Because I feel cold and closed off and walled in. Do you ever get like that? I build a fort inside myself and don’t come out until someone makes banana bread. No one’s making banana bread. It’s November, a notoriously lonely month for me and my razor*. So dark! So bare! I want to make a fire and watch it burn while drinking a glass of wine, then six more. Instead I am in the library wrestling with book #2. I know that there is a story there, but I’m stuck. Stuck like gum in hair. And then the doubt starts to creep in: You can’t write another book, you silly quack! You only had one book in you and now that that’s done you may as well find a nice bridge to cozy up under because you’re done. D-O-N-E done like the turkey will be next week (poor Turkeys. Don’t you love birds and want to become a vegan with me?) So I start feeling sorry for myself and everything else on the goddamn planet including the leaves because they’ve fallen from such great heights and now they’re down here with the rest of us getting stepped on. Poor leaves. You know what I need? A Poopsicle. That’s what you have for dessert after you have a Feelings Salad for lunch. Probably I will also need to eat a real lunch and then I will return to book 2 and all of this will pass by the end of the afternoon. Nothing gold can stay and neither can anything rusty. How nice is that? Life is a carousel of plastic ponies – up and down, up and down. Sometimes I get a little nauseous, but it’s not half bad in my corner of the fair.
*Get it? No shave November? How bad is a joke if I have to explain it?
On Twitter this morning I discovered #MeToo and at first I was all, I shouldn’t contribute. I’ve “only” been: verbally assaulted while eating a sausage on the street, pressured into sex by people I was in relationships with, cat called times a million, texted inappropriately in high school by a married man hitting on pictures of me and my friends on Facebook…and then I was like, oh duh. That’s the fucking point. These are not tiny, insignificant, isolated incidents. This is sexual assault and it’s happening all the time.
One of the more uncomfortable incidents I already tweeted about, but it involved a man I frequently saw while out to breakfast with my parents. I started calling him Creepy Paul because even at nine years old I could tell he gave me too much unwanted attention, then one day he kissed me on the cheek when I was going to the bathroom. It made me feel disgusting and ashamed. I don’t remember if I told my parents or if I gave them an excuse for not wanting to go back to one of our favorite breakfast spots, but I’ve been avoiding that diner for years. I don’t know for certain, but I probably wasn’t the only little girl Creepy Paul assaulted– how frightening and angering and fucked up and disgusting of him.
Besides sharing this information, I don’t really know what to “do” about this and I’m frustrated that I don’t have a solution. I do know that it’s been helpful to hear about other women’s encounters with sexual harassment, particularly on blogs I love, like this one.
(^ not an actual category but I couldn’t name this post because I’ve only had one venti coffee so far this morning)
This past weekend I was walking my boyfriend’s dog in the woods and I found a hawk feather so brown and majestic and thrilling I took a picture of it. Then I found another and another and soon I was holding like six hawk feathers, just waiting to find a hawk carcass and thinking my good omen was going to turn into a very bad omen. When that didn’t happen, I thought maybe I’d make a trinket out of the feathers as a symbol of bad ass birding to put in my room and remind me to kill things like mice with my good vision and sharp talons. Then I passed someone on the trail and he was all “I see you found some turkey feathers!” They lost their splendor so fast it was like I picked them out of a crafts bin at Michaels.
Life lesson: existence is arbitrary. What we assign weight and meaning to, probably has very little intrinsic weight and meaning, which is a little depressing but mostly fucking awesome. We are free agent creatives with ears and language and opposable thumbs. We get to experience shit then make shit up. How incredible is that?
(I don’t mean that I think it’ll be a 14 hour long death, I mean that I’m boarding a flight in 14 hours and I’m scared as fook b/c flying is more unnatural than spray tans, e-mail, and walking on the moon all put together)
It’s kind of a posh way to go.
I won’t have to handle the spider situation that’s taking over my box of journals
Like, isn’t the world going up in flames anyway? Climate change, Trump, the most recent season of the Kardashians…
If hell is real, I will run into the arms of my one eyed pug and learn how to bite like I mean it
More people will probably read and/or like my book because if I am dead they will feel sorry for me. Thank you, pity, for escalating my posthumous career!
Losing eight pounds likely won’t be so important anymore, but if they cremate me, I’ll def weigh less than I do now (score)
My biggest fear in life is my mom dying (which I only realized when I typed this). I won’t need to fret about her funeral ’cause it’ll be my funeral, unless she kills herself at my funeral, but she wouldn’t steal my thunder like that
Which reminds me, at my funeral: there will be flourless chocolate cake from Market Table, DMX playing Party Up In Here, and all guests will receive a party favor, which will be one of three of my favorite books: Crush by Richard Siken, Commonwealth by Ann Patchett, and um, um, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
Will someone be in charge of telling each of my exboyfriends I love them?
I’ve never been a procrastinator, and since we’re all gonna bite it eventually, it’d suit my Type A personality to just do it now
I have yet to take a nudie
i.e., there’s no real dirt on me, so I can’t die a second death of embarrassment if ppl. go through my stuff
(if you read my journals, my ghost will fuck you up)
I’ll never eat those amazing croissants from Hungarian Pastry
Or see my mom’s dog pick up a scent
Or wade into the ocean by my parents’ house after a long run with my best friend
And how will I poop my metaphorical pants when I encounter a line of sheer poetic genius?
Like Yeats’ (and I’m paraphrasing): we are a soul fastened to a dying animal
I would like to go to grad school
And have a tiny bit more sex
And maybe get my nipple pierced (the right one, which is slightly misshapen)
This is embarrassing and entitled, but if I’m dead you should know, I always wanted to write an advice column and since I don’t see pulling that off in the next fourteen hours, good bye to that
I’m not done farting in movie theaters or leaving wet clothes in the sink. I have more eggs to scramble, 2-8 other books to write, and that doesn’t even include poetry
I want to take my clothes off in a waterfall and see at least ten thousand more sunrises.
I’m a greedy fuck. I need my kidneys and my heart.