. Of course I feel guilt as well. So to make up for this ugly truth it appears as if every kindness I have expressed thus far has been to make up for it. And for every gesture I have taken to show my loved ones I care, it has been tinted secretly with the fleeing thought if only they knew, except most of the time it is not even that cohesive a thought. Rather a sort of enveloping feeling in its place. Everything boils down to the touch of a feeling. An ironic sense of immeasurable gratitude for what they know of me instead. The same way I felt on Father’s Day just this past 24 hours – the sheer gratefulness to have the people around me. Simple, idealistic and soothing to know everyone is happy with the meal I made. To provide for, to care for, to love and spoil and make happy…and I’d want my father to be proud of me.

The impossible. I want him to tell me that. Aloud. Tell me and mean it. It is just like to me to put on a pedestal words from a man I have never known that well anyway. It’s too theatrical to pass up.

And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. A tragically heroic and altruistic dreamscape.

And for the briefest of moments, when I write late night confessions such as these, I dream about sharing them with my sister. I dream about being honest with myself. Another fantastical idea to be kept inside your head, because, what would people say when they read this of their little sister? What would a mother do for a daughter of hers when it’s not even their fault. Who is to blame when there was just a sad, grieving woman desperate for love who held onto another life raft while her own child brewed silently at home at how much she hated the world. And I have watched her dependency, and willed myself against it; and I have watched her emotional insecurity and I have learned to hide mine well. So is that not enough then to make her happy, except I know one feels much safer to be in the arms of a man. Understanding that, knowing where she comes from..but it’s shitty for me too I want to say. I could complain of course, but it’d be unfair because I’d feel how she’d feel too. Shitty. It’s like a little child that’s been beaten and bruised from the very hand that feeds and the mother gets caught between a hard place and a rock, ultimately choosing to grief for and with the sorrowful man for not having been there for her to begin with. It hurts. It makes you so, very, hateful. Yet we love all the same. Put in all my might to make up for the lack of in life. It’s very confusing to maintain that contentment…

With all that’s said and done, I’m sure each of us could go on forever about one family member or the other that has been the root cause of all this. What have I done but become the spitting image of the woman I did not want to become? Just alternatively fearing and longing for the opposite sex. I have become the most reactive agent in our family without thought. Don’t do it I tell her. Be strong. Teach me how to be a woman. Show me.

What’s the sense of humor in the oddity of a lioness trying to equally save the gazelle from the jaws of others just as much from itself. To urge it to be independent and lash out in aggression for its pathetic attempts. How you can just eat grass, one seems to say, why can’t you hunt for yourself? Turns out it really just made it hard for the both of them.

I find myself just as guilty now when I told my coworker that I was attracted to him. It was not strength, nor courage, or integrity that made me do so. When I told him not to freak out, it dawned on me what better advise than to take our own. Within the short 24 hours since, the same chemical reaction that previously dissolves your sense of self when you have to explain aloud doubles in effect the self-loathe that had been absence while I had remained disciplined. It’s like I have been returned to the place I was always supposed to be, to a crumbled silent figure clutching your voice down. Who are you crying out to anyway? To that extent, you even find yourself wondering where you could have been until now. Lending from Stockholm syndrome, you jump head long into the culprit and know in such a divinely visceral insight that you deserve to be punished, only you don’t ever recall what exact fault you had done wrong.

To answer that however, well it’d never come across the right way. So hard to speak when you’re alive and well, so difficult to manipulate the very words that are your best friend. Most likely that is the illusion of death – when people finally listen. (Is that why I write? Will they read this one day?) How do you express your equal fear and care. How do you explain the defense mechanism that never fails the occasion to cause you to both be fearful and attracted to one person. Coming close to even outward directed loathe for the root of vulnerability. While constructing these mental conversations, somebody always asks you why – explain yourself, how did you get to be this way – and you tell them in the best voice you can make it that you are so ugly. What an ugly person, and so small. You picture ways to make visual of that. You recount virtues that you have not acquired. Not humility, nor kindness, or patience. Not a teachable spirit, but an actively guilt driven one that knows people only think you are kind. And what if it is for show – what if I get indignant and angry – how do I make up for it ?

