You Are Everything, You Are Nothing At All.

I like books about drifters, songs about the same. They both seem to make me feel a little less insane…

Once again, my brain proves incapable of recounting everything I’d like to share with you guys. There’s so much information constantly assaulting us and no time to pause, decompress, analyze things as they come. I suppose it boils down to a matter of perspective, an argument of perceptions. I just can’t hold onto the details of every situation, can’t memorize every nuance. I wish the memories you were going to want later would cue you in as they were happening. I wish some internal alarm system that would alert you something important was happening and you should probably try to live in that moment for as long as humanly possible.

My friend recently got hired to dance at a club on 122^nd. Anyone who knows her understands how entirely absurd that sounds. She’s lovely, with a penchant for channeling creative talents into a million different streams of light and beauty. She’s that person who asks what you’re thinking and you’re inclined to answer honestly no matter how complicated the response. Because you know she’ll listen, and get it. About a month ago I attended a poetry reading she participated in. She is seriously fucking talented. Intimidatingly talented. I have yet to allow her to read a word I’ve written, although we have a poetry exchange planned for the near future. Just thinking about it makes me sweaty.

She worked her first shift this past Friday, and I went out to support her. I pre-gamed by consuming an entire bottle of Jose. Cue my first really bad decision of the night. I don’t really remember much about getting to the club, other than Friend’s sister dropped us off and I crammed myself into the tiny space between two car-seats because Friend’s nieces are still babies, and a little scared of me, but warming up. Slowly.

Somewhere between Friend’s house and the club I transformed from my usual awkward self into my belligerently-drunk-but-still-awkward self. So we get to the club and I have $20 in my pocket and a bottle of tequila in my stomach and I’m wearing one of the vests I got for my job interviews and feeling fucking fantastic. I felt like I could take on the world. I felt like I could look a social situation in the eye without flinching, like I could swallow Friday night in one giant gulp and not heave it back up 2 hours later in the back alley.

                                                                                                   

The stories we tell ourselves aren’t always true. My memories of the club itself are pretty scattered. I vaguely remember feeding my friend $1 bills out of my mouth. I vaguely remember a homeless man selling me a pair of glasses outside the club. Prescription glasses. He had me try on each pair to see which ones helped my vision, but obvs nothing was going to help my vision because I was blind drunk. I bought the pair that fucked up my vision least, $15 cash. I hope that fella at least did something productive with it, like bought more glasses to swindle more drunks.

This week was a week of discoveries. A week of lows and limits, but a week of discoveries. I don’t regret a single minute, except for every single minute. It was a week of stress and setbacks, but I didn’t cry because mostly I think I was too hammered to cry. Or too hungover, which really could have prompted crying. Either way, even when I know I’m being self-loathing it feels better to do it actively than to just let it immobilize me. It’s been a long time since somebody had to give me a play-by-play of my actions. I can’t say it was a particularly good feeling.

[This is a direct text-quote from Friend, and an accurate synopsis: You spent the weekend feeding strippers dolla bills from your mouth, woke up in a boston terrier’s bed, then puked and rallied twice in one day. You have to get your shit together. I find that excuse works 87% of the time.]

And we laughed, you know, because sometimes you’d rather cry.

Sometimes I think if I could just channel my mind directly into my fingers and keep writing I could go on indefinitely. I’d fall back into my body, still sitting here at 35 and realize that I had written every word I ever meant to say. What I actually think I’ll be doing at 35 is nothing, because I think I'll be dead. I don’t dwell on it as much as I used to, but I suffer from a total Doom Complex. I’ve never seen myself living into old age. I can’t picture living past 26. It’s not that I don’t want to live. I mean, living is hard as shit and only gets harder a lot of the time, but I can appreciate that the struggle, that friction  makes living worthwhile. Because why would we want to just float around in complacent little bubbles indulging every whim, not worrying about paying bills, or our piece of shit cars breaking down, or what may have been said/done the other night when you were fall down drunk… I lost track of where I was going with this.

I’m trying to say this: I realize the thought of dying young is terribly self-indulgent. But it’s also strangely comforting. Like no matter how bad things get, I can handle them because they won’t last much longer. It’s also a bit of a cop-out. I keep telling people I’ve only got three good years left; I may as well live them to the fullest. I don’t know you guys, maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’ll wake up one day like Riese did and remember how I used to be young and sad and foolish. Only time will tell.

In other news: we had another work meeting this week. This one was half business and half a celebration of two brand new brides. Unfortunately said brides were not marrying each other, although I probably could have let you guys live under that blissful assumption for at least another minute. No, they are both happily married to men. I use the term “happily” pretty loosely, because I’ve picked up on a lot of frustration and bickering since the nuptials. Anyways, that’s beside the point. Because in the moment I’m describing, awkwardly surrounded by friends/co-workers, munching on Hawaiian cuisine and listening to tired euphemisms about Eternal Happiness, I’m sure then they were perfectly content. Or maybe they were hungry, or a little sweaty, or worrying about the cardiac emergency patient coming in post-celebration. But I digress. As we’re sitting there eating fresh pineapple and chicken skewers, a man named Rockstar Jeff struts in with an acoustic guitar. Jeff was wearing a pair of snakeskin print pants and proceeded to serenade our “blushing brides”. You guys, you haven’t lived until you’ve experience a singing telegram. Seriously, go here and watch all of those and feel jealous.  

The entire time this madness was occurring, all I could think was “this is my real life. This is my real, grown up life”. I was being paid to sit and watch a man in tight, snakeskin print pants serenade my co-workers. Hell, I even sang along.

The other day at work one of the girls attempted to compliment me. She said, “You don’t seem to be nearly as awkward as when you first started!” I wasn’t sure if I should thank her or not, so I just smiled (awkwardly) and laughed like it was a joke. But I know it wasn’t. It was a fair assessment of my recent interactions with people. The key to a successful conversation lies in finding a topic which both parties find interesting, and have a basic knowledge of. I have plenty of worthless knowledge, but my interest appears to have waned. As Autostraddle would say, I can’t find a fuck to give. So I keep faking it, keep playing dumb. Keep getting the surface character down pat. My study in method acting.

My friend asked why I wouldn’t let her look into my eyes too long. What am I afraid she’ll find? My answer at the time was “nothing”, and in some sense I meant it. I’m afraid of the expansive void within my mind, the spaces I hurtle myself when the world feels too small. At the same time, I could have said “everything”. The things I’m ashamed of, the stories I’m afraid I’ll never tell. I’m not the person I thought I would be. I’m not convinced of my essential goodness, or even capacity for basic human kindness. Repeatedly I’ve coerced people into trusting me with their brokenness, only to do further damage. I’m afraid she’ll see the bad blood too close to the surface, the hurt and bitterness beneath the complacency.

So, here goes another angsty out-pouring. You weirdos seem to be enjoying it though! This week we hit 1,000 views. I’ve been working on ways to casually slip that number into various conversations... Things like, “Oh Honey, I’m glad to hear your son got into grad school! Did you hear my blog hit 1,000 views this week?” or “I’m sorry you lost your job. Maybe if you’re the 1,001th view on my blog you’ll feel better?”

Thank you guys, for helping me maintain this illusion of living the dream. All my love.

-b