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Ms. Peach to You
Today's date is Saturday, May 22nd.
The power is out in my stupid fucking house.
The power has been out for three days now.
I suppose necessity has driven me back to this website. (There's a baby crying in the library right now. I go to the library for peace. There are babies everywhere. They're eating and shitting and bawling all over the planet.)
So here I am again. I still love to write. Writing is something that I have not done nearly enough of, lately.
(If that kid doesn't shut up, I'm going to rip it's fucking throat out.)
I'd forgotten how much I loved to drive. I don't know how I survive in London without a car. It's my emotional grounding point. If I'm pissed off, I listen to loud music and drive. If I'm upset, I listen to sad music and drive. If I'm happy, I bounce chronic. (Don't even try to figure that one out.)
Once, I was so afraid of a moth on my front door that I spent the night in the back of my car. Moth phobia. (Shut up.)Luckily, I keep blankets and pillows back there, just in case of, uh, something.
You danced with someone who was not me. You know I am a jealous person, and I'm working on that -- I promise -- but the fact still remains. You asked me if I dance with guys at clubs when you are not present. I don't. I dance with girls, in circles. Sure, I get drinks from guys, but I never touch them. What scares me, my love, is that you seem to have no idea why I feel the way I do. You didn't last night, and you haven't before. I need to impress upon you the gravity of your actions.
The conclusion: it's a triumvirate. There is no other way to look at it. There they are: one, two, three. Here she is: one. It's a triumvirate, obviously. Can you imagine it,
no other way to look at it?
She feels it, somewhere greater than her heart. One, two, three, one, onetwothreeone. The question: Who is ONE? Who is TWO? Who is THREE? Assigning three numbers should not be a difficult task. The logicist in her knows this. The mathematician in her knows this. Unfortunately, her world is one of fantasy, words. She feels it, somewhere greater than her mind.
Someday I will decide what I am going to do with my life. The time is not now. Stop talking to me about my future. I am tired of your suggestions. You make me feel like shit.
We're watching a movie.
"You know, you could do that."
"All you would have to do is spend a few months whipping yourself into shape."
I know I'm fat.
"Have you given up on that dream?"
I want to scream
SHUT THE FUCK UP, I HAVE HEARD THIS ALL BEFORE!
But I don't. I say,
"Drop it, Dad."
And you're angry.
We haven't spoken to or seen each other in so long. So we're "talking" online, and I'm telling you my Harvard woes. You say I should slip my father roofies, tie him to a chair, drive him to a cliff and force the money out of him in his still-groggy state. If only it was that simple. If only. Trust me, I'd be out to the porn store looking for my supplier today.
I think too much about where life is taking me. Often I think that I should just shut my mouth and go along for the ride.
I'm in love with a boy. His name is Brendon.
He is too beautiful to be with me.
He tells me I am too beautiful to be with him.
I'm in love with a boy. His name is Brendon.
He wants me to show him my writing; I won't.
He wants me to sing him a song; I won't.
I will, someday.
I'm in love with a boy. His name is Brendon.
I speculate: does he love me back?
I wonder: does he miss me, now?
I know: yes (both counts).
His name is Brendon.
I love him.
Every single time I look at a blank, white, Microsoft Word document, I think of it. I can't help it. It's consuming me, but I can't – I won't -- say a word. For the first time in a long time, I am afraid of how I feel. It was an accident, finding it, but reading it again and again and again was not. I don't remember when the tears came, the first time or the fifth, but they came, and didn't stop. They didn't stop, even when you came back. I don't think you know that I cried all night.
It becomes an obsession, I assure you. Water, water, water – I used to hate it but now I miss the taste when I'm not drinking it. I read once that a person can die from drinking too much water in too short a time; it dilutes the salts of the body, or something like that. But I need it. We need it. Water, to counteract hunger. Water, to counteract food. I have been thinking about this for a long, long time. We need it, she and I. That's the scariest thing about anorexia. It splits your soul right in half.
Last night, I didn't feel well. Driving home I nearly threw up, winding around the roads as they blurred. I remember thinking, in that altered state, of so many things to write. I had ideas, hundreds, the words and phrases swimming in front of my fingers. Unfortunately, when I finally stepped into my living room, I passed out on my sofa. Today I can't remember any of them, at least not in their entirety. Fragments are the only things I feel, now. Fragments that aren't memories, and never could be – because, of course, they never
in the first place.
She loved me. She wanted me every night.
Oh, that was probably just to pass the time; a girl like Kate Connell, she needs a little more. We saw the bruises, Randy. The old bruises, your bruises.
I'm sick of this bullshit, I haven't done anything wrong. Fuck you! You're just a prick in a jacket!