The word ugly just sort of beats against the grey fabric of your mind. It thickens into a deeper black, until each stroke of the word is pulsing on its own, and it would appear abysmal if you happen to stare into it for too long like a sort of swirling picture trick. You’d know you’re empty then. What do you have to offer people?

Nothing, is all I can say so far, so I guess in lesser words this is why I punish myself. To refrain from trust and love and all things inclusive of codependency; to reign a habitual practice in polishing my lifestyle choices for nobody in particular. Like prepping for prom forever and boycotting it all the while. Ha ha.

And this is my very own biggest inhibiting vice, the very mark of my youngness and immaturity that I have so come to despise. My very own unwillingness to be taught and to forgive. Though to begin with, all these almost romantic escalation of reformative ideas tend to start with an honest word for help, except I find it not uncommon for people like myself to lose our voices among the commotions of our mind. Maybe one day. Maybe another day, I would start with sending this email to somebody else who would care to read it.  Picture myself fighting the battle to not fidget and guess at their expression – to hold no expectations because you can’t force them the way you force yourself.

To say these words now though, would be to belittle the very own pool I have slowly drowned myself in. Black daunting ugly. I don’t care if its illogical, it is comforting all the same. I can be in my own skin for once and accept it. So ugly..it’s a sigh of relief.

A Protagonist Voice

Let’s pretend that we are all characters in this larger than life fictitiously real novel (as if none of us has ever fantasied about that – I mean you’re here reading this random blog on the internet aren’t you? Thinking in the back of your mind that it’s some other piece of short fiction in another person’s very surreal-real made believe life. ) That’s besides the point though. No sense in driving you off any who.

So, assuming we are all characters in this bad humored play, there’s no denying that it appears there’s always an attached sense of novelty with this sort of idea. As if everything else we thus pour forth henceforth isn’t of the same humanely fault as it would have been judged for otherwise. It all ties together with a great deal of human ego I assure you. No other animal in the kingdom would bore their life away thinking their life would ultimately be summarized in say, 15 to 30 chapters and that’ll just be that.

I’ll provide an example, no worries, at the very expense of my coming off as a complete insensitive asshole. But then again, that’s besides the point. My mind’s eye as an audience is certainly going nowhere. How did you think we ended up here?

:

I’ve often read in those casually slippery real life novels about being in a situation near a person of death and how a true protagonist might react to it. That is to say – nobly. The most prominent presence I felt while visiting my grandmother in her senior home was just that – the feeling of death. A cloak of sweet sick yellow light that just as quickly waned from the glories of summer into the cold sweat above my lip. I turned my eye up to look at where my mom had settled herself in an odd fetal position on a pull out chair and thought how much this was like a mother’s womb of sorts. We were all half suffocated and tied down with lethargy, like the mother ship is calling us home. Of course, I averted my eye away before realizing in an odd clairvoyance that this was all there was to life. It was a ridiculous 28 degrees outside on a Saturday and here I was having my dress stick to my ass in a old people’s home. I felt, for lack of better words, just like a boiling pot of hate.

The accompaniment to this sort of lazy, die-away afternoon was my grandmother’s most incessant wordless mumbles. A constant oscillation of a desultory sort; where you only catch drifts and bits of it but it’s enough to let you know that you don’t want to know what she’s talking about. It’s a fantastic way to voice the prelude to death if someone had asked for it. I hadn’t asked for it.

In the drawn out time my grandmother had gone downstairs to fetch – now I forget what – my mother managed to have me promote the unfeeling tacitness of my general personality to a straight laced captain; I was so fed up. Why do people have to do that? I kept thinking to myself, Why try to lay over this sort of stand-still icky feeling with an obtuse enthusiasm about your goddamn store bought sushi. I just kept sipping at my other store bought Asian lemonade drink. I’m pretty sure I actually commented aloud about this vocal feature of her’s, to which she only pouted and said I ought to accept her for who she is – and that’s just who she is. And this is who I am. She might have gone on for another extensive 5 minutes, but I said, Okay, alright. So why are you still talking about it? That shut her up.

From the corner of my vision I saw her watch me. Or that might have just been another slick trick of the human mind – when have we not caught ourselves once imagining a trained eye on us to find nobody had really taken notice. It’s cruel to say, but the more pronounced my mother’s efforts became, the more I wanted to stick to my obstinate silence which I knew drove her to further pursuits of empty happiness. I just kept my scowl and she kept her semblance of a pout.

