Everything Was Fine Until Whatever Page 2

  I am alone again tonight but don’t worry I have this whole list of deep philosophical questions.

  And if that doesn’t work I will go through word documents changing periods to question marks.

  20 Simple Makeup Tips for the Everyday Woman

  When drawing on eyebrows, remember that looking mildly surprised is both sexy and fashionable.

  Makeup should not be applied to hemorrhoids.

  Remember: Your eyelashes are commas and boldening them does not necessarily add meaning.

  Conceal blemishes with rhinestones for a creative edge.

  Before you begin applying makeup, write a thesis statement and briefly outline your current purpose for using makeup and what you hope to accomplish with it.

  In a hurry, apply liquid foundation with a ladle.

  Stay away from reds; they’ll highlight your lack thereof.

  Gray hairs can be plucked and saved for a wig that you can use when there are no more hairs to pluck.

  During the holiday season, double chins can be covered with a festive bow.

  Facial tattoos should be used sparingly.

  In a pinch, use sandpaper or pliers to add color to your cheeks.

  You should be absolutely hairless from the mouth down.

  Silver lipstick is always appropriate.

  Keep your own physical faults in mind, so that you may accuse other women of having them during disagreements.

  In the morning, pour liquid foundation into open pores. This will ensure a steady secretion of foundation all day, so that reapplication is unnecessary.

  Try to see your face with an objective eye each day. The heavy rouge you’ve been sporting for five years may offend those who have not seen the historical progression.

  Resist buying Revlon products, because their commercials suck.

  Snort powder to make up that hard-to-reach cerebrum.

  If your face is large, you will have to plan more makeup products into your budget.

  Makeup can be used in large amounts and with high contrast as an alternative to hormone replacement therapy.

  Sometimes I read my own poetry and think that’s not right. Or I read it and call my mom and ask her to be nice to me

  His Lies Taste like Eggs Benedict

  You force his name casually into conversation and then you see him at Denny’s. He is with his girlfriend and she is not you. She doesn’t look anything like you. You worry that he had no discretion when it comes to girls. You say ‘hi’ like you are just friends and order coffee. He gestures to his girlfriend that he wants to leave, a touching moment. Without having been introduced to her, you ask him for his uneaten omelet and sourdough toast. This simple request suggests how comfortable you feel with him, how close and naked you had been together. His girlfriend knows this. She envisions the two of you close and naked in this way, and calculates when and where you were, how it happened, and where she had been at the time. You look at her as if to say, “I still have a pair of his boxers, but you can have them back at any time. I feel for you.” She understands this, but still seems unsure about you. You would’ve liked to have taken her aside and explained yourself. You would’ve liked to have taken her aside and made jokes about his penis or cunnilingus technique. She wouldn’t’ve laughed, though, and you wouldn’t’ve become friends. To her, you aren’t on the same team. To her, his penis and cunnilingus technique are serious matters.

  He weighs his options. If he gives you the omelet, he will essentially be apologizing to you, showing that he knows you are owed something, and thereby admitting he has done something to hurt you. Denying you the omelet, on the other hand, would simply be passive aggression, which he should know is never attractive or clever. You would probably take the omelet anyway, after he left, he knew. Still, the decision is his. The omelet waits. You sip coffee, scorching hot, and don’t flinch.

  God’s Girlfriend

  God’s girlfriend was on the toilet feeling more important than God, but irritable and crampy. Pissed off at the world.

  What a crummy world, she thought, God can’t do anything right.

  God was in the other room, fighting with the fax machine.

  Forever is so long, she thought, You have to think about it only in smaller parts, month by month, week by week. I look forward to Thursday, when my period ends.

  I need some excitement, she thought, God should’ve invented more hot guys. He probably thinks this is funny.

  She knew what was happening. She was taking the biggest crap of her life. She was embarrassed by the size of it.

  “God, if this shit was a dick, that dick would be a big dick,” she said.

  “What?” said God.

  “’What’ what?” said God’s girlfriend.

  God said “bullshit” at the fax machine.

  “It’s fucking brand new,” he said.

  Later that evening, God’s girlfriend called her mother, and they talked about how to prepare frozen meals so that they taste homemade, and they both sighed audibly.

  I’ve been sitting in this goddamned bathroom for over an hour trying to think of a way to steal a roll of toilet paper.

  Beginnings That Lead to Middles

  I met JR for the first time outside of Mervyn’s and we immediately got into a power struggle. He stood idly beside me, waiting for me to solicit him. I smoked my cigarette confidently two yards away, waiting to be solicited. The way I saw it was; if I had to end up being submissive and attentive to him, he should be able to grow some balls and initiate the encounter. I shouldn’t have had to eagerly offer my passivity. But these, admittedly, were not the kinds of opinions that made me a successful businesswoman.

  He finally said, “I’m giving you fifty dollars because that’s what I want to spend, not because that’s what you’re charging.”

