Bottle Rocket

There is a very handsome man very far away who is very intent on marrying me. This handsome man wants me to cook his meals and wash his dishes while believing enough in my moral fiber to both bear and raise his children.

There is a very handsome man willing to bear fucking only me until he dies—and waking next to me for a lifetime later. There is a man so very far away that he remains ignorant of my mood swings. This man is so far away from any real dynamic in my reality that he does not know the obsessions I have with my skin, sandwiches, or David Bowie. He has no way of being made aware of these things.

This man is too far away to know why I may get up from a seemingly innocuous dinner table in tears, or why I eat chocolate and yell only at the beginning of each month. Yet, this man wishes that our sable hairs turn to white alongside one another. He believes in an ‘us’. I envy his idealism and his belief in us. I couldn’t want any of the things  he wants—not even with someone I loved, whoever he may be. 

Boys Don't Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses

I don’t know how to escape the torturing pinch of men. 
I feel things, unsure as to the validity of the feelings. 
Obsessions mingle and muddle
Boundariless with true interest 
To the point where I can’t see where one starts and the other ends

I have no true feelings for any boy in DC. I just want to win. Win one of these boys. 
But my need, my desire, my intensity deters any healthy competition, for it deters him from even playing. 

If I win, am i winning?
Is this a victory? 

But there's no competition. Because men flee from sarcasm, acidic wit, and intelligence....and misanthropy....and low self-esteem. 

Who's the one to take these as parts of the whole? 
Is this one of those post-structuralist debates where binaries explode and implode only to make a whole new thing? A scared new-me. 

Maybe some more vodka will clear this up. It certainly made it murky--
It's the classic case of adding a little of the virus to the vaccine
Except in this analogy I'm just going to get more drunk 

Potomac

Raindrops fall—are you listening? In the nation’s capitol snow is glistening. There are people in this town by whom I feel almost feel ‘found’. But I think of the boys. I can’t focus on my books or friends because obsessions develop and usurp and other words relating to hegemony. I can’t rationalize loving boys I don’t know, who treat me poorly, ignore me and make me feel to be a burden while I ignore my friends.

I make myself so easy to free them of any burden they may possibly stumble into while knowing me. Getting to know me. They’ll never have to fight for it. I’ll never make that fight necessary. I’m available whenever they need me. Waiting around to be ignored. 

And You Say He’s Just a Friend

E* plays an undefined, and therefore frustrating role in my life. I think he’s fantastic and see with myself with him, yet he won’t/can’t/refuses to fit into any of the available open slots in my life. And this may be because he doesn’t want to. His incessant insistence on self-preservation exhausts my mind and make my heart doubtful of any fruition or concreteness this relationship may possibly have. 

I am constantly cast aside in an effort to provide assurance of his not being in love. He’s so scared of my potential. I told a friend that this whole thing will soon combust without either of us ever knowing how the other one felt. She called it tragic. It is. 

Companions

Cigarettes lack the answers I seek—and self-diagnosed insanity ceases to fulfill me. Poetry is without and ‘Dear Diary’ is another fail among the many.

Notwithstanding the absence of old friends who notoriously comfort and numb—begetting me a complacent place at a comforting pact, I've met new companions to give solace--two, in fact: a boy and idleness. These keep me company and obviate loneliness—showing that friends rarely come in forms that are expected. 

The Truth about Cats and Cats

The bar is busy now. Men in small clothes crouch around tables and recount the last record they heard. They pretend to be numb; interestingly, some pretend to feel everything. Sometimes these men make themselves cry.

I don’t know what the women do because we don’t talk. There is nothing to gain from them. Perhaps a friendship would burgeon, but that requires time and energy—things better spent on boys who ignore me after we’ve fucked. 

Bourbon St.

You remind me of the Unwound 7” I left at your house:
Unpredictable, heartbreaking and nowhere in sight.

I wouldn’t have listened to it anyway,
I lied about having a record player.
I just wanted you to give me something,
and I wanted you to like me.
So do you? Like me?

So waits this educated and …showered girl,
on the boy who sleeps with
blankets he found on the streets of New Orleans.

And I see him at the bar,
and remind him to call me
and his response: “I know, and I did tell you to take a chance,
but I can’t. I told you. I drink too much.”

I got dumped by the drunk, balding guy in girl pants who I wasn’t even dating.
I must find a way to quell these obsessions, as they have clearly steered me incorrectly. 

Unwound

Tonight a man I brought home from the bar came on my leg. He apologized. I said it was OK, while laughing on the inside.

It started out by him asking to kiss me. I asked why (because I mistakenly think things like this make me appear coy) and he attributed his inclinations to my smile and intelligence. I agreed. The night turned into mid-morning. He’s makes sandwiches for a living, and I think about him more than the wonderful man who actually has drive and focus. Who doesn’t want to open an art gallery in NYC.

Yet, I await the stranger’s call—the comes-on-your-leg boy. And I blame myself if it doesn’t happen. I am fatigued from this game, but I find myself putting on my shin-guards to play once more. 

The Warm and Intangible Colors of Spain

I’m tired of thinking about the future. Perhaps commitment to a man, procreation with a little one is a destined path which I am actively deviating.  It’s easy enough to cease motion and devote all of this energy to the ‘other’—Frost’s haunting road less traveled. But I hate that guy’s poetry, so I hate his stupid unchosen path. 