We were a mother and daughter sulking pathetically on a visit for grandma.

The strange thing is that I had never quite felt this way at my grandmother’s senior home. That statement may very well be laid over with the basic human adaptability to soften any past offences, but I will stick to it. I had never felt so sick to be in that room and felt so strongly in that I was surely wasting my life away. I still do presently feel a fondness for my grandmother. Perhaps this is just natural human ego trying to deface death. She’s plenty healthy though, so let’s not get onto any ominous ideas of jinxes and what not.

In the end it only turned out to be an hour and a half’s visit. It still rung in my head when my grandmother barely raised her voice to complain that we were leaving so soon and the reaction of bitter annoyance was immediate. We left, really, because I asked whether it was time for us to get ice cream. I am, I suppose, at the age of a young adult and I’ve really just outdone myself in this matter.

This is just one of those strange things where, as a writer, or whatever your virtue and vice might be, you have to cloak it in the chaos of a story you might have come across at one time or another. Place yourself in the very real yet theoretical shoes of lovable bastards from Nick Hornby’s poetic venture’s of the world’s finest blokes, to hateful and angry, abused young adults-still children penned by Wally Lamb that ultimately are not hateful themselves at all. Or of the simple day to day life of a certain colorless Japanese man given the name Tsukuru Tazaki whose very basic summary as a story wouldn’t account to much but you still happen to find yourself thinking back onto it and feeling gratified that it appeared so much sensitivity within the immediate rushing throngs of people in Tokyo.

It’s all just too much to take in and claim it to be your’s at times when you find yourself frowning and pouting about what to do for the rest of the day when your mother was only asking to be kind. I don’t know..I just don’t. Do whatever you want – why do you even ask? We do inconsolable things like scolding our mothers for dumping her rest-of-her-life on us by throwing us into the deep end about investments and shitty financial advisers that should have known better – all the while thinking dreamily in our heads about whether the slightly attractive young adviser we met today had been interested at all. At least the slightest graze of human moral reminds us that weren’t we supposed to be harboring and brewing over a senseless crush on a coworker because of an odd occasion of nice-sity?

I don’t know.. I just don’t. 

Sometimes it’s quite exhausting even pretending like you’re some fantastical character in a slightly hopeful and marginally above average novel. It’s more along the lines of slouching on your grandmother’s twin bed, knowing your mother must be thinking how she doesn’t know this child of her’s at all while not really thinking anything real nor concrete in your head – for a rarity – the only constant is the dreams of driving coast side and catching the sunshine spilling out of the trees in between your fingers. Just driving on and on, in a road that stretches, bends, ebbs, and pulls away into another corner. The yellow and white marking as your guideline.

If I Were to Confess..

When I looked out past my mother’s newly bought 19th floor condo balcony and imagined myself jumping up and halted in midair before plummeting, I did not think of it in menace as I once might have had as a very angry something teen-year old. I’ll admit it gave me a sense of rush, a thrill that brings a strange nuance of a chill to your fingers the way you know you’re entering a panic attack. When she called me back to show me something about her bedroom, I turned around with a gut sense of guilt and conscience – wherever they may be – but also an odd sense of disappointment in a way that ended on relief. The same as a child that was denied to do, say a dare-devil’s dare by their parents and was secretly glad they didn’t have to risk it and admit on the truthfulness that they were too scared or cowardly, but because someone else said so. Or in this case, someone else called to and I guess it was just the wrong timing.

Perhaps it is strange that that would be the first thought in my mind. It was triggered due to the slightly decanted way the edge of the balcony slopped. I’d imagine it was to discourage rain to pool but the thought shot up to my head the moment I felt the descent in my toes. Adrenaline does weird things to your body. It makes your appendages feel lighter, like they are ballooned from the inside and struggled to be lifted against the heaviness of reality set in human flesh.

When I confess these things aloud, I do them lightly. I say them in passing and roll my eyes at myself in comedy. I am so very silly. I shrug, and I pull an easy smile. I do it so well that sometimes, actually if we’re going to be confessing things, more often than not I genuinely cannot make up my mind as to whether I am an undiagnosed depressed, or maniac, or some sort of tempered state instead of just too sourly caustic. It’s a hard thing to place in my mind when you think to yourself that a medical stamp of approval could either be your friend or your vice. I wouldn’t even bother indulging in the idea of medicine unless I was feeling insecure enough to do so to get attention (god forbid), so why bother trying to be examined?