  I said, “If you want that much control, you can suck your own dick.”

  He said, “I’ll give you fifty dollars to pretend you love me.”

  I said, “Okay, you’ve got one hour.”

  I wrapped my arms around him and said, “I love you.”

  He said, “Elaborate on that.”

  So I baked him a cherry walnut tart and sprinkled powdered sugar onto it.

  He said, “Be more realistic.”

  So I didn’t eat my portion and looked longingly into his eyes. I initiated a game of footsie that apparently made JR think our relationship was getting too complicated.

  He said, “I want a kind of love that’s open and comfortable.”

  So I told him about all the insecurities and body image issues I had as a young girl and how I dealt with those issues by running away from home. Then I fell asleep in his arms.

  He said, “Well maybe I didn’t mean that.”

  So I laughed at whatever he said. I laughed so hard I started crying, so I excused myself to the ladies’ room and applied more makeup.

  He said, “Someone as beautiful as you could never really love me.”

  So I smudged my makeup a little to make him more comfortable.

  He said,“This all seems too painless to be real love.”

  So I stood up and demanded to know why he was home so late the night before.

  He said, “I like where this is going.”

  So I made jealous comments about his ex-girlfriends and demanded that he reenact our first telephone conversation. When he couldn’t remember the correct sequence of our conversation, I accused him of cheating on me. I ordered a bouquet of flowers online, had them delivered to myself, and made JR believe they were from another man.

  He said, “I think I’m really starting to fall for you.”

  So I got drunk and hacked into his email account and got upset about year-old emails from other girls and then cried myself to sleep.

  He said, “Now I feel left out.”

  So I begged him never to leave me.

  He said, “Just a little less desperate and a little more playful.”

  So I tattooed his name onto my right breast
and posted a photo of it on the Internet.

  He said, “That would work really well as an action shot, don’t you think?”

  So I let him suckle my nipple for the last two minutes while I uploaded the new picture. I titled it ‘Please don’t let this end so it can never begin again.’

  He said, “Can I see you again? Can I call you?” and discreetly put fifty dollars on the table. I pretended not to notice what he did.

  I looked at him as if to say, “Where’s my cash?”

  He waited for me to pick the money up. The way I saw it was; I’m his employee, and he’s my boss. I shouldn’t have to remind him to pay me. He shouldn’t be able to be so indirect. He gestured subtly toward the money, and I was careful not to follow his gaze. I wasn’t going to let him win that easily.

  Maybe Her Pending Corpse is a Window

  Kate is dying. She is getting close to death. Her houseguest, an Internet stranger named Ira, who has arranged to sleep on her couch for the next four days through an online social network catering to travelers, is halfway on the sidewalk and halfway on the street in a strange town, and he is watching her die.

  “Kate,” he thinks, but then his thought just ends. They met less than an hour ago. They were on bicycles. He thinks this is just perfect.

  He doesn’t know much about her. They had dropped his things off at her apartment and were on their way to get a few groceries. He is traveling through the states. He has recently been dumped by a girlfriend and is determined to find himself. He sublet his apartment in Detroit to a couple of his ex-girlfriend’s close friends. He wonders now if that was a good idea.

  It is a powerful image for Ira, Kate lying here, her unfamiliar stomach fat drooping over her pants unpleasantly. It’s like live reality television.

  Kate’s apartment was messy when they stopped in. Things were dirty, and the place had a certain monotonous quality. The couch appeared to be woven with itchy synthetics, had a sick-looking orange cat sitting on it, and was generally unappealing.

  Kate’s voice, if he can recall, is deep but cheerful. She’s friendly and enthusiastic, but entirely unattractive. Her face is too complex to be beautiful. The lines around her nose and between her eyebrows are deep and unmistakable. When they met, he immediately abandoned the sexual agenda he had been, in three short emails, pretending not to have, and began hoping that she hadn’t had one. It’s supposed to be innocent, travelers helping travelers. But Ira hasn’t had sex in four months and to him, everyone was a possibility.

  He tries to look helpful. He uses his cell phone. He waves down drivers. His efforts are dutiful and attentive. There are no frantic memories flashing through his mind, and he gives no passionate cries for help. He is thinking clearly and is satisfied with himself for that.

  Kate’s blood is on the ground. It is moving in circles.

  “It isn’t possible to live without blood,” Ira thinks.

  He has never hugged her, so it doesn’t occur to him that this is the same blood that would’ve made any such hugs warm. As Kate moves closer to death, Ira feels himself becoming alone and stranded, sees himself standing on the black concrete uselessly, a lone parasite that has found himself without a host, staring blankly at the pending corpse of what was once an abstract sexual fantasy. He sees the thoughts in his head as if they were lines of an instant message:

  (3:46pm)Does the world know it doesn’t need me?

  (3:46pm)It does, it definitely does.

  (3:46pm)Maybe the world needs me. It’s possible, I think. Is it?

