Life ain’t a track meet- it’s a marathon!
I’ve taken over his bedroom. Sprawled out on the bed blogging. My books and films covering every table top. Lingerie and high heels strewn about in his California closets. Current TV on the flat screen, Duffy blaring from his sound system. I’ve seemingly pushed him out. Something I am great at doing, pushing, it makes running all the more pure.
Some days all I want is for someone to tell me it’s ok. To let me run into their arms, turn my back and be free. Someone to tell me it’s ok that I fucked up and that I can come home and everything will be alright. But I am far too proud. Too embarrassed to admit that I failed. So instead of adding to my family’s burdens, I play the strong one. The orphan. Poor little rich girl in her luxury condo. Too afraid to ask for help.
The girls say it. Over gnochhis and wine at Raddichios. In between the cadences of passing bread and butter. They say they are proud. Proud of me. Proud of my struggles. They think I am brave. They think I can do anything. It’s comforting knowing someone out there believes that I’ll make it.
My entire life I spent in motion. Moving from city to city. Never planting roots. Cities that pushed me out, aborted me like some unwanted fetus. A place and time that wasn’t accepting of me. And there I go, pushing myself onto a new place, struggling to fit in, to find myself. Taking the easy way out, running, it’s what I’m good at.
But this time, it’s different. I won’t do it. I won’t run. I will not let Philadelphia win. I’m surviving. I’m independent, getting there. I’ll stay. I’ll wallow in the broken pieces until I can hide them in the back of my closet next to those Coach bags I never carry anymore. But I’ll stay here trying. For now.
L-O-V-E. Just Maybe.
Things change quickly in Philly. Cliques grow tired. New is out as soon as you blink your eyes. Infatuations fade. Friendships disintegrate. You must always adapt. Take the role as the chameleon.
In a city rich with so much history, I suspect nothing really exists that is real. Only artifacts kept precious under glass. You’re only something in this city if you’re a tourist attraction. So you set yourself on display on Rittenhouse Square. The blonde bombshell sitting neatly outside of Rouge. A crowd of hungry people searching for something to fill their empty souls. You’re only as good as the car you drive, the bars you drink in, the people you call your friends and the ones you know are your enemies.
The City of Brotherly Love. The City of our founding fathers. Pretty historic Society Hill. Beautiful green manicured lawns of main line mansions. The truth is, this city of love, is lacking it. I love and loathe this place and yet always nurture the uncomfortable suspicion that I have been here before, and that I will be here forever.
I wore a bright green dress on Friday, and felt bad that by 9pm I had drank so much wine at some shitty South Jersey restaurant with El Douche I forgot to call Noah. He sat alone in Miami alone, texted me occasionally – enough to make me feel wanted, enough to make me feel cruel. I snorted a bit of white powder I found at the bottom of my Prada wristlet and was surprised by the hit. I danced in my green dress around his house, out of it, home, and in B’s car downtown to Vango, where I danced some more, giddy and light and carefree in my Center City life so far removed from those times in North Philly, that shitty little pre-existence. I had been up since 6am, and by 3am was exhausted. The Latina came over.
“Can I stay over Dix?”
“Umm, yes.”
“OK. Yay! But now we have to watch ‘Entourage’.”
I crawled under my fluffy black and white paisley duvet, and the Latina crawled into bed with me and we snuggled drunkenly together for one episode, her arm around me, and slept. It was a gentle, kind sleep, a sleep like an embrace, her small, brown body carelessly pressed against mine in warmth and friendship, and I loved her for it, watched her face as she breathed softly. It was a sleep I didn’t want to end, but when we woke up in the morning she hugged me briefly and ran off to work, and I wandered around the city, fragile and aching for more. I can’t remember the day. I mean, I can’t remember what I did that day. Maybe I slept, maybe I watched a movie, maybe I read. I remember the night though. I always remember the night.
Max came over and we drank and it made us feel like we weren’t the only ones alone living a fucked-up dream of confused identity. We were outside on my balcony drinking cheap beer, rocking back on bar stools dragged out from inside. We talked listlessly and groggily while staring out fascinated at the stale rush hour traffic crawling across 676.
“I was going to see if maybe you wanted to hook up, but it seems like life has fucked you pretty hard in the ass lately.”
I laughed.
“Anal rapage, and I have this great city to thank!”
Max and I are comfortable together, after spending 2 years tucked in the corner of English classes we somehow serve each other as something. Perhaps stunt doubles for complex lovers. I hadn’t had sex for a while, and could barely remember what it was like, but my body was battered with drugs and overwhelmed with sensation, and while I was teetering on what might be called mild depression and neediness, a craving for touch and affection, sex was curiously absent from my mind. Not so with Max’s.
“I was thinking we could try out that Kama Sutra book you have in your bedroom.”
“Noah gave that to me.” Still, perched on the bar stools the night crept around us anonymously lurking. The lights on the billboard flickered on.
“What was the sex like?” he asked.
“Drug infused and dirty. We would gorge upon MDMA. It was filthy.”
“Like how?”
“Sometimes, he’d grab my throat and choke me right before I came. Other times he would just stop and look in my eyes, almost tender. Ya know? Then he would just spit in my mouth and look at me. Sometimes he’d jam his fingers down my throat and watch me choke. He loved it. He even loved when I pissed on him once.”
