It's the End of the World as we know it....

[Hello kittens! Double post today because I love you. And also recapping a whole month in one post equaled holy fucking impossible. Cheers, bitches.]

Twice in my life I’ve discovered places where people mysteriously fall in love with me. I can’t explain this phenomenon. It could be the perfect lighting, the amount of alcohol consumed or just plain gypsy magic. The first was a hallway in my best friend’s house, right outside the bathroom. That was the summer I got my MIP, started smoking cloves and learned how to break hearts like a real motherfucker. The second was a secluded beach in the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area. That year I painted my soul purple and swore I’d love you forever. We all know how that turned out.

I can’t say for certain, but I may have discovered a third. Before I discuss the pros and cons of being elbow-deep in a toilet tank, let’s backtrack.

Considering Friday was the end of the world (at least as we know it) I intended to go out with a bang. I loosely organized a meet-up for the PDX Autostraddlers. Ok, mostly I told people where I would be on Friday and expected them to show up. Friend and I rolled into Bar of the Gods (BOG) just after 7pm and quickly determined that there were no other lesbians present. Solution? Obviously we played a game of Scrabble. Halfway through my triple word score rampage, three potential friends arrived.

Friend: Those look like people who are looking for us…

Me: Yeah, but maybe not.

Friend: Want to discuss Autostraddle awkwardly loud and see if they come over?
Me: Nah, let’s just avoid eye contact. That seems like the best way to make friends.

And it totally worked. Two drinks and 5 minutes later they approached us and very subtly asked: “So are you two lesbians?” Yes, excellent. Thus began the whirlwind four days I’m fairly sure I barely survived. PBR, thong-clad Santa, brunch mimosas, spilled whiskey eggnog, Dazed and Confused, Fireball and cider, Fuck the Dealer, Ziggy Stardust, I-Hop Christmas rattle, Feliz Navidachos and finally sleeping. Finally showering and feeding myself and remembering how to be a real human being.

But it all started Friday night at the Local Lounge.

Friend: Loca Lounge? Like craaaazay Lounge?

Me: No, Local. Like in this neighborhood. Well ok, it’s not in this neighborhood, but some neighborhood somewhere.

Like I said, there are certain places on this planet where people are strangely drawn to me. I’m 90% sure the Local Lounge is one of them. Maybe it was my freshly pressed bandana. Or my terrible dancing. Or my lip-syncing to Call Your Girlfriend on the dance floor… I have never received so many compliments or free drinks in my life. Seriously, I was tempted to never leave the house again because I’d reached the pinnacle of my popularity. It’s all downhill from here.

So there I am, waiting in line for the bathroom. The door opens and the girl inside starts to explain that the toilet isn’t flushing. My rural Montana sensibilities kick into gear, and suddenly I’m elbow-deep in the toilet tank reattaching the chain to the rubber stopper. Aforementioned girl stares at me, mouth agape and says “Holy shit. That was so…”

Disgusting? Potentially dangerous?

“…Sexy.”

Times in my life basic plumbing know-how has earned me a compliment: 1. I don’t know guys. I’m going to have to visit the Local Lounge again to see if this was a fluke happening or a repeatable phenomenon. Maybe it had everything to do with the Mayan apocalypse, or the proximity of the moon to the sun and astral currents or tiny gypsy fairies. I don’t know, but I hope you all had a lovely December 21^st. I’m kind of glad we’re still here.

All my love, you bunch of creeps.

-b 

Special for December, Let's Pretend We're All for One

Hello weirdos! 

I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that this month is almost over. Remember how yesterday was Thanksgiving and I was cruising around Missoula with my family and friends? Now I’m preparing for New Years. By “preparing” I mean sitting in Starbucks, drinking away my holiday gift cards and attempting to recap nearly an entire month of my life for you creeps. Did you get to spend the holidays with your families? I spent mine with old friends, new friends and mostly my cat, because why not?

Thank god this was not under our tree...

I’ve wanted to write for a lot of days now, but the words have been hiding somewhere. Plus I’m not entirely sure how to explain how I’ve been me-but-not-me and I don’t remember what Just Me felt like anymore. I blame the book I’m reading. When Rabbit Howls is the autobiography of an incest survivor who developed multiple personalities to cope with her trauma. I’ve always been good at psychosomatics. C told me to stop reading it, because I’ll just drive myself crazy. I think she might be right, but I hate the idea of quitting.

Which honestly is probably why I’m writing this blog right now; because Somebody told me once that I’m incapable of following through on something for more than 6 months. I might be writing this just to prove her wrong but I’m writing it. Goddamnit.

This month has been so strange. I don’t really know how to explain except that I feel far away from myself. There were times this month that I felt good, felt grounded and Real in a way that I don’t feel today. I remember sitting on my windowsill with the sky all purple and pink in that way that reminds me of cupcakes. I thought “Yes, ok. This is what happy feels like” and that song from Garden State was on loop in my brain, because it’s true. We live in a beautiful world.