Examined, though. What a funny word that rings in my ear. I, who have been to counselling on account of my grade 5 teacher’s advice after I had confessed on the first day of grade 6 school that my father had died over the summer. I was smiling, and then I was crying.

This I, who has felt so obliged and called to the mostly women counselors and advisers who has taken me into their private offices and allowed me to indulge in a good cry and had me leaving always empty and tired. Have I changed? Do I no longer want help; too proud, too self-concerned, that I no longer want to reach out and have a second opinion because I don’t want to be ‘examined’?. They always told me I was so strong for having taken a step into their office for help, but now I don’t know if I ever wanted the help but the pathetic greed of whining to somebody more adult than me. Too wrapped up in myself and feeling just for it. Probably they didn’t even take me that seriously for my word – I don’t even know how to weigh them myself. I am so very cowardly and so very hateful. Sometimes people who share similar thoughts live like this forever and sometimes they shock themselves with the one last courageous thing they do. But you and I might disagree on that said courage. Some people call it cowardice. I find my judgement on morals to be impaired since I have not gone for two years. I question not for the first time whether I have grown due to that exempt, or have just grown smaller. Except you wouldn’t even judge me for that. Of course you wouldn’t. You would nod in good humor and tell me that we are only human.

But when I walked home this evening after work I knew that I had an issue. I knew so succinctly that I had an issue I would need to face one day or another, but I did not know whether I wanted to honestly face that. Not for now.

I knew it the moment I felt the strange chill in my arms and fingers while I nonchalantly told my coworker the non-serious issues of my past. Of my anxiety, my trust; revealing ever so slightly the feelings behind why I felt the way towards sex and alcohol. I knew his advice was right. Blunt as it was. Get buzzed. Pick up somebody. Relax.

Relax.

The buzzing in my arms felt lighter and lighter. Like somebody had injected helium. If my body could sing out it would be in that high pitched voice.

Oh but I couldn’t…and already while I joked around with the idea of contemplating death before he left, I felt myself in contradiction. Why would I feel the need to pull up his number on our employee’s contact information to apologize for what I had said. Was I genuinely sorry as soon as I placed myself in the shoes of someone receiving the message of another person wanting to die. It would surely be an awkward and terrible message. (Was I caving then? Or just being manipulative?) Maybe not here though; maybe that’s why I feel so free to type all this aloud. You wouldn’t feel it the same way.

And as I walked on home and read his reply 50 minutes ago, I sort of cried to myself in self defense..in pride..in diligence of a back bone. I told myself I could do anything a man could do. I thought of my mom. My poor mum, whose every attempt I make to share with a third party comes off as bitter and vindictive. But I do love her, and it saddens me that I have to state it in defense: I will protect her. I will live. I am strong. I will not depend on anyone. And a small illogical voice pleaded, oh don’t be nice, it would be so very bad for me to want to depend on somebody. I might just develop a sort of puppy dog adoration. An adulterated childhood crush that would include a mentally premature sexual encounter followed by a fully matured use of wrong anger and sharp anxiety. I would run and I would thrash my way out of the woods in combative callousy, and if the other party had any shred of humanity they would most definitely be hurt. Maybe I would sigh in relief that I proved myself to be the exact same person I played out in my head to be. Apart from digging your own grave, it’s like shooting yourself in the foot and feeling glad it had felt like it would – it hurts and it’s stupid. And I would already know the response to that. I know that much as I had wished to have companions, even stringently this past week, I have gotten a short bitter sweet taste of it tonight in the caring words of a comrade and now I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want it at all.

He said, “No worries, as long as you don’t think it doesn’t matter. Night.”

But you see, I am a bad person. Just a bad bad, deep dark hole. And I can’t stop myself from that.

The Aftermath Of Language

I always get a sense of aftershock from reading a book to its end. If comparable, it feels sort of like an internal shell shocked soldier returning from war. Is that what they mean when they say reading develops your empathy? Like taking your mind to a different dimension and living different lives.

It doesn’t matter any who, apart from the deft switch such a thought takes turns into darker corners of your mind. I’m not trying to be poetic. It’s just hard to describe sometimes.

