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Ms. Peach to You
Chris told me today what you said, last night.
Apparently I've been calling you seven or eight times a day, just begging you to come back to me. That's news, ain't it?
Chris got me all fired up. (He loves to do that, especially when the problem has to do with you.)
He said, "Taylor thinks he's hot shit."
I said, "Fuck Taylor. I'm hotter shit that he will ever be."
Aaron said that was the best thing he'd ever heard.
So yeah, babe. I have no interest in your skanky ass.
– give me back my fucking watch.
And another thing – because I'm not finished yet. Your friends don't think you're cool for blowing me off. They think you're an idiot (because you are). It's not as though I would come back to you if you did make a move (because I wouldn't). They follow me around, Tay. I don't exploit it, or advertise it, but they do.
And you know what? You do, too.
Where's Brit? She at the bar? Where'd she go? Is she there? Is she coming?
The most delicious thing about all this is that you lost me. You know it. You hate it.
So I'm looking through old papers from high school, and I came across something interesting to take up several entries. I give you:
Taste (Mike's Name)
You made a mess.
You made a big fucking mess.
I dealt with the litter of your life for long enough.
I watched while you drove
(since you simply couldn't handle it when I was behind the wheel).
I followed you and loved you and was everything you ever wanted,
With my dark hair and dark eyes.
Now I've got a dark heart to match –
Isn't that cute? I thought so.
So I listen
to your prattle still, hoping you've changed,
Hoping I've changed since I'm the one who always did the work.
Portrait of insanity
I'm going to name you,
Going to make you wish that you never fell.
This is me, baby-love,
The pretty one with the intellect and the guitar hands
(me, I have passion about what I do, I'm not a fucking failure)
You weren't real.
I'm not real
Because I'm glad I ripped your heart out and I want to watch you bleed.
Taste is the best of the five senses,
Wouldn't you say?
I wasn't ever enough, was I? Oh no.
You needed to swallow me whole,
Take my ambition and my drive and make them your own,
Then take my family and make them your own too
(they're not yours anymore, they don't love you like yesterday, sweetheart)
And break hearts and minds and lips.
You should get a fucking trophy.
Oh, no, wait –
You've already got one;
It's the asinine look on your face when your best friend asks,
"You all right, man?"
And you smile through the guilt
The old love gone sour
Losing something that you value is difficult - especially when you don't know why or where it's gone. Especially when it walks right by you while you're smoking a cigarette on the porch. You close your eyes, because you shouldn't even look at it, because for all intents and purposes it's not even there. You did nothing wrong. In fact, you did everything right. The smile, the eyes, the hands are all the same, but something inside it has crumbled away, leaving a shell of itself. It hurts, and you cry, because you wonder if you ever had it at all.
"Going on a date with a boy puts you under no obligation to him. He has the power to choose whom he will ask for a date and to determine what the entertainment will be. You have the power to refuse or accept. When you accept, you are doing him a favor. His return for the money he expends on a date is the pleasure of your company for the evening – nothing more. Kisses are not doled out to "pay" for a pleasant evening; they are a proof of liking or affection. Any boy who thinks otherwise is a boor."
I've got a lot to tell you, you said to me, before I left. Unfortunately, I didn't consider you worth my time. We've fucked around enough, dear. You're not worth any more sacrifices on my part. Our personal relationship was always skewed all to hell; every time you saw me (every time I made the trip) you insisted on fucking it up even more. A lot to tell me. Hmm. Most likely, you're playing somewhere, or you've decided to get off your ass and sign with that label. God knows it, of course, will have nothing to do with Steph.
Oddly, I don't find myself overly excited for the upcoming semester. I'm uncertain why I feel that way. Maybe it's because I'm already stressed and nothing has even begun. My affinity for stacking as much as possible onto my plate seems to extend past the dessert buffet. Life goes on, though, and it seems I've grown skilled at taking things in stride. Right now there's too much coming at me from every side. I want a massage. I want to be thin. I want to lie down. I want to take a hot bath, with bubbles and candles and wine.
You wonder why I shrivel up every time I'm upset – really, truly upset. It takes quite a bit to really shake me, you see. You shook me. I didn't like it, because I never expected something like that out of you. Like I told you when we were sitting on the front steps, this is your first and last chance. Don't hurt me again. I don't deserve it. I've been through more than my share of heartbreak, I think. That's why I hate fighting with you. It makes everything about my life precarious. I've never enjoyed teetering on an edge.