Notable things that have happened this month:

1. Blue Monk Poetry Slam

This one time I decided I would be a Real Poet. I invited everybody I know to watch me “compete”. I wrote out my three poems longhand and walked around for three days reciting them under my breath like a crazy person. Seriously you guys, if you want to look unapproachable spend a lot of time muttering to yourself. People will cross streets to avoid you. They’ll shield their dogs and small children when you walk by.

Thursday night I was totes ready. I timed out and fully memorized my material. I wore my classy new black birthday shirt. I parted my hair on the right instead of the left. You know, keeping people on their toes. Turns out, slamming requires something known as “stage presence”. I don’t have that yet. I recited my 3 minute poem, held my breath and… didn’t make it to the second round of competition. But! I did get some good advice after the show. For example, “talk casually, move purposefully”. My voice wants to go all Andrea Gibson-y when I start waxing poetic and my hands do this weird claw thing. Having some feedback on my reading posture certainly helped.

Gratuitous picture of Andrea Gibson, check. http://www.myspace.com/andreagibson

I am not yet a slam poet. But I will be. Can’t stop me now!

2. The Biscuit is Fixed!

After a month of riding the bus and cursing my transportation situation, my co-worker finally got sick of my bitching and made me do something about it. She drove me home after work one night, jumped the Biscuit and followed me to the CarQuest around the block. A delightful fellow named Scottie helped me select and install my new battery, even though we rolled in about 10 minutes before closing time. And that was that! Biscuit has started like a champ ever since.

Lesson learned: sometimes things seem a lot more impossible than they really are. Alternatively: if you bitch about something long enough, somebody will fix it for you. Oh adulthood, you teach me all the things all the days.  

Last but not least, in the notable things I did this month…

3. Watched a Muppet Family Christmas.

You guys, please go experience the magic of this movie. It’s my entire childhood encapsulated in 42 minutes of singing, dancing and general merry-making. We’re talking a delightful fusion of the Muppets, Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock. All in one movie. I just can’t even explain.

Anyways, I hope you are all well! The sun is shining for the first time in a long time. I think I’m obligated to go enjoy it…

I love you all the days!

-b

An Open Letter to My Former Self

Listen.

Wednesday your ex-lover will wallop you over the head with every tactless bone in her body.

Two words, 11 letters, 14 characters.

For a moment you won’t understand what she’s telling you. Hold onto that moment, remember it existed. It is the last moment this week you will still feel like you.

The pain will be delayed; it will start at the back of your head and work its way into your chest. Your throat will swell shut. Don’t panic. When the infection begins to spread, amputate and cauterize before the gangrene hits your bloodstream. Your heart will look smaller than you imagined, laid out on the exam table like a dead kitten. Disregard the jew lodged in the left ventricle.

You will reinhabit yourself ten or twenty minutes later. You’ll know you’re back when your body remembers how to be cold. It is winter and you aren’t wearing a jacket. Your throat will ache from the animal-dying wails. Be grateful for traffic louder than your pain. Ignore your bruised temples, the places you gripped your head too tightly to remind yourself it was still there. In the next ten minutes you will text your closest friends ridiculous things. They won’t feel ridiculous. Indulge the melodrama because some day you might be able to laugh about it.

Things I need: wine, cigarettes and a pack of razor blades.

When your co-worker comes outside and asks who died, don’t tell her about your dead kitten heart. Just ask her for a cigarette. Smoke with her covertly, crouched behind the dumpster. The ritual will soothe your shaking hands. Let her tell you about all the times she’s locked herself in the bathroom to cry. Let her tell you: “She’s not worth it” and “You’re too good for her” and “Her loss”, even though you know it’s not true. Sometimes you’re allowed to need the lie.

When your roommate picks you up from work, she will tell you crying is bad for your sinus infection. Appreciate her practicality. Take her advice: stop your fucking crying. Tell her it’s a Two Buck Chuck kind of night. At the store she will look concerned when you buy three bottles. Laugh it off. Tell yourself they’ll last the week. Finish the first bottle before you go to bed, leave the others for tomorrow. Understand that hate is not the opposite of love. Understand that “numb” is not synonymous with “indifferent” but it’s a step in the right direction.         

This week: smoke too many cigarettes. Drink too much wine. Feel too deeply, ache exquisitely. Listen to music, loudly, in the living room. Sing along. Don’t be ashamed of the notes you can’t hit. Create elaborate lives for each person on the bus. Write bad poetry. Write good poetry. Create elaborate lives for yourself. Craft macabre metaphors to describe your pain. Go back to the places you knew before her. Bohemian Rhapsody, Reefer Madness, Drop Dead Gorgeous.

Tell yourself every lie you need to stay alive. That you deserve better. That “better” exists. Tell yourself this love wasn’t the end of you. That you’ll be happy again. That you’re going to make it.

Tell her goodbye.

-b