  (3:47pm)It doesn’t. It’s not. No.

  He briefly wonders if it would be appropriate to get the keys from her pocket and go back to her apartment once the paramedics get here and take her away with them. Keep to the itinerary despite the unexpected tragedy. But Kate has a roommate, Ira knows, and he wouldn’t want to have to explain anything to her. The roommate would be overemotional and cry, probably. She would be confused and unsure about Ira sleeping there and distressed by his graphic and technical account of the accident. She would silently disapprove when he decided to sleep on her bed instead of the couch.

  Kate’s fingers shakily form a fist and then uncurl.

  “Was that it?” Ira thinks, but he sees that she is still breathing, gently and sporadically

  What’s the point of having sex organs when my main purpose in life is to write unemotional poems using full sentences?

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t work in customer service.

  I’m at the point in my life where I wake up in the morning and literally don’t know what to do.

  My mom says this feeling is my hormones telling me to have children, but it feels more like my hormones telling me to buy the Goosebumps series books on eBay.

  The most emotional sexual experience I ever had involved a hallucination of someone I loved being in the same room while I gave someone else I loved a handjob.

  But that seems strange because I’m pretty sure I’ve never loved anyone.

  I’m at the point in my life where I masturbate to memories of cuddling.

  My mom says there are some things she really doesn’t need to know.

  I hope it’s okay that I’m not referring to all the text messages I’ve received while writing this.

  I try to drink coffee and look out of windows but eventually I have to crap or blink.

  I grew up poor and everyone who grew up poor has a somewhat decent sense of humor.

  I have complex fears stemming from childhood that I don’t want to talk about right now.

  When I was twelve someone bought me a case of SoBe and I felt rich and powerful. Ever since then my sense of humor has been confusing and aggressive.

  Now I’m writing poetry because I’m beginning to feel serious about life.

  Serious like if I don’t write poetry right now, someone is going to make me do the dishes.

  Or if I don’t write poetry right now, someone is going to tell me about their day.

  All I did was compliment someone’s jacket and it somehow turned into a two-minute conversation where I had to say happy birthday at the end. I don’t know how these things happen to me.

  Nothing Can Make Me Feel Sincere Not Even True Love.

  Not even love and not even MTV’s True Life.

  I want to be in love but how can I.

  I can’t even write a love poem without referring to MTV or Lord of the Rings or something. Plus everyone I know is in love with me a little which makes it hard to think anyone is special.

  I just want to wake up in the morning and feel like someone is planning on seeing me.

  And I want to like myself through someone else instead of just me all the time.

  This is about as sincere as I could possibly be. And it sounds boring and self-assured.

  I just want everyone to think I’m on my way to Burger King.

  It Could’ve Been a Photograph of Anybody.

  I created an indentation in my bed where I always sit and write. I think of this indentation as concrete proof that I’ve existed the last several months. It feels like a photograph of myself, but not exactly.

  It makes me feel present, but not entirely.

  It makes me feel like I’m sitting on a bench with someone I love and we’re holding hands in a strange way where all our fingertips align and we’re talking about a party we might go to and we’re making out a little and I feel kind of bad because I’ve just stolen a lot of cardstock from an art store that I respect.

  Everyone thinks I’m brilliant –and I am—but I’m also modest.

  I’m Not Drunk, I’m Big-Boned.

  I want to erase everything I’ve ever written and go rent videos but I can’t because I don’t know what videos to rent.

  I am letting myself feel detached right now.

  I am always trying to sabotage my own work.

  I want to end this, but I haven’t said anything tangible about myself yet.

  Okay here is my phone number 7
07-888-1744.

  I write poetry because if I don’t I will have to think about serious things.

  I used to run track but then I got boobs and couldn’t run because I was very busy buying bras and crying about stretch marks.

  But now I have had boobs for eight years and I barely have time to think about them anymore.

  Yes, do the math.

  I am writing poetry right now so that I can pretend I don’t hear someone doing the dishes.

  I used to clean the neighbor’s house for money and she had a vending machine in her garage.

  I used to make a magazine about wildlife and I sold a subscription to my neighbor but I got tired of making it so I just cut up parts of Ranger Rick and pasted them onto folded printer paper.

  Now I have boobs though. Things are different.

  Are you really still doing the math about my boobs?

  Maybe I’m laughing while I write this because I have no capacity to take anything seriously.

  I like poetry because it feels like television. Good poetry feels good like television.

  I think it’s really funny to call someone the history channel but I’ve used this joke a lot of times and no one has ever laughed.

  No, I’m lying.

  When I said no I meant yes and when I said lying I meant ovulating.

  This is what I mean by poetry.

  My mom is at her house waiting for this poem to earn me some money.

  We love each other because we look like each other.

  I never take myself seriously because I’m not boring enough.

  But I am boring enough to sit at a computer for hours typing out explanations of myself.

  I should measure my heartbeat or something.