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I’m a bit pissed. For somebody that’s so smart and always asking why, the fact that “I’ve just always been this way” is a good enough answer for you to settle for is so telling to how sublimated your ego’s power over you has become. You are its slave. I saw this the first fucking time we hooked up. You have unbelievably low self esteem and compensate for it by playing the part of the all-knowing. You shove all your insecurities into this overblown cerebral narcissism. When you couldn’t stay hard our first time having sex – even though I was sucking away like a fiend – you laughed at yourself, wanting to humiliate yourself and deprecate while I was loving you, and this is the narrative that has continued to play out over the course of our relationship. Your ego can’t handle anything that makes you look bad or insufficient – so you take whatever opportunity you can to be on the winning team again. I’ve seen you lose before, as well and try to regain yourself, and they were probably the saddest states I’ve ever witnessed you in. When your dad came over after I told your mom that you’d planned to kill yourself. I think you felt small and hopeless – powerless over your dad and unbelievably ashamed. The second time was when we went to Vaunca’s and you sliced your forehead open, from being ossified and not letting anyone help you stand. The oblivious look on your face makes me doubt you could feel the deep cut on your temple, but the tears you kept pushing away were a child’s. A kid that’s been pushed around in the school yard and laughed at and pointed at.
Ugh, Nick! Grow the fuck up! Nobody is perfect, we all have flaws and shortcomings. To allow our structural ego mechanisms to constantly compensate for those shortcomings is going to inevitably be harmful to anyone near by. You’re constantly finding things wrong in the outside world and being critical to make yourself feel more right. Aligning only with the superior and making sure everyone knows WHY it’s so superior. Constantly separating yourself from others to appear above them. But soon you’re going to separate yourself so much that you’ll have nobody else to appear superior to around you. Your ego will tell you that’s fine and you like it that way, but your heart will ache now and again for the company that you were so intent on being above. Your loneliness will take its toll and there’s nothing I can do to change that. You hold the keys, I’ve given you the lock, now you need to find it and look in on all the self hatred putrefying in your psyche. You’re very smart. You place decoy self hatred out for everyone to see and it’s quite convincing at first, but I know a deeper room exists. I know you cram everything that you don’t talk about in there, and let it fester into a putrid fuel for your ego to chug away on. You need to take a good, hard look at that and see how it makes you alienate the people who are closest to you. See how it makes an ego of higher value to you than love. When I say “you’re hurting me” and your ultimate answer is “that’s not going to change,” it means that to stay with you would be masochism. I love myself, shortcomings and all and strive to accept myself as I am. Masochism isn’t my thing anymore.
- When I was in high school, I started to pick up weight. I was aware of this, but did nothing. However my mother noticed as well and mentioned her fear that I was becoming fat to one (that’s one of two, mind you) of my super-model sisters. I’m the youngest – and stockiest – of three, and my two older sisters have literally been models. One of them still is, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow, super-skinny-Megan came into my room one day and passed my mother’s observation on to me. My immediate reaction was to walk into the bathroom, pull off my big chunky sweater, and stare at my middle. Scrutinize my thighs. Lift and pluck at my buttocks, quite aware of how deflated it was. I observed the skin attaching my chin to my neck and thought that it used to tuck in more. A couple years ago. I recalled in middle school how everyone would gawk at how skinny my underdeveloped body was – and that trauma had already been remedied by my massive breast growth sophomore year of high school. One year ago. It seemed I hadn’t stopped. I poked at my pink, rotund cheeks and hated myself. I thought of all the sweets and carbs I’d stuffed into those cheeks, making me so ugly that it had to be reported to me by my family, so that I wouldn’t have to hear it from a stranger. I thought about how thin and long my sisters were, and how they never seemed to have any trouble keeping the weight off. That was the first time I started to starve myself. I banished my muffin-top upon exiting high school – I never reached over weight, mind you. I simply got chubby, and ergo became the fattest person in my household – without ever being what anyone considered “fat”. Simply approaching the label in a way that reflected the societal fear of gaining weight. After the freshmen 15 hit me in college, I went through another phase of severely restricting my diet. It was hard at first, but eventually I could go weeks with minimal eating. In the summertime, it was worst, because I always felt my body was on display. It was also easiest, in a fucked way, because the heat naturally relaxed my appetite, making the transitions into week-long fasting easier. Oh – and I never acknowledged that what I was doing was anorexia. It was always “control” or making up for a month of eating normally. That fact changed when I started dating a girl who did the same thing. She’d express to me that she hadn’t eaten all day almost gloatfully, and I’m sure she was just barely holding herself back from outright boasting. She was a year younger, and as our relationship continued into her time in college, it became the excuse for why she wasn’t eating. “The food here is gross” “I’m starving on this food plan”. I knew she was doing it to herself, but I kept my mouth shut, because I was doing the same thing. Except I wasn’t talking about it. She and I would smoke weed together, as I entered that phase of my life, and I experienced the munchies for the first time. I would be filled with ravenous abandon… and hate myself the next day. It wasn’t until I started tripping that I came to recognize my starvation habits for what they were – anorexia nervosa. bulimia nervosa. Since those realizations, I started making efforts to eat with health in mind, and to make going to the gym a regular habit. I still sometimes starve myself despite these lifestyle changes.
