Everything Was Fine Until Whatever Page 3

  Even on Christmas I try to be in a text message conversation at all times.

  Christmas trees can be enjoyed for about one day and after that it feels like someone is on their way over to cross their hands over their crossed knees and look at you expecting answers.

  One day I will be a supportive friend but for now I’m still playing with the poetry refrigerator magnets.

  Alone please, and yes I’ve heard of exquisite corpse.

  I’m making it seem like I don’t like my friends but I don’t like anything except photographs of orphans.

  My mom wants me home for Christmas but I want it to be my idea.

  I want everyone to read this poem and say I bet her tits are real.

  I have started a band and my gimmick is I only write songs about the neighbor’s dog and pretend to be displacing my emotions.

  Once I overheard my mom telling my aunt that I was a mistake and I revealed myself from the Lego castle I was crouched behind and told her what I’d heard and she said, “What do you want, I’m only five or six years older than you.”

  I will listen to hours and hours of insignificant rambling if you want, but I won’t stop rubbing my mustache until you tell me how you feel about me and my mustache.

  I have collection agencies fighting for my attention. Where is my minivan? I just found rockstar parking. Please call Geico and tell them I’ve found someone else. Tell the paparazzi I am in parking section G4 and that I’m picking my camel toe.

  I could be charming and sociable if I wanted but then I wouldn’t be mysterious anymore and anyway I’m too busy with my band.

  I’ve been asked to write inspirational slash instrumental music for a colon hydrotherapy clinic and I will be getting paid in paper pillowcases and paper bed sheets.

  Is Everyone Ready to See My Muscles?

  Sometimes when I think I’m in love I think, “Wait, no I’m not.”

  It seems that I have gotten carried away with my own ridiculous projections of who the person is. No one can fulfill my projections. That’s just science.

  Anyways, people only love each other so they can complain about each other.

  I asked my mom straight up, “What is it exactly that you like about my paternal uncle, who you have been dating for five years, since around the time I first met my dad and he introduced us to his brother, my uncle, your boyfriend?”

  I’m a strong and independent woman, not a dyke.

  I’m confused about my sexuality, not my sexual orientation.

  As in, is this my labia minora? It seems big.

  Or should I be running out of lube this quickly?

  My left arm is asleep but I am moving forward with this poem anyway.

  Can I carry your children for money?

  Would you like to harvest my eggs for money?

  Or do you need a babysitter?

  everyone told me i looked different today. my mom said this is because maybe i’m ovulating.

  she said maybe i’m either happy or ovulating.

  The moral of the story is, do you think I’m fat?

  I want to know everything you know about me, what does it mean that I talk the way I talk, does that affect you, I’m serious, I’m honest, I’m that selfish, I’m really curious about this.

  You always tell me who I am, I like that, it makes me like you, I want to be more like what I seem like to you, I like that version of me, it makes me be able to stand you.

  Let’s talk about my feelings and then your feelings about me.

  I used to like small glass figurines, I collected them, it got a little out of control, I ran out of places to display them, does that give you any insight here?

  I want to own you and take you far away where we can embarrass each other in public, I like you, you are impossible, you are insane, this is crazy, be my husband, I want anything, we will die before anyone realizes we’re joking, did I just say ‘we’ I meant ‘me me me.’

  I’m busy tonight, how about tomorrow, I only really like you for your body anyway, it is so fucked up, hilarious, I want you under my covers with me far away thinking about you, I love you, let’s talk to each other using only allegories, let’s shake hands, please shake my hand, let’s be married and hate each other, let’s move away just to make our friends sad. I want us to be sad forever together and be miserably celibate out of an inability to speak to each other in ways that don’t turn us both off.

  I want to text message my mom something cute like I met a boy, which is why I’m wearing makeup today.

  I am feeling like myself, which feels like I can say anything I want. It feels like I’m not even watching myself on a television screen just above your head. And I’m talking in a way that sounds like I think no one else is around to hear me.

  Watch this. I can make fun of myself in a way that makes you feel bad about yourself and I can do this and make you think I’m insecure at the same time and you will think it’s totally charming.

  Let me guess. You want to get a drink with me sometime. Just kidding. I don’t have a boyfriend. I just wanted to see if you’d believe me.

  If I rest the weight of my upper body on this rail you will think I am either sick of talking to you or trying to show you my boobs. And that is exactly the kind of tension we need to move this relationship forward.

  By move this relationship forward I mean give me your phone number and I will probably not call you.

  By probably I mean drunkenly.

  And by phone number I mean expensive jewelry.

  I don’t think you’d like me on many other days. I know I am sarcastic and accommodating, but I am also small and quiet and won’t like you very much or very often.

  I’m not mad. I just can’t find my cell phone to pretend I have a call.

  I bought some pills, morning after pills, to plant in my purse so that one day they might spill out and someone might see them and believe, however briefly, that I was having sex or even had a boyfriend.