Parade of pretty girls – that's how you play. March them past me, single file; blonde, brunette, redhead, raven, green eyes, brown eyes, blue eyes, black eyes. Dark skin, peach skin, pale skin. I've seen them all before. I've seen them in my dreams. They are all thin. They are all beautiful. With few exceptions, they are vacant, empty-headed, empty-hearted. I don't pass judgement, but in their cases, things change. Sexy skirts and glossy lips, painted nails and pierced tongues. March them past me, single file. I'll decide in an instant. Rip my heart out and throw it at their feet.
In a million dollar home, a million dollar city, the girl looks out her bedroom window and sees another million dollar home in the million dollar city. She is eleven. Her hair is red. From a stack of a million DVDs, she chooses one and pops it into her bedside DVD player. She climbs beneath her 300-thread count sheets and rests her head against a feather pillow. She sighs, coughs. She remembers she has forgotten to brush her teeth. She leaves the bed and the bedroom and crosses the hall to her private bathroom. She brushes until her gums bleed.
I meet this guy and he tells me he's a writer. He's one of those guys I am immediately
threatened by – meaning, he's either gay or too much of a pussy to try to get into my pants. So I tell him I write too. We start chatting about writing, and immediately he asks me if I would like to see some of his. He pulls a black book from his pocket (I have no choice, I don't really want to but I must not offend!) and starts to read. It's terrible. It's the worst shit I have ever heard.
Last Tuesday a butterfly landed on my shoulder. He was waiting for me to die. He sat and waited as I talked to others who passed by. They came and went, but the butterfly stayed. He let me touch his wing, he said, because he knew it wouldn't hurt. He was waiting for me to die, he said. He couldn't be the one to go first. So he stayed with me, and we laughed and ate and talked. Eventually I died, but we were so deep in conversation that I didn't notice. The butterfly and I, we went on, living.
I've been crying a lot lately. I don't know why. It worries me when I don't know why; in that mental state, little things set me off. I am easily upset. So when we were sitting on the steps, talking, and his eyes wandered to that thin, beautiful woman on the sidewalk, I exploded (on the inside). I didn't say anything then, because I knew that it would come out the wrong way. In fact, I wanted it to come out the wrong way, so I was quiet. Later, I sat awake beside him and cried softly until sleep came.
I am so many days behind. This is due mostly, of course, to the fact that I have no easily accessible internet access at four a.m., when I'm not tired enough to sleep, or when my mind simply won't be quiet, or when I have no more cigarettes to smoke. I'm losing my edge, again. It's a funny feeling. I'm dull. Reminds me of those infomercials you always see on TV for unbreakable, perpetually sharp Ginsu knives. Wish I was one of those. I wouldn't be dull. If I was one of those, I wouldn't be a single day behind.
My increasing penchant for violence sometimes frightens me. It's tied to my penchant for jealousy. A part of me likes to be jealous, I think. It's an interestingly fulfilling feeling, when you're so jealous over an object, a territory, a person, that it can incite a sort of angry lust inside of you. I think it's somewhat like orgasm in reverse. But, I don't want to be arrested, or jailed, so for now, I'll bottle it up inside and take it out through video games. I really wish that I had a British TV. It's a good outlet for expression.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and lay there staring at the ceiling. Stand up, stretch a bit, go to the fridge, drink some water, look out the window, climb out the window, chain-smoke two, wash my hands, brush my teeth, go to the fridge, drink some water, close the window, walk back to bed, stop.
Look at you, touch your cheek, kiss your face.
Your eyelids flutter and you turn away from me.
I lie back down and listen to you breathe, think about love, think about life.
I wake up and lay there, sleepless.
Together in the dark, we kissed. I pulled away to look at you and there were your eyes, amazing as every incredible thing I've ever seen. I smiled, held you closer and told you that this sex is unlike any I've had before in my life, that it's beautiful in a way I can't describe. I know I can tell you this sort of thing; I feel you warm against me when I do. You smiled and said you'd been thinking something similar: you'd had sex, but never made love to anyone but me. The best part? I believed you.
My dad bought this huge house with money he doesn't have, and obviously, I won't be there to help move the things he can't afford to keep into the house. So I'm walking along the street the other day, keeping a tally in my head of off-limits things that I hope he never finds, and I remember this little black and pink book that I used to keep in my bedside table. It was called the Good Girl's Guide to Being Bad, or something like that. It talked a lot about sex. I talk a lot about sex, I think.
