Vignettes from Finals Season

Some snippets deep from mind and heart while I was (kind of) away.

*Play “Good Days” and then “Saturn” by SZA while reading for optimal consuming experience. 

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Tonight and tomorrow I sit and read a book about a little black girl who was loved by few, wanted by no one, and hurt by all, whose life hung in the balance due to the constant threat of the disintegration of her soul. Can you ever really be a child, a delicate flower in a fresh and supple garden, if no one tends to you as such, if people treat you like steep and brick and stone long before you ever detach from your mother’s bosom? 

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I am filled to the brim trying desperately to be satisfied. From the healthy-ish to the downright obscene. A plastic unicorn perched atop a sugar cookie smothered in pink and yellow buttercream; pappardelle sprinkled with parsley and capers and butter-soaked breadcrumbs; a personal bowl of brownie batter, deliciously gritty on the tongue. As I feel my stomach begin to protrude, I am still unsatisfied with my work. It is messy work. My work is to deeply satiate, my work is to feel, yet also to numb. My work is to make myself sick. I love to make myself sick.

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Maybe my deep-seated disgust for other women is a mere projection or reflection of my own shadow. Maybe my revulsion for whores is due to the fact that I’d kill for the chance to be one. Maybe my judgment toward women who engage in illicit affairs stems from the fact that I know deep down I am more capable of betrayal, more capable of being a snake in someone else’s garden, than I’d like to believe. Maybe the reason I turn my nose up toward girls on “E.D. Twitter” or girls who revel in sex, alcohol, or drugs is because I obsessively run my fingers along my chest and neck to check for the visible collarbones that I fantasize about, and I tap the backside of my hand to the underside of my chin to prevent under-chin fat growth, and I find myself sipping a swig or two of wine on more and more rough nights to act as the final hand rocking me to sleep. 

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Once upon a time, I prayed endlessly for something, and now that I’ve received it in spades, I’m scared shitless. Funny how that works.

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Sometimes I feel like I’m playing at being a person, or that I’m always practicing it and playing it out before the main performance, kind of like rehearsing for a play. Every time a man has pulled me into his arms or into his bed, my mind was preoccupied with my performance on the stage. “Remember your blocking, arch your back.” “Remember your lines; moan and say something sexy.” “Remember your part, remember why you’re here, remember that the part could’ve easily been given to someone else.” 

Too caught up in the mindset and not in the moment. Too far away to realize that the moment would soon end.