THIS IS A TEST.
One hour of sleep couldn’t possibly free my mind from a reintroduced havoc. I suckled on a 5-hour Energy, chasing after a caffeine overdose with a double-shot cafe. The jitters find my fingertips, yet I don’t believe fatigue or adrenaline is the cause. I heave sharply and twitch, a puppet fine-tuned to the plucking of a heart beat.
Today’s agenda has me making agreeable throat sounds to topics like 9-11 and the values of Education. They are now trending topics right next to relationship quotes and Chelsea Handler. And as I silently mindfuck thoughts on humanity à la mode, the LA heat rises to hit my face. A caked cheek landslides.
Across from the circle is a dark man in a stark white shirt burying his glances into my conscience. He’s new and it was my job to welcome him in. I know things like his W-4 but not the way he likes his eggs.
Somewhere between carpools, he began frequenting my flat on random nights. We lay and talked and watched mosh pit videos, but abstained from the distractions of sex. There’s an element of forgiveness that comes with the traditional sense of courtship. It’s something I have never experienced in all my years of dating, left unnoticed but always essential.
So long without someone like him I’m not sure if my body can manage the change, or relapse once again into rebound.
My place is only around the corner from his so how bad could it be? Los Angeles doesn’t wake up until 10 anyway. I’m wearing bar appropriate clothing with hooker hair in broad daylight. All of a sudden the walk around the corner seems like miles away.
As soon as I enter my building, I could feel the stares. There’s a film of oil on my face and it reeks of McDonald’s fries. I look down and clench my parched mouth shut as I hurry to push the elevator button. It’s stalled and a crowd of residents start to congregate. Shit. The fumes of my funk begin to radiate out of my nervous glands.
I resort to climbing up the five flights of stairs, but discover my key doesn’t work. When maintenance comes to aid me he leans in to talk and I flinch, hoping that motion would conceal my dragon stench. Nevermind, I’m clearly humiliated, and everyone knows I’m that stinky girl who got laid last night.
I hear words like, “loser” and “you don’t deserve it (love),” and then I realize I’m waking up every day questioning my worthiness as a companion:
One day my ambitions told me I could paint, paint with acrylic on rigid, crisp awning cloth. I sought to create a profile of a woman with a flowing mane that framed her face and ran to the edges of the canvas. Simple and not anything more than cliché.
Fresh paint is amazing stimuli. Thick like butter and incredibly vibrant. Even the black popped out with subtle midnight silver. I was ridiculous with excitement. Steadying my wrist, I dabbed on black, and caressed the canvas with one curvaceous attempt. There she was staring to the right…with a pair of gnarled lips. So I figured I could distract the mistake by covering the deformity of the woman’s mouth with extensions of her brown locks. Before I knew it, I was painting a tropical flower, and then field grass, and then a pine tree with apples. The field grass mixed with the brunette, which then mixed with the yellow highlights of the flower. Until, I sat back from my hopes and peered at the bird shit green muck before me.
How long did I paint this picture before it was distorted beyond improvement? True story.
The honeymoon phase is as blissful as frolicking naked on a white sand beach, fruitful with joy and purity. The sun glazes over every inch of my body, milking my sea-salted skin with all of its wonderous warmth. My hands stretch to the sky to feel the aromatic trade wind from the ocean beyond that greets me at my feet. It is a great paradise I live in, and like all things, rips away from my subconscious to place me into that empty room I share with him.
We sit, both in silence, because we can’t afford to fill our ears with more resentment. Our eyes squeeze shut with frustration and confusion, turning solid trees into cold, wet walls of lumber. We are enclosed in a box, and it is the farthest I have ever been from him.
I think about touching him the way I did in paradise. We made love in the water, on the sand, against the rocks, and it was every bit as real as the fire burning inside me right now. If he turned around he could see it trembling through my body.
My body shakes with choice, to put out a small, blue flame called faith, or burn down these walls. We both have a choice that neither of us want to make.
I have come to the conclusion that I have blatantly announced I’m on the market. Lesson noted: never put yourself on the “market” because it allows men to think you’re just a “piece of meat.” No, I’m not wrapped in plastic waiting to be devoured. Yet, I find myself in bed with a man who is making godawful throat sounds and nibbling at the tip of my ear.
His name is Pablo Picasso. I wish I was lying when I say this, but I checked his ID. He came to me in the middle of the dance floor when I was trying to catch a beat. He was the only man who found my robot mildly charming, and I was grateful that someone could find some humor in my displacement. Read the rest of this entry »
I haven’t heard from him for more than a couple of weeks, and the loss of his attention makes me love hungry. Every day before his estrangement, I would swaddle my phone in my palm, anticipating the sudden boost of adrenaline when I would eat up his delicious slick words and feel beautiful and desirable. They were simple words like, “good morning,” or a ridiculously dry joke, but they were all moments I knew he was thinking about me. It was a dance I played silently with pride, fighting the urge to get in touch and let him know I was thinking about him just the same. Now that he’s gone, my solitude echoes in the walls of my chest; a wicked reminder of what I have done.
Every little, stupid chime of communication becomes one more time I fail to avoid the disappointment. The chimes come and flash in the dark, displaying a “Joe” or “Brad”, insignificant pawns that are just as lonely and vulnerable as I am. It’s another witty message from the old divorcee looking for a mid-life crisis fix, and then one from the presumptuous prick boasting of boozy nights bought with unemployment checks. That’s what I have succumbed to. My stomach curdles, and I let the backlight on my phone fade along with my hope.
Heart break doesn’t hurt as much as it is irritating. It doesn’t even centrally affect my heart per se, but my whole upper torso like a fat elephant compressing the crap out of me with its fat butt. That’s about as degraded as I feel right now: a woman that had her heart crushed by an elephant’s ass. It sits upon me, that white elephant, wiping its vulgarity all over my pure intentions, and the only thing I can do is turn my head away from the stench of my humiliation.
As difficult as it is to accept, I’m beginning to understand the demise of courtship. Two people throwing risk into the air hoping to catch one another before it drops right down on them. Some people connect and allow themselves to waltz away from the danger. The less fortunate are too busy hopelessly depending on their partner to save them from their own frailties, ultimately blindsiding them from the crush. So, how can I blame the endless encounters that have met and abandoned me? I understand now that I have never willingly accepted the responsibility of my own safety. I am rhythmless.