It’s Tuesday, right? I am having a hard time getting motivated to do anything this week. I am going to blame it on Aunt Flow. Squeamish—and I might add, silly—males who stumble upon this blog may not want to read further. As I get older I am finding myself more and more frustrated by my menstrual cycle. For some ridiculous reason I always assumed that getting older would mean having more control over the consequences of my monthly spewing. I mistakenly believed that I would eventually have it all “figured out” and never need to guess about the secret things my body was telling me. Unfortunately, I have not stopped guessing since that fateful morning in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. Ultimately, being on the rag is making me feel grosser than gross, more gross than usual; because let no one lie to you, being on your period is nasty shit. I just reread the sentence before this one and am thoroughly amused with myself. I hardly ever amuse myself.
Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)
“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”
Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.
After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!
Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?
Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.
It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)
242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.
A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.
Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.