  What Are You Wearing!

  There were three boys: Damien, Nick, and Raphael.

  Tanya said, “Let me see here.” And then, “Who has the nicest hair?”

  Raphael raised a hand. It was clear that he did have the nicest hair.

  Tanya said, “Who is the most attractive in general?”

  Raphael said, “Me, again.”

  No one considered disputing this, either.

  Nick said, “Ask something about being funny.”

  Damien said, “Or about emotional availability.”

  Tanya said, “Are any of you single?”

  Raphael said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Nick said, “I’m only one person, yes.”

  Damien said, “Could you repeat that?”

  Tanya said, “Um.” And then, “Yeah.”

  When she was fourteen, Tanya cut her hair into a boy’s bob, and her grandma stopped loving her until it grew past her ears. They called her into the principal’s office the day it happened, to tell her that her grandma could finally love her again, and that she could go home early. On the way home she saw a mountain lion sleeping with dried weeds tangled in his whiskers.

  Tanya turned around and said, “What color are my eyes?”

  Damien said, “Green.”

  Raphael said, “Grey.”

  Nick said, “What difference does it make?”

  Fable

  Maya was a startlingly beautiful girl, and for this reason had trouble making female friends. Often, out of desperation, Maya phoned her mother, Catherine, to gush about her current love interests.

  “Just make sure you get tested regularly,” Catherine would say, for though she was deeply disturbed by her daughter’s sexual candidness, she understood the root of Maya’s social inadequacies, and wanted her to feel as normal as possible.

  Angela was one of those girls who knew the shoe size of every guy on the lacrosse team, including Coach Feseden, who wore embarrassingly unfashionable Keds and purposely ordered the cheerleader’s ski
rts one size too small. Angela teased and manipulated Maya with hyper girl talk between classes.

  “Coach Feseden is sooo cute, don’t you think, Maya?”

  Maya, wanting terribly to be invited to Angela’s Sweet Sixteen party, agreed, and soon developed a crush on Coach Feseden.

  For a long time, no one knew where Coach Feseden took Maya. Catherine went on prime-time television begging America for help in finding her. After a few months, everyone assumed he had left the country and that there was nothing they could do. Catherine suffered and, being the only active psychiatrist in the Tristate area, refused her services to everyone, even the psychologically neediest.

  People self-medicated. They lost their jobs. Suicide rates skyrocketed. Organic products were rotting on the shelves because everyone was too depressed to care about their health anymore. They begged Catherine to analyze their psyches, to prescribe just one little teeny insignificant bottle of Seroquel®, but she wouldn’t.

  “If I must suffer then everyone must suffer,” she said, and made funny faces at a nearby baby.

  Deer Grazing

  You’re standing in front of a painting of two deer grazing. You’re at home. This painting belongs to you. You see yourself in the deer. You see yourself as one of two. You notice that one of the deer seems to be trying to impress the other deer by grazing in a very sexual manner. You think that this must be the deer that represents your boyfriend; he would totally try to have sex during a meal. “Hahaha,” you think to yourself. The other deer isn’t eating, her chin is just resting on the ground. You would think she was eating unless you looked really carefully, like you are now. And actually, you realize, upon noticing how wide and vacant her eyes are, how shiny and glazed they are; she’s stuffed. A hidden pin holds up her tail. Her fur has clearly been airbrushed, the natural color long faded away. She’s been dead for a long time and no one seems to notice. You remember you need to buy makeup.

  Please consider this a cry for help.

  Your Only Memory of Him

  Your shirt was off and he was smelling the area between your breasts. As he moves his head, the area gets larger and larger until your breasts are at least a mile away from each other and he has fallen asleep between them.

  At least no one thinks I’m having fun.

  I will wrangle your turd for two small payments of $59.99

  and and I will throw in two free lemon zesters.

  Things I Know About Men

  Nobody teaches men ‘the sooner the better’ in terms of when to ask you to take off your top. Everybody thinks they’ll just learn that on their own, I guess. Men also drive cars sometimes.

  Things I Know About Egg Donation

  Parents, when given the option, choose egg donors with long legs and big tits.

  Things I Know About Alcohol

  Alcohol is a tool of self-discovery. Drink four shots to see into the future. Drink five shots to heighten your sense of gravity. Drink six shots to double your chances of conception. Drink seven shots to undo the past. Drink eight shots to develop healthy sleep patterns.

  Things I Know About Condoms

  What do you do with a box of 50,000 condoms? Put the box by your bed and when people come over and look inquisitively into the box, make an exhausted, dreamy expression.

  Held Together Wrists

  He came over and we studied my water purifier together.

  “It looks like it needs a new filter,” he said.

  “But I love this filter,” I said. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing in my life that’s consistent.”

