L A F E I S T

truth slayer


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What I want.

image1

For some

reason

I daydream

when my hair flies

and my pores raise

— he pulls up

because he knows

my routine.

Breathing out,

I close my eyes,

I breathe in,

and I’m pulled back

— houses full of laundry

pushing their smells

clean, fresh

chemicals

on the lawn in front of me.

But what do I want?

I want to eat less

red meat

drink less

but more

whiskey

sit at tables

vibrating from

jazz

sit among poets

converse with people whose answer is

“No, I don’t care to be famous —

but I care to be remembered

well.”

I want to dye my hair to match my

childhood

roots

someone to love

me for my foul mouth

and laugh at my jokes

dance in the kitchen with my

socks on

that I don’t wear anywhere else (because I can’t

slide).

I want to sniff library books and

hear the cellophane binding crinkle

in my hands

while I highlight my favorite

words,

flag pages

and number them to match their doppelgängers.


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loneliness on a stick.

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I regret to inform you that avoiding the cliche is temporarily unavoidable, as for the time being, I am Powerless to stop it; when it rains it pours.

See it? Capital P.

–Though, not in the life-in-general sense {life doesn’t completely suck — yay!…} but in a singular sense. In all honesty, life is quite nice.

Nice and lonely.

It seems that when one friend is absent, they are all absent {a.k.a. the pouring}. However, when one is present, they are all present as a nice and shiny example of how great human kind is and how they must know when I need them the most. It’s that friendship sixth-sense I value like a Macy’s Santa Claus — allowing one to hang on to belief despite non-belief because when it’s in front of your face, it looks damn near like the real thing. I’ll take it!

I can hear my mother’s voice right now, “Friendship is a two-way street. You could very easily pick up the phone, too.” Yes, mother but it’s not quite as satisfying.

Also, mother, I’m thirty-three. Almost. Let me continue making dumb choices despite your excellent advice until I finally get it on my own, even when I’m close to never.

My family left the house this past Sunday and headed back to Dallas. The nice thing about having company for a long period of time is the constant companionship and the distraction from one’s own agonizing thoughts. On the other hand, those once silenced thoughts come raging forth when the door shuts behind them as though they had been locked up for years being served prison food. Feed me! Something nice and fatty please. Perhaps with some bacon grease. And a fried egg.

Last night, I was sitting on the wrap-around deck, feet propped up on the empty chair beside me, while the breeze reminded me that I still have skin. As I turned the last page of my book {doesn’t sound quite as romantic as “squeaked my finger across the glass screen of my e-reader”}, I looked out at the diminishing lake and the endless hills, and I felt the vastness of my surroundings. Suddenly, my thoughts became aggressive. The world is vast and you are alone. You just finished your fifth book in two days — #hermit. No one is thinking about you right now.

She was a real bitch. If I was drinking right now, which I’m not, I would have emptied a bottle. Why am I not? Trying not to feed the beast. She’s an even angrier drunk. Not me, my thoughts. No, I’m a sensitive drinker. I’m sensitive now, but when I drink I’m at risk of saying things like, “Why can’t I be more like Oprah?” and “I’m sorry, I don’t have any change right now, but do you think it might be possible for me to adopt you?” It doesn’t take a mathematician… or a linguist… to understand angry thoughts + sensitive me = not pretty.

In about a week, I return to work, which means returning to routine and sociability. I do know that I can do this. Not only can I do this, I can take advantage of this solitude while it lasts, and as agonizing as they are at times, listen to my thoughts, defeating the bad ones with steel rods of self-contentment that force me to stand upright on my own. That sounds really painful, but you get it.

Have you ever felt a jolt of loneliness like this? Are your thoughts sometimes a mean jerk? What are some of your coping mechanisms?