This shit might work on your mama, Randy, but it ain't gonna work with me. Know why? Because I know things. I know that you beat your girlfriend. I know she was seeing someone else.
I dunno. I couldn't get her to tell me.
Men always talk about their balls. Despite having been raised by a man and surrounded by other men throughout my lifetime, I'm still hung up (that was not a pun) on that phenomenon. Believe me, boys, ladies care much more about your schlong than your balls. And, to be honest, they don't really care much about that. What they care about is what you DO with it. But that's another story. Back to the balls-as-measure-of-manhood. Hate to break it to you, sugarpie, but balls have nothing to do with strength. If I kick you in them, you're spitting blood. Definitely.
Mike Dobbins. Nick Verdis. Brady Adamowicz. Chris Grammer. John Harvey. Jake Chester. Mike (what was it again?) Chris Koegler. Taylor Sargent. Chris Bowie. Brendon Clark.
And so it goes, am I correct? Just like the song: And so it goes. I have loved three of them and regretted four. Oddly, three are named Chris. I wonder if I've forgotten anyone. It would be a truly awful thing if I had, wouldn't it? I know people who can't even name them all. If there's one thing that I've learned in my nineteen years, it's that some people are really, genuinely disgusting.
When the tables are turned, we cast a disapproving eye on the inquisitive: the compulsive profile-checkers and closet Googlers who we might or might not call our friends. That's weird! we say. What are you, some kind of freak? we ask. But the truth is, when we are alone at our computers, we check profiles and run searches like starving animals scrambling for scraps. It's a human thing. The desire to know is stronger than any other. I'm not afraid to admit it. I Google. I check. Furthermore, no matter what anyone else thinks, I'm going to keep doing it.
It has been eight days now.
It has been eight days since I've kissed your lips, since I've felt your forehead against mine, since I've traced the outline of your jaw with a fingertip, since you've laid your head down on my shoulder, since I've felt your arm around my waist, since you've squeezed my hand as we walked, since you've brushed your cheek against my shoulder, since we've fallen asleep wrapped in each other, since I've embraced you and felt time slow down, since you've whispered something in my ear.
It has been a very, very long eight days.
I am not blessed.
I am not reborn.
I am not a virgin.
I am not infused with spirit.
I am not spreading God's Word.
I am not guarded by angels.
I am not a sheep.
I am not zealous.
I am not overcome with joy.
I am not saved by the Savior.
I am not religious.
I am intelligent.
I am a thinker.
I am inquisitive.
I am a lover of humanity.
I am pro-choice.
I am liberal.
I am a student.
I am full of life.
I am happy.
I am satisfied.
I am a realist.
Why is it acceptable to show babies' asses on TV? You know, eventually they're going to be grown-up asses, and then they'll be obscene, right? Then they'll offend, am I correct? Whatever. That's always bothered me, and not because I want to see older asses on TV. It's because kids' asses on your TV right in your face are as annoying as kids' asses in your face in real life (maybe I exaggerate...or, more likely, I don't). In any case, it's stupid. White, upper-middle class, conservative women like my stepmom will tell you they're cute, so there you have it.
So I'm talking to the woman behind the desk, and I see you out of the corner of my eye. I run onto the basketball court. I yell your name. You turn around. You say, "Hi." You turn back around. I keep walking toward you. You don't turn back around. I speak again. You acknowledge me shortly. I am hurt. I ask you some menial question to alleviate the awkwardness on my end. You answer (shortly, again). I am confused. I never could keep track of Wheeling people. When did you stop liking me, now? Let me get a pen.
Lying there on that couch, languid, silent, pensive; sitting there in that chair, nervous, guilty, jealous; leaning back with this cigarette, sensing, weighing, thinking; standing up in the darkness, hat on, shoes tied, keys pocketed; rigid now near the doorway, too loud, too happy, too persistent; laying down with a drink, eyeing up, measuring out, loading silence; down the steps; eyes up quickly; drink down slowly; air cut sharply; gone now completely; speechless but wordy; observant and witty. Ah, a night with my best friend and my ex-boyfriend, a regular cesspool of discomfort. I love those guys more than anything.
I'm so angry and frustrated that at three in the morning, right after I left, I call your phone; you answer, and that surprises me, because you have been making a point of not answering – but anyway, you answer, and I ask what you want from me, and you say you don't know, and I yell YES YOU DO KNOW WHY ARE YOU SO AFRAID TO SAY IT, and then you say it, and then you start to cry, and then I start to feel bad, and then you say you'll call but I know somehow it'll be a struggle.