I realized suddenly today while walking around the city that I do not want to be stared at. Now whether or not people are really staring is objective – they also say we all suffer a huge case of narcissism – so we’ll just let that be. But whenever I do happen to catch the odd glance from an old man, or the apparent perplexed stare of a non-descriptive guy, I feel the instinct to remain invisible.

Of course, my face remains eternally blank to this gesture. It’s all on the inside.

So maybe reading a book titled ” A boy who could see demons ” until 2am in the morning isn’t psychologically recommended. Most certainly if your imagination is going to go rampant like mine. But I still invariably catch myself hesitant in approaching the windowsill, even to turn on the bedside lamp. Maybe I’m still the little girl that’s afraid of the dark.

Another sad confession of sorts is that, earlier this evening, while I was so strolling about in the city, I had the greatest inspiration to write something great. Or so we would tell ourselves always. Us writers knows. But I tell you I did. And it was resemblance to the recent Wally Lamb book I picked out. The way the characters’ dialogue into their thoughts showed no noticeable care to whether their jagged pieces of language made sense to their audience. They were their own world. And it had been stunning in my mind – the running lyrics of a folk fantasy, the deterioration of intellectual psyche, the possible reflection of whether the things I have weathered beneath my benign facial features actual might still bother me.

Sometimes the odd thought flits across the mind, something remnant of bad self esteem, or an evil sense of self portrayal. Once again, however, these mortal English words seem not enough to enlighten the visceral state of these comments. Nonetheless, it is only within a few blocks that I am crossing another intersection and I wondered to myself, What was that thought again? I’m..bad? No..there’s no discernible argument. It isn’t a plausible statement. And I really did scold myself in my head of this while remaining intact the impenetrable fortress of a callous upfront.

I wonder if people can see these flitting thoughts come across my face. Maybe the slightest hardness in my jaw when I tilt my face upwards in defiance against the mystical powers in my mind. I had noticed a young man glance side ways while we passed. Had I appeared haughty in that moment that he so turned away?

And it is all these nonsense thoughts that I had groped towards even showering at 9 am this morning. I had thought, sometimes, perhaps we love to keep reading just to hear the sound of the voice in our heads. Is it narcissism then? Except now, it sounds like spiraling insanity. But the entirety of the conversation is taken out of context because I have already forgotten and I wonder again if that’s what it means to read a book. To surface from fiction and seemingly shed the dead weight of all its characters turmoils, left with only a sense of nausea and nostalgia at once. More accurately, the loss sense of missing the whole big idea – the shebob people always talked about while they asked us to write out our thoughts against the title page in grade school before we ever got to reading the book. Like who the fuck cares.

Sometimes I shock myself with these volatile tendencies. Was I always this violent? Is it a closet temperament I have gotten a good noose on my whole life? My heels are still clicking against the pavement when my muscles inherently tense to the imaginary scene of kick boxing. Smashing. Bam. No, something more defiant than that. It is the sound of my harsh breath, the release of sweet tension and supposed endorphin at the expression of anger. The alternative high from settling exhaustion and pumping adrenaline. I crave the imaginary carnage, the shock…Dirty, bad, inhumane, taboo. I always find myself collapsing into a sob afterwards. Like I had emptied myself. Or maybe it’s a purge. That’s only sometimes – other times, all at once, I am fighting these imaginary bad guys and I sometimes stab them, or I shoot em. Sometimes I get stabbed instead and it splits down inside my head the time when I withhold the sobs or whether I scream with the brutality of the world’s end.

I catch myself standing in the subway station, growing beads of sweat across my entire face. I feel it. I am thirsty. My foundation presses heavily and I can just feel it sliding off my face as if I had put on a gallon rather than a respectable amount. God, I just want a nice iced drink. Except my stomach feels bloated and hard when I press up against it and I imagine a story where a 12 year old suspects her pregnancy.

I wonder if any of this is real. Or how real it could be. When I returned home tonight, I remembered how frightened I had gotten myself over the insane possibility that while my shadow passed through underneath the street’s trees, it would melt its black conscience and leave the walking body behind. I’d keep walking, but the essence of self would be trapped within the dark.