- My digestive tract is extremely sensitive, probably from the abuse it endures. So it isn’t uncommon for me to become flatulant for hours in end. And not the cute skinny girl kinda flatulant. The kind that makes you look around for the fat guy with a chill cheese dog piled high with melted carcinogen cheddar and refried beans, stinking onions that were scooped out of a plastic quart container incubating methane producing bacteria in the heat of summer, guacamole with garlic presiding as the overriding stench, bacon bits that have cohered into clumps from the accumulated grease and fat that hangs off them – coating each ‘bit’ with a slimy membrane of “flavor,” all topped with some sliced jalapeños (also deep fried) to provide the spark the lights the fire in your anus. And this happens at the drop of a hat for me – I’ll be fine one minute (when I’ve gone a stretch of not eating), then one soy chai latte later, and I’m exuding a never ending stream of those farts that totally feel wet, but you go to bathroom to make sure and wipe your ass and it’s just the usual amount of unclean. I have a little dressing on my salad? Flash-forward an hour, then you’ll come to, neck deep in the algae encrusted muck of a fetid swamp in the heat of August, nestled in a mushroom field, encircled by fertilizer rich cattle, both grazing and heaping into the stagnant air. What little moisture remaining in the bog is summoned by the temperature to emerge on the surface, instantly evaporating into a corporeal breath that continually chokes and gags you. And just when you’re certain you’ll lose consciousness from suffocation, a garbage truck rolls in, wayward from the highway, and brimming high with chaotic, torn garbage bags (probably not glad bags). Upon impact with the boggy earth, the truck is stayed and topples over, burying your head, olfactory senses and all, into the week old crab platter a family of seven dined on, mingling with overcooked – now sour – bean curd and undigested beschemel. These, the demons clawing about in my bowels.
(Will be updated over time, as my self esteem cyclically plummets, naturally exposing me to more fettered insecurities that my consciousness has been harboring… Stay Tuned for #3!)
[written upon exiting a work day that spanned from 6:30 in the morning, brief interlude at noon, to 11pm. Exhausted, I waited all shift, in high spirits to leave for the night. Upon getting what I wanted, I bummed a cigarette from a server and crossed the wet road to my car in which I sat, and sat. And sat, staring. I didn’t know what I was waiting for and was quite restless and numb and depressed. I craved release, but didn’t know where to scratch.]