She's on my mind again. God, I hate it. I know how things are and how things aren't, but nevertheless, there's that presence, (to steal a simile from Fight Club) like the little cut on the roof of my mouth that would heal if I would only stop tonguing it. Humans, as I have speculated before, are so fucking masochistic. We like to hate things, hate people, and hate ourselves. It's simply a part of the world; love needs a polar opposite to be valuable. Currently, I'm basking in the pleasure of hating that girl. Damn. She's a big bitch.
I was at Donni's house when you called. We were all asleep (considering it was 5 A.M.). I shouldn't have picked up, or talked to you, or gone over there at such an hour, but I did. It was stupid, and I knew exactly what was going to happen. You were going to cry, and ask me to hold you, and get all fucking coked up. I wasn't sitting in your kitchen for more than five minutes when you asked me to go to the bathroom and stand there. You're a sad fuck, you know. You can't hide the white.
I haven't forgotten. Maybe you have. We sat beside each other in that class, remember? There was no love lost between us, at first. I thought you were a stuck-up jackass and you probably thought I was just some stupid bimbo. But there was something fascinating about you. So I made the effort; it wasn't all that difficult. You needed someone. You needed anyone, and then you realized that you needed me. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, now. I wonder if you're challenged intellectually, yet. I, for one, am not. I haven't forgotten the breakfasts. Sadly, maybe you have.
I'm driving down the hill from my house, cruising towards National Road with the music up too loud, when I see your fucking blue Subaru in front of me. I'm not much of one for cliché, but I froze. Solid. The big, ostentatious MIT bumper sticker was still plastered onto the window. I didn't know you were back in West Virginia. I regained control of myself and my vehicle and continued on. You turned off somewhere. I never even saw your face. I wondered if you'd looked back and seen me. I lost track of time for a while, driving.
I keep having dreams that involve my mother. Vivid ones, too, not the kind that you can barely remember when you wake up; I bolt upright at sometime around six every morning, the images still swimming in front of my eyes. I try not to psychoanalyze these occurrences. I've only started having them since I talked to my boyfriend about her for the first time in a long time. Today, my father emailed me – related a story of telling off mom's boyfriend. It was really funny. My life is saturated with my mom, and it's freaking me out. Fucking weird.
No, I don't want Windows to remember my password. Stop asking. My password is private, and you don't get to know it, Windows. Leave me alone. All you ever do is hound my about my passwords. And what's with those cookies? You try making it sound all nice, call it something fun and yummy (like a cookie) and try to fool me into believing you're not screwing with my life, memorizing every move my mouse makes. I hate you, Windows. I hate your Recycle Bin. I don't recycle. Fuck you, and fuck recycling. Tomorrow, I am officially switching to Macintosh.
Oddly, there are no sheets of music sitting in front of her, though one thinks there would be. Light trickles in from a side window and falls short of the keys. She is in darkness. She plays in darkness. Her piano is old and dirty and cracked but tuned and loved. She sits and she plays and she breathes and remembers the music, once beautiful, that is dying under her fingers. She tries to remember – it comes to her in bits and pieces that sting like needles. She fears it will leave her forever. She fears it has already gone.
I hate being female.
I hate the sprays, crèmes, perfumes, waxes, lipsticks, mascaras, rouges, and glosses that come with being female. I hate the shampoos and the scented body washes, the pastel poufs and the debilitating corsets, the cellulite lotions and anti-wrinkle washes. I hate the expensive facials and impractical acrylics, the silicone implants and the lettuce sandwiches.
I hate the men's magazines that make us hate ourselves; I hate the women's magazines that make us hate ourselves.
I hate the haughty glances and the social obligations, the whispered secrets and the hidden razors, the late-night binges
and the self-destruction.
You'll think about me, come September. You'll sit by yourself in your kitchen and think about me. I hope it hurts you like hell. I hope that you relive every moment of the last five years in the five minutes you'll give me. I hope that you get a drink of water and smash the glass against the sink. I hope that in the last, horrible moment, you realize that you'll never touch me again. I want you to know that's how I have gotten through all this – knowing that someday, it'd be over, and you'd never touch me again.
An entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history -- no purpose or place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars...but we won't. We're slowly learning that fact and we're very, very pissed off.
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