Scary shit, I’d say. My last thought tonight while I tentatively stalked around the house to turn off the lights one by one, retreating closer and closer to my bedroom had been the beginning of story telling. Had writers in the past try to defy these maddening scenarios as well? Was that where the first story began? Were they indicative of certain mania? A manifestation of sorts. My own first story told by was while gripped tightly between my grandmother’s arms and sheets. It was always predictable each night, but she spoke of a humble figure named God, and there were always evil deeds being done by the likes of humans. Or were they demons?

I had fallen asleep to that.

No Soliciting Alcohol, Period.

Following up on my last post, for the rest of my life commencing from my very own mother and sister’s onslaught of offers last night, I will be battling (victoriously) the nay sayers to my no drinking rule. Since my most effective argument as of yet had been they were in fact soliciting illegally, I have since lost my edge as of 12am on May 14th.

Rather, I ended the evening just as I had wanted in my old grandmotherly ways – had myself a mean English Breakfast – paired with those pretentious brown sugar cubes that served just well as the puny metal teapot that screamed picturesuqe as I was putting down my white napkin beside it upon leaving. Ah, satisfaction.

That was only after the smart word battle with my sister’s boyfriend about how much a particular white wine of nonsense German name tasted like apple juice. Sour apple juice, I added. Just like you would get when you leave a carton of milk in the fridge for another month. But of course, it’s just like apple juice to the T I said, and of course there is no underlay coaxing for a lie, so therefore no need to try myself.

I smile sheepishly at this thought and think that I might just as well have been tipsy on the night. Or just that I had seen the flash of my future years with this scene as the opening credit, and only human stupidity would veil that ongoing life struggle with silly endorphin’s.

The rest of the evening was uneventful in comparison. Bland even. What else could come up to par with alcohol seducing of a no longer minor?

So as we toast to each other, my glass of half emptied water to their Old fashioned and that German wine starting with a G, continuing with a ‘euqch’ or something to that liking, prompting a pronunciation of someone right before they retch, we say happy birthday.

I did have a moment of indecision though. Right before they gave up – for the next 10 minutes in striking deals of my ‘first sip’ – whether I should just get rip roaring drunk and have actions speak for themselves. Now, having never been there, only my fondly inappropriate imagination could be my friend. It was comforting to run through movie ideals of the worse type. I could first start chattering uselessly and try to hit on guys like that main character did in “He’s just not that into you.” But hell, they were all ‘main characters’, beautiful ladies. All of ’em. So either I’m saying I’ll get cheated on, be the one cheating, or have cringing encounters with the opposite sex. I mean, I ought to know now. My roommate’s cat does prefer to sleep on her bed over mine. And only mine when she closes the bedroom door. And he is a male. A proper representation of the entire male world, I think. Point taken. I might just pout on the profoundness of this realization, enough to induce a slew of lonesome a-few-years-too-early spinster tears that would bring about the confession of the tattoo I had just gotten during the day. Oh…no, don’t you mind the gooped up blood drying on the folded and taped paper at the bottom of my thigh. It don’t hurt so bad. Naw. And somehow along these lines, I began to become old schooled Texas. Or Mexican. Huh. Probably something ridiculous American, I’ll give you that much.

Instead, I put up with the damn camera flash until my eyes blinded and watered into what probably reflected to be Elephant eyes behind my glasses. Except I don’t have old people glasses – what, bifocals? – so they were probably just sad drowning Asian eyes underneath normally reflected eye glasses.

And I still wouldn’t understand the concept. $9 for some petite tall glass drink that’s probably less than 3 ounces altogether if you would just take out those exasperating bubbles. Compared to my luxurious tea? $3? And I’m the one accused of rigidity.

Huh.

So happy 19th to myself.

download_20150511_124249This was Mother’s Day. Don’t mistake it. But if you were to be caught thinking my mother there in the middle was me, then at least you made someone deliriously happy. I won’t sing praises on how she undulated stretching out her hand to the gentlemanly main waiter that night, nor how she danced down the street to our car. I think my birthday dinner speaks enough for no alcohol.

The Smell of Spirits

So the bill is settled – drunk people scare the shit out of me.

I don’t know if its my supposed anxiety or that it just plain smells bad. Please, someone, do tell – what’s that they call – the burn in your throat that supposedly sweetens into mortal elixir? Tell me again, like they do in the books. I haven’t been convinced.