When my study isn’t interrupted by my living, I have the constant inner monologue of my mother, conveniently placed across the hall. I hear her pretend a camera is focused on her meaningless life. She’s quite responsible and lovable and admirable, my mom. But dear Christ! To become her? Oh it would be a responsible and loveable and admirable life path, but dear God, so utterly sad. The man she once thought to be the love of her life – the one she would make beautiful babies with in the countryside and all the while love him through his supreme intellect and depressive quirks, whereas, post-babies, she only realized what an insufferable ass, mucking about in his own misery, and you know the sex wasn’t that good toward the end, the two of them presently placed on the opposing poles of the house, shortly after the birth of her last child *tah-dah*. As though she used him for his favorable sperm to create my sisters and I. To create an ambitious and intelligent but God-awfully BORING career woman with just enough spice left in her life for a weekly cooking class while she moves up in (choke) society, an underachieving slave with the one gift of good looks and the absolute dumbness to be kind to everyone, and then, the pièce de résistance, a depressed deviant dropout drug addict with a burning existential crisis at every turn. Yes, my admirable, loveable, responsible mother used my shockingly-yet-not-so-shockingly-reminiscent-of-my-current-beau father for her fairytale life of being a mother, which readily revealed itself to be a boring guided existence. I’m so upset, now, that my mother succumbed to the baby lust to marry my dad. Perhaps he’d be off with the interminable suicide march by now, had some half-wit not succumbed to his charms, of which there remains not a sliver nor a speck of, in his sour, balding old-man existence. He lives for work, and therefore, approval. His only admirable moments being at work, as he toils to restore the earth. And yet, even that is being taken away in light of the new generations’ superior understanding of ecological sustainability which employs all methods AGAINST those of the corporations my father works for. So he sits, sadly in his chair, watching whatever on the television and cleaning his grotesque collection of tools that only grows, filling each available nook in our basement. Life can be disgusting sometimes. How can I see their existences as beautiful? My mother literally rotted from the inside, sick with colon cancer two summers ago. Had her ass removed and vagina removed, her only creative sources it seems, and replaced them with a swollen belly, still drunk on the desire to eat. Filth! She holds that sick tummy under her arm like a pregnant belly and it sickens me, festering and growing all the time with shit, pure shit. My mother, so responsible, admirable and loveable, now lives out her days with makeshift children, the puppies, whom she stresses over, wiping their asses like small children. The only conversation she has throughout the day, she fancies herself a Maggie O’Connell, living out in the wilderness – our dirty cluttered, out of fashion ranch house in the sparse, dead woods of urbanizing Middletown, living the day to day life of survival, all the while gorging herself, indulgently, on whatever pastry she pleases, allowing it to smack to her lips and cover her mouth, the most active part of her anatomy, besides her new, ring-side shithole. That mouth flaps always, speaking to nobody with ears to listen – except when somebody’s home – anyone, with this desperate, thinly veiled desire to be heard and marveled at, to validate her continued existence until the cancer comes back and sews her up for good. She disgusts me, her and that mouth and that shithole, which much like the trinity of God are just about the same thing for her. Constantly chugging out a slow, steady, reeking leak of thick sewage. It smells up the bedroom and she revels in it, opens her door wide so everyone else has to sniff it, listen to it, that constant gurgling inner monologue of who-the-fuck-cares. Nothing she says anymore is interesting, though she labels it – and now that I think about it, certainly believes it, as it is certainly her entire world – as funny or novel. She’s grown quite dull in her isolation, chattering on about her stupid friend, who she keeps around to feel superior and clever (but would never admit so to herself because they’re “the oldest friends and you stick with friends like that, through thick and thin” – aw fuck her mom! She’s somehow more infuriating than you in her vast vapidity, and you get yourself so goddamned worked up over the horse she pulls out of her emphysemic ass. Mom always reminding me to stop smoking, with Lorraine as bait – “you don’t want to end up like that, do you? soon she won’t even be able to shower alone.” I silently nod and comment to myself that I would never be stupid enough to live that long, aeons past prime and diving straight into her grotesque stupidity. I’ll never be so dumb as to anchor myself to this godforsaken earth with children and a husband either. I’ll die a decrepit old spinster with art living at my side, and beautiful travels with which to lose myself to nostalgia in. It occurs to me that I may not be quite smart or brave enough to do the things I think I will. I may not have the competency and the nerve to live alone in the woods or in South America or in France. I haven’t quite gotten around to trying yet (oh procrastination, warm me in your bosom for just five more minutes), but I imagine, with the calmness of a junkie, that I’ll get around to it any minute now. I also like to daydream that the laundry does itself, but therein lies the problem. I DONT WANT LAUNDRY TO DO NOR LIFEHACKS WITH WHICH TO CONQUER THE WEEKLY CHORES WITH. I don’t want chores or weekly maintenance habits. I don’t want that well balanced lifestyle with time for gym breaks and work and hey! even creativity once a month. I want the artists life! I want the bohemian struggle! I want to constantly be fighting for the uncomfortable wormhole I find the solitude to create in. I could live out of my car, though it’d have to be somewhere far more temperate – ah, dash the whole idea, while I’m at it. I feel an itching all of a sudden to set out in my personal legend. I’ve had no memorable dreams with whispering children in them, however, by which to know what that might be. So, God. Universe. Path. Consider this my informal invitation to GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN AND SHIP ME THE DIRECTION I’M GOIN IN, cause I can’t take much more monotony, or society for that matter. I can’t stand acting okay towards all my old friends that stayed in college. I almost feel bad when it works, when they come out thinking I’ve got it made with my freedom and my pitiful home life and discount boyfriend and romantic view of my own depression, when really I’m only that person half the time. The ugly twin always has the last laugh, when whatever old friend departs, marveling at how well I’m doing, and I’m stuck with the knowledge of being the greatest and saddest actress on earth, because I could fool nobodies, slaves and clones into the same romanticized ruin I fool myself with half the time.