I can’t take part in a wedding procession. I want the 85 year-old me to navigate my next move. Perhaps she would tell me to stop thinking so much, and quote the classic ‘analysis is paralysis’ wisdom of her youth, and use the time to masturbate. She is a kooky old bird. 

The Daily

I met a boy I really liked who made me laugh. With my teeth. The humorous tone of our dynamic turned quite serious and a little romantic. Two hours later we decided to meet the following night. That was last week. And he rejected me.

After a bout of depression and a lot of analysis, I decided to hate him. Concluding that it is his loss…and all other cliché statements women make…but these statements have become worn out and futile, and I found myself at back to normal. And normal for me always means depressed.

Laura and I decided to call him again to find out what happened. He said I was too intense. That when he was sitting with me at the bar he felt in the center of chaos. It’s probably the best rejection I’ve ever gotten. I actually found someone I’m literally incompatible with. As if we’re different species. I mean, there would be no way to have worked around it. I can’t say I did anything wrong. Had I been calm and collected that night at the bar, the intensity would inevitable creep out. This is fabulous news. I’m helpless in this. This guy has no idea the favor he did for me in revealing my ability to be free of controlling tendencies and what it’s like to be incompatible with someone. 

Won't You Give Me Number 9?

Sleep has become a suggestion. My therapist says I’m manic-bipolar II. Maybe I am. I don’t really care either way…is that indicative that I am bipolar?

I’m hungry all the time and 20 lbs heavier than I was last year. I have nothing and everything to do. I’m in love with each and every and no boys.

So, after a night of work, coffee, and friends, I closed my eyes to the silence of my ringer. Because these boys I love so much never call. And despite my full life of full friends, I find the silence of the phone the most prominent part of my present tense. Now the lights are on.

This pattern won’t stop, I make men everything. They create me for the day. I give them the highest priority in determining my mood, they control this THIS ice queen. So again, I ask: where do I go?

Backwash

Something strange has taken over. I can be honest about the pervasive loneliness of my days and nights—but honestly it makes me feel defeated. As a single, successful 37 year-old woman I’m supposed to bask in my achievements, or so the magazines tell me, but instead I relive moments with men who eventually chose anything but to have me in their lives.

It’s easy to feel sorry for myself, but it’s just as easy to declare a change. Either effort is wasted, and so I will search for the contents at the bottom of this bottle. They’ll surely help me figure something out. 

One-Woman USO

I met some balding loser last night in Georgetown. Add him to the Tomcat whom I think is ok, but I’m not sure. I told him to ask for my number when I met him at Che’s. Very Good Will Hunting. Then there’s Marty who has an awesome voice and demeanor, but the sex is robotic. Then Erik who’s been acting weird lately, then Saliba who’s old. So, I guess Tom is the guy for today. I’m sure I’ll be reporting on a new one tomorrow. 

Unheimlich

I have attempted to develop a normal sleeping pattern for the last 18 years, and I fail every night. 18 years worth of nights. I used to lose sleep because of nightmares, and now I waste waking moments on the same notions. Yet, now the nightmares are personal. I actually know these monsters. They are Freudian, and according to Freud, I am shit.

Sleep has occupied so many of my waking moments that I may as well be dating it. I claim to have no time for a boyfriend, but I am married to this sick obsession with my slumber. Since these thoughts, therefore, will probably be the only things to stay with me forever and into my twilight years, I should be fairer to them. They don’t betray me, after all, as a boyfriend would. They are reliable, as a boyfriend may not be. So, now I turn to this nasty companion. I’m sure we’re in for another terrible and eventless evening. 

Switcharoo

Is there a word for an active paranoia and thriving neurosis? Each respective side of my face switches off twitching; it’s a twitch-switch. 

I have become immersed in the worst type of affliction: masochism. This manifests in minimal sleep, exorbitant hours of study, sporadic mealtimes, and the endless badgering of self-doubt. At least this affliction is delivered with punctuality and structure…I can count on it. That’s something. 

It Smells Like Suicide in Here

Time to stop thinking of the boy who loves—stop assuming that he does. 

It is time for the daydream to die. One sits perplexed, wondering what to do with all those notions of ‘forever’ from childhood. 

Who knew the fresh air of ‘forever’ would turn so noxious? Who knew that little girls grew into bitter old women? 

The Dummies Guide

I dated incorrectly. Sometimes I live incorrectly, too. At one point, the handbook dictating the effective, moral and just life was in my possession, and now I’m illiterate. Maybe I’m holding it upside-down…or mistaking it for another book completely. 

No matter; I set down this useless book and search for something more beneficial: a survival guide. In this I want to learn or remind myself of what I’ve forgotten: how to live my damn life. The scariest part is the loneliness that goes with that…and the cigarettes. Both may aid in the creation of bad poetry, I hope, because I know they aren’t helping with anything else. 

Players only Love you When...

I took a boy home last night. He didn’t stay. So, in turn I am wondering and waiting, expecting and aching. And all the other stuff we call ‘life’? Forgotten. All thrown by the wayside for this very unlikable boy. Do I decide for these men to always take precedence? I remember fixations on boys—obsessions. And then I remember not caring a month later. Perspective is, once again, lost.