  We drank water and I tried to think of a way to make him hold my wrists together without asking him to do it. Usually, if he was around, especially if I was fully awake, I was trying to make him hold my wrists together without telling him to do it. It hadn’t ever worked. It’s just that it wouldn’t’ve been special if I had to tell him to do it.

  “Why don’t you ever use my name in the stories you write about me?” he said.

  “I use your name all the time,” I said, “I’m using it right now.”

  For twenty dollars, I could buy a new filter. But for forty dollars, I could buy a whole new water purifying system and turn the whole world upside down.

  “What do you think of that?” I said.

  “I don’t know if a new water purifying system will change your life that dramatically.”

  “It’s not important that there’s drama,” I said, crying, having poked myself in the eye while gesturing for dramatic effect.

  We didn’t used to fight like this. Or try to change each other’s minds. I didn’t used to write stories about small things without trying to make them seem significant. But we were in a national economic crisis and things had changed, yes.

  I, for one, had changed.

  “I wish I was rich,” I said, “Or in love. Rich or in love.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to start a conversation about the economic crisis,” he said. I saw him looking at my wrists and got a hopeful feeling. There was something beautiful about him that I couldn’t quite put to words. Something about the crevices in his face made me believe I could be a good stage-makeup artist.

  “I will buy you this filter,” he said, “If you’ll pretend we don’t know each other at the cash register.”

  I’m writing about love because no one else ever has and because I’m wearing jeans that make my butt look good.

  I have this friend who has this boyfriend who isn’t really a boyfriend but he emotionally abuses her, I heard. He figures out what she’s insecure about and then gives her really transparent compliments that make her feel bad about her personality. She tries to pretend her feelings are hurt. I used to think the adjective a person uses the most often is the word that most accurately describes what kind of person they are. But this friend never uses the word ‘submissive.’

  They have a date one night, and my friend finally gets up the courage to tell him how much she loves him, but before she can say anything he goes, “Have you ever been in love?”

  And she says, “No, I don’t know. Yeah. I don’t know. No.”

  And he’s like, “I have. It’s really great. You should be in love. Only not with me. You shouldn’t fall in love with me. I have a lot of very lovable friends I could introduce you to, though.”

  And she goes, “It’s okay,”

  And he says, “Being in love is really great, I think. You should be in love. You should try it.”

  And she says, “I don’t think we should talk about love.”

  And he says, “Why? It doesn’t matter. I was in love with this girl and we dated for three years but it was on and off so it was funner that way.”

  And she’s like, “Cool.”

  And he says, “That was pretty condescending.”

  And she says, “How old are you?”

  And he says, “Twenty-one.”

  And she says, “I’m twenty-two.”

  Even an idiot could wake up in the morning and eat his groceries and earn money and figure out what was wrong with his life and still have time to be a normal, excitable, somewhat apprehensive boyfriend.

  But this idiot isn’t a boyfriend.

  A boyfriend would want to spend the night.

  After the date my friend called me sounding bored and exhausted.

  “Today I had a date and my date fell asleep during the date,” she said.

  “Is that what the entire date consisted of?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “but that’s the only part worth talking about.”

  Aftermath of the 90’s

  You send him a text message explaining why you are sending him a text message. “Yr famous,” it says, “want 2 hang out?” He texts you back hours later while you are stealing fountain soda from a Burger King, “Ya OK. Want 2 steal salads from Sizzler or something l8r?” This sophisticated choice in restaurant makes you worry about your class differences, but you meet him at Sizzler and hope there isn’t a theft protection device o
n the salad bar. You share a plate of pickled beets and chicken wings on the curb three blocks away and have a conversation about music that you only barely have a grasp on. He tries to convince you that something something contemporary alternative something easily applies to rock theory, something something something. You hold firm ground against this concept, and he affectionately calls you old fashioned. You kiss with greasy chicken wing lips and hold hands back to your bicycles, where you exchange chicken salts once more and ride off separately, not looking back.

  Telescope

  My dad bought a telescope as a prelude to the sex talk he would give me the next month.

  “This is Saturn,” he said. “And here is a small star.”

  He said I could point the telescope at whatever star I wanted. I said he could go ahead, and that I didn’t care very much what we looked at.

  “Me and your mother used to go to the park at night and look at the sky together.”

  “Look, that star looks kind of bluish.” I tried to point the telescope in the direction of the bluish star, but aiming a telescope is pretty hard.

  “Should we stay out here much longer?” I asked. I wanted dinner.

  My dad looked at me in a way I understood to be meaningful. He was forcing a moment. But I knew that, as an eleven-year-old girl, I was not responsible to figure out what the subtext was. I suppose my dad was always trying to tell me how sad he was inside.

  “It’s just that I’m hungry,” I said.

  My diary used to be filled with positive body image affirmations, but now it is filled with anxiety about debt and weekly observations of this weird mole I have.