I want to skip town. Want to drive to New Orleans and then some. Want to get holed up in Mexico. But first I have to know how to fight, to defend myself from the rapists whose eyes sliver all over my body in suburban Middletown diners. Have to know how to survive in the wild and find water and build a fire and sustain myself off leaves and roots and pawpaws when they’re in season. I probably need a dog too. But the only dog for me is a hound and they’d be no good in the wild. At the chance of a wild brutish animal attack, it’s go scampering off into the opposite direction, with its short legs tripping over its disproportionately extended earlobes, and I’d be left to reason with the chaos of nature. And see, I’d be fine with this, but the process is so painstaking. I need a crash course. I need all the knowledge of the universe NOW, not in a year. I’m restless and tired and scratching to jump out of my flesh. Any excuse to abandon the “love of my life” that cares only for self pity and hedonistic egotism. Barf. He’s not getting better, and I’ll only rot along with him the longer I stay in this fickle situation. But the alternative is so dumb too. Bringing a blood hound to the wilderness is like bringing a weeping willow to a waterfall. The sentiment was nice, but it doesn’t quite fit the role. They’re getting
Old Yeller to fill the part anyhow. Damn.
It was in his trying to be masculine that he only achieved femininity. And I was attracted to these feminine traits, it’s not that this struggle made him less attractive to me, if anything I was predominantly seduced by the struggle. His femininity made him beautiful, otherwise he’d be a grotesque failure, caught in the cycle of try and fail with his goal of manhood. Being privilege to his weak moments made him attainable, whereas the father figure he was always trying to touch was the actual end goal of all his efforts
[The real life thing that happened was his father’s successful intervention with the boy when he’d confided in me his plans to kill himself. He craved death at his failure to achieve the utmost masculinity, it was pitiful]
seeing his father march in, reduce my “man” to tears, restoring himself as the omnipotent paterfamilias, rounding up his sick and diseased flock, chaperoning it dutifully back to the manger, to be cured and released. I’d always known he’d been trying to attain some strange, unreachable goal in his image, but I hadn’t had the dumb sense to realize that this worshipped idol was his own rejected creator.
“I don’t want your dad on the bed. I want your dad on the bar. Lights out, customers fucked off, just the dim lamps that hover, both in timbre and height, looming down on his wash blue tucked-shirt back, belt buckle glinting in the amber dust.
The galloping fossil fins of my hipbones ride the surf of your father’s gypsy brown flesh, his purple probe bobbing into me, fully aware of what he’s doing to me. Yes, the man that fathered you. Not whatever you are.
The dough of your gut rising from the yeast you pour into it day-in and day-out when the shakes take hold of your manual sentiments. YES, YOU’LL DRINK TO BE HAPPY WHILE I GIDDILY FUCK THE SECOND PERSON ON EARTH TO EVER LOOK INTO YOUR PALE ORBITS.
He’ll initiate it too. You think I find you so courageous and robust for asking if I didn’t want to hookup? “no strings attached,” as you said, then moments after feeling the bow in my lips with your own, matriculated into love and womanish woes. Me, thinking I’ll finally be fucked by a real man, but all you are is a plastic cast of daddy. You haven’t quite learned his strength and fortitude yet, so you pretend. Strutting about like a sorority girl, I think you must be a girl, pretending to be tough like the big boys, but you won’t grow into the silly putty sac between those ghastly thighs until at least a decade. So while you drink back the tears of knowing you’ll never really have me, I’ll patiently allow you father to spill his tardy offspring about my breasts and hips. A rival sibling of yours, lodging itself, isolated between the sediment of a dark wool sweater your old man ripped from my rib cage and some skin cells in my belly button, until I wash it out the next morning, my nakedness a sudden memory of how the original paterfamilias’ cock rammed into the pleasure place until my foot arches cramped – until my knees needed kinesthetic bursts to stretch – until my guts fluttered and twisted, he rammed me so well, and my greedy cunt will take over my fingers, still slick with soap and attend the ticklish wound the first man to be tyrant over you left in me.