So when my roommate came back home (ever so briefly) tonight with her two slightly drunken friends, the inner alarms went off. What’s wrong with me? Maybe I just have trust issues. What else is new, Duck. Or suppose the fact that I could not help recalling the most recent memory (which would be now 2 years ago) when I was last surrounded by any sort of semi or entirely retarded inebriated adults, I was surrounded by the feeling of sex.

Maybe I’m just afraid of sex. But that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.

Well, so the story goes: they caught me. Ever so glamorously pulverized by my many excessive and pretentious pillows, struggling to operate a new scanner. With just the regular visit of a crime investigation down your pants and shower hair. Every woman knows how beautiful you feel then.

It wasn’t so bad. There were no come ons. The perfectly nicely smelly drunk French boy/man came to sit beside me to at first aid with the scanner, while my roommate and her other half chatted playfully in the bedroom in French. I struggled a little bit with the perverse thought of them just going down at it right then and there. I think I read too much. We all do, hoping for the most ridiculous situation. Thankfully, my roommate is a 5 foot 2′ inches awesome drunkard that handles it like a 6 foot 2 man. But dear lord, I can hear him pee for the next 3 minutes and thought to myself when was the last time I had two practically complete strangers stand in my home at 1am in the morning? To which might I add, would be kindly discovered was not flushed properly. Although in this case I suppose one ought to focus on the positive – at least he tried.

Meanwhile back at the couch, the nicely smelly drunk French boy/man, whose name I have already forgotten struggled with his English and all I can think about is that, damn, now my pillows are going to smell. But how do you wash those that come with the cover as its first skin? Struggles.

I’m just ready to throw my glass of milk at him if he happens to throws a drunken kung fu punch my way. I don’t know, drunk people are weird. That’s right – my glass of righteously half drank milk that has been advised to be finished two days ago and is being drunk unhabitually and unsocialably by an almost 19 year old. God, I just love my life.

As it appears, after some more Frenchness, they decided to leave for the night. Who knows. Maybe anxiety is contagious.

Off they went – but not before the more drunk French man/boy with my roommate decided to slip his sweater back on in the living room and walk towards me to give me a European goodbye. Two awkward close encounters on both sides of my cheeks and we have survived the evening.

I hear my roommate brusquely tell him to be quiet and leave – all in French of course – I’m just supposing.

So first of all, why do I have a roommate – well the Duck just moved, again. But she’ll brag shamelessly about how much she adores herself and the new place next time. Not like you asked or anything. And second, why is she scanning stuff – for another opportunity to brag show love on Mother’s Day by personally selecting and scanning roughly 800 photos to put on the digital picture frame purchased.

I’ve got 768 more photos to go, and I’m just staring at the ones that my parents took of Asian transvestites putting on a theatrical show. Damn, I feel ashamed to be a woman.

Older.

There’s something about sitting at a cafe after hours. It may be brightly lit or dimly luminescent, you can make it your own. I could imagine a crowded city coffee shop or just between you and I, a bluntly sparse residential space that might crave in its empty seats the warmth and bustle of human murmurs, but the chairs and tables seem to speak on their own all the same.

They tell you stories of people that have been there before. Ghosts of your own imagination that appear to be just one proper touch away to bring it about into sharpness when you look across the room to a certain couch. And when its dark outside on a windy evening, the apparently singular street lamp appear to illuminate the thin showers only for your sake to tell you that time is indeed passing by. With your hands cupped around your cooling tea, your eye sight dims and presses dryly against your pupil. It’s a sleepy, nonchalant thing. Against your companion you don’t really know anymore what you’re saying, so you pull words out of the window pane from what you can catch of its history and create your own. Just like that an hour and a half has gone by and the dinner in your stomach has settled. The crinkles of your clothes are no doubt pressed neatly against yourself to impress on your skin, just atop the thin layer of a day’s worth of the same count of time passing by in a different manner. A different matter altogether.

Coffee shops and lethargy does that. Sipping milk and tea with the scarcity of a cat lapping water out of its dish in the summer. Sweet, sweet laughter that hides the discontentment for the night has come to an end. So the parade packed up its bags and headed home, out the door where the European coffee shop owner carrying scars of crinkles in the canvas of his face like an old retro Mexican movie bowed slightly to bid you good night. Adieu. Thank you. You almost hear senorita, but I think that was just the coffee shop speaking again.