They all wear nothing but Abercrombie. Highlights in their hair glint in the sunlight as they drive in their identical little red Mazda Miatas. They all wear loads of mascara; they all own heated eyelash curlers. They all listen to Dave Matthews and pretend to know about guitars. Car parts are status symbols. They all have the sort of stiffly overbearing parents who always seem to be out of town. Their fathers all play golf; their mothers all love soccer. Water bottles full of vodka, tennis uniforms perfectly pressed. The perfect Wheeling girls. They make me want to be sick.
I would love for you to show up on my doorstep so that I could spit in your face. We're over, you blithering, utter idiot. We've been over for a reeeeeallly long time. Stop trying to talk to me about Chris. I'll kill you. Stop trying to talk to Chris about me. Trust me, he WILL kill you without hesitation. What car are you driving? What girl are you fucking? I don't know, and I don't care to. She'll never be as good as I was. You know that, or, rather, you must, because otherwise you wouldn't even mention it.
Every time you look at me, I wonder if you see what we used to be. Do you still feel my nails raking your back, do you taste my lips, do you smell my skin? I wonder if you remember little details, if you remember all the things you used to do for me, to me – or all the things I used to do for you, to you. I wonder because I see bits of something in your eyes. I'll be sitting there, smoking a cigarette. I glance -- and I catch the briefest glimpse of...lust?
It makes me giggle.
Touch me, and something waiting underneath my skin will ignite us both. Before either of us know what's happening, we'll be on the floor. The words will come as images: your smile and mine, your hands holding my wrists, my legs around your waist. It will be slow, so sweetly, infinitely slow, but over in one heartbeat. Kiss me, and I will melt into your hands. More pictures: my eyes closed tightly shut, your strength against my own, our sweat in tiny beads. Our whispers will become one scream will become hot silence.
Tonight I learned the power of imagination.
I snapped last night. It had been a bad day. Guilt from the animosity between my two best friends was overwhelming. We're all relatively drunk, standing in that house, and Taylor says he'll call Chris tomorrow. Chris (sarcastically) replies: "Yeah, sure you will." Tay looks like he's about to kill someone and yells, "I don't call cause you're fucking my girl." That's when I get involved. I'm not fucking anyone. So I turn around to both of them, the boy who used to fuck me and the other who always wanted to, and say:
I do not belong to you.
If I believed in angels, I would say that you were mine. An ocean away, and you still find ways to show me just how you love me, how you care. My emotional need for you has become a physical one. I need you to hold me; I need to feel you beside me, I need to put my forehead against yours and wrap myself in all you are. I love you with an intensity that even I am not capable of understanding. I don't have to understand it. I simply know that it is, and that I am happy.
My brain is fried over this, over you, over all of it, over the way you follow me around, over how you ask my friends what I'm doing, over the smell of you I still remember, over that shirt I bought you, over how you've changed, over how I've changed, over my helplessness, over the look in your eyes when you won't look at me but you're trying to, over your attempts to get me alone, over your attempts to apologize, over your inability to hear me, over your selfishness that reaches down into me and rips everything to shreds.
Get out. I don't want you around. I don't want you in my head. You were in my dreams, last night, fucked up as they were. You sat beside me, in this dream, and just stared at me. Stared for the longest time, until I reached up to touch you. Dream me wasn't sure if you were dead or alive, so I reached, with my hand on your forehead, like I was checking for fever. You became you again under my hands, you in Technicolor, you the way I wanted to perceive you. I woke up this morning and cried.
christ oh jesus what is the matter i don't know what to do how to explain and i need need need need to pick up that phone because christ oh jesus all i want is to feel you on the line because you say these things to me and no one fucking knows no one including me exactly what you mean but christ oh jesus how i should swallow all of this without choking on you so i will not call i will not call and my hands are shaking and christ oh jesus i will not cannot fucking call
I really hate one of my stepmother's brothers. He is one of the loudest and most obnoxious bastards I have ever met. Everything is a joke with this guy. You try to have a serious conversation with him, and you find it's just not possible. He's so annoying that I hate being in the same house, let alone the same room, with him. What amazes me most is that he gets laid A LOT. I have never seen him with the same woman at two family functions in a row. And he's short. And really ugly. What the hell gives?
SEX. I want it now, and lots of it. I know I could make one phone call, right now, at three a.m., and have it.
But I won't.
Hi, Brendon. I know you're reading this. This celibacy thing is killing me. I hope you know that I've never put a boy before my sex drive. ::grins::
You have nothing to worry about. Here's your piece of always, this 100 words. So even if I'm gone, or if we fight, or if we go our separate ways, you can come here, to May 31, 2004, and read this.
I love you.
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