Your sick limp flesh-pink jewels won’t fill his shoes for twenty years. What do you think of that? It makes me laugh for the slime that you are, adhering to my marble form with your alcohol sweats and your addiction. A real man could push through. Could do it without your tears and melodrama. As cool as you act and fool fresh strangers into thinking you are, how does it feel to know you won’t be honest until decades have passed? Your first and favorite example, your pops, hurt my belly with his swollen member, but your pathetic grief makes my belly hurt more. Spittle flies off my canines with the force of my cough spattering laughter. You disgusting drunk. Hold yourself together, man. Your beer gut creeps toward the floor. I’ll have a man that downs his whiskey (without your laughable coke mixers), pats his woman on the ass, then takes her out and fucks her. Gives it to her good against the pillar of a tree— you with your disgusting silk sheets, you glutton – in the bed of a truck. In the secretive night until the revealing dawn, makes her scream and cry and outshout the crowing cock. And you just croon in my ear, your nauseating endearments. For all the cheap tricks you hastily copied from your old man, you failed to learn that a woman doesn’t want to be called sweet or dearest, but to be called at 11:30 by a body hungry heathen who craves to conquer and reclaim his virgin shores. You try to throw me down, try to give me what the man whose DNA’s infected both of us gave me, but you didn’t observe close enough, the delicate vigor contained within his frostbitten knuckles and how the most ethereal sensation trickled out of his split-calloused digits.
If only your father had made a woman with your mother, instead of three faggot copies of himself, so he could understand how quickly women learn the score and how advanced we are. So I wouldn’t have to pretend to be nourished by your unoriginal remarks, so I wouldn’t have to feign docility while manning the ship of our relationship, so I wouldn’t need to tiptoe around your ego, for fear that your laughable Jenga tower may come tumbling down. Look, I was happy to fuck the mirage till it disappeared and made a lesbian of me, but now I’m starting to get bored. I fantasize of seducing your younger brother, because I know I already own him, as I own you. His doe eyes flutter even faster than yours and I’m amused how this enigmatic family has perched itself in my palm so easily and with so little protest. But God! If I have to fake a moan and half-heartedly claw at the bedsheets one more time, I may actually tear the follicles from their roots! Not after I know what I have to wait for. Not after I’ve seen him transform you into the sniveling child you always have been. I’ve demonstrated for you what a complete woman I am, and in return, you give me a knock-off man overflowing with narcissistic estrogen. No, I’m not calling you daddy to be kinky, Fool, it’s an honest request. Go back home and study how your father gives it to your mother and you’ll start to understand why she talks like she’s always in a dream, passed out with DMT rocking through her pineal gland. Wake me up when I can call you Daddy.”
Then I notice the calliope turns gears in my mind
rotates bangled ferris wheel tires
beguiled by blinking jewels
singing a mournful dirge on the cheeriest of tones
and I’m intoxicated, sick high above the world
droning to this moaning tune
until reality pulls me under again, releasing me into the festive outfall of the circus parade
-wish I could trade –
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours
we can feed off each others chests
talk and walk and ride the rest
oh ephemeral stranger!
clasp hands with me under the big top and swirl my robes
into a rotating phantasmagoria as we reign across the dusty dance floor
diving banded-fists first into each apparition
following each others shadows into the smoke and the mirror
I’d like it best
to sink into a purple vanilla smoldering
like incense drifting from my rolled cigarette
I’m warm in the transparent
volcano chug of magmaous atmosphere
hiding my faces in the crooks of my clavicles
fluttering up from underneath eyelashes
and batting witty laughs into the alcove corner we adorn
pass the hookah, just passing through
every labyrinthian second, an eternity with you
and I think occasionally about the sadness of leaving
when i awake from the dream, so sure I was perceiving
my empty hand on the mattress, I know now, I’m dreaming.