Max seemed pleased by this answer.
A wave of serotonin shot through me, a shudder of nostalgia for all the nights like this before, all the nights like this to come.
There are times, as a writer, I doubt anything I ever did. I feel guilt for lack of productivity. For lack of drive to d anything. El Douche hugged me and told me it would pass. I find myself staring at a computer trying to sort things out. Decide what to do.
“I worry about you.” said El Douche, concerned.
“Why?”
“Because I love you. And that’s what people do when they love someone. They care.”
I nodded blankly.
I need to get some fucking work.
Something I love. Maybe.
You’re So Young
“You’re so young. Do you even know what love is?”
I remember those words. They echo in my dreams.
I hate that question. Sure, I dream of sharing my life with someone. Someone to take care of and to be taken care of. Schedules to coordinate, magnets on a refrigerator, and a fluffy duvet. Memories for two. But I realized that at 23 I don’t need a husband for any of this.
I overcame the pressure to get married too young. But most of all I overcame the pressure to drop out of school. To turn back and run in the other direction when the going got tough. And boy did it get tough.
I had a life planned with someone I loved.
I moved out and moved on. I was free. I live on my own. Stand upright on two feet. For years I was trapped, never allowed to leave the house I shared with him. I suffered severe abuse. Skin grafts and therapy. I suffered to come out the end with the edges blackened, but not worn.
Now, I take my youth and my freedom and I run. I may be seen running from club to club, laughing and giggling. Don’t try and stop me. This freedom is new. I live every single day as if it is my last. I don’t tell you how to live your life. Don’t tell me how to live mine.
Cupcake Love
I remember when two of your friends touched me on the shoulder. They said you spoke of me often, that you loved me so much. I was surprised to hear them say it, “love” without pause. I remember the look in their eyes; it looked like sorrow, and I couldn’t thank them by name. Somehow the memory is foggy. Lost somewhere in my nights of debauchery.
I remember how you loved me; I saw it in your hands and see it in mine now. It’s cream like the sofa. Vanilla, like the frosting on the cupcake.
When I remember us, I remember the day you brought me a cupcake, and how you sliced it in halves for me while I was sleeping. Dipping frosting on your finger and awaking me with its sweet taste. Laughing and feeding each other cake with no qualms or hesitations. No realization you’d be leaving soon.
I loved that you were proud of me before I ever knew to be. I wish you were here to hold me now. You’d be thrilled I won this award. I’d call it dumb and you’d say I wasn’t. You’d take pictures like a proud parent at a school play. “My writer” you called out to me. It danced off your lips like the snowflakes on my window.
I’m tired of my re-run nights of mistakes, of my safe two-bedroom, single serving of a life. It’s why I reached my hand out toward you. The reaching is the hard part; it’s like getting to the gym. Once I’m there, it’s all Frito pie. And I reached for you. You reached back, telling me you would never let a girl like me go.
Illusion
“You’ve got a great ass.” He said.
I smiled. “You’re a great illusionist.”
He winked and stumbled drunkenly away into the Men’s room.
I remember he was cute, but he had a lot of bling…
“D’ya think you’ll fall in love again?”
I blinked. I didn’t hear the question. We were sitting in Brasserie Perrier, an expensive bar surrounded by the usual corporate types. Her little black haired bob framed her face and she cocked her head to the side. She always makes a silly grin and it makes me laugh. I sometimes forget how fortunate I am to have such wonderful friends who make me laugh for no apparent reason.
“So do ya?”
I slurped down more Chardonnay. The always-temporary solace. My liquid lover.
“I dunno.” I murmured.
My eyes darted around. It’s strange navigating these two worlds. The dark, seedy, Philadelphia world, and the bright, clean, designer closet existence of my friends. I was raised around the clean living, jet setters. I feel at home here. I suppose because of my privileged lifestyle and private school existence. Yet- I somehow fit in with the strippers. Having access to the beautiful world of my friends is comforting, but it often makes my days harder. In the strip club I don’t allow myself to feel. I’m fueled by alcohol and the kindness of strangers. I keep my real heart hidden.
Love? I don’t know. My heart seems to resemble the uneven brick pavement on Cherry Street. Bricks being forced out by a tangled mess of weeds. But I doubt anything will grow in this heart overrun by alcohol, the occasional drugs, and Philadelphia. The murky pit of bitterness and pride. I don’t think even in my heart that I will settle anywhere with anyone. From my life experiences, I’ve learned that if you keep moving it doesn’t hurt so much. Stay unattached. I’m efficient alone. I hate being alone, but I can dance better, work better, when there is no commitment. I play the performance of Criss Angel and offer you a safe illusion.
Crumble.
I woke up with a raging hangover. Head pounding, eyes like two cut slits, trying to shield the sunlight. It was 7am. I woke up in a mansion with some asshole licking my cunt. He kept going even after I came. I feigned any attention to him as I tried to replay the previous night’s antics in my head. That’s my problem with drinking wine is that I drink too much and I black out. Forgetting what happened. Dangerous even.
I vaguely remember sushi at Raw followed by tequila at El Vez. Since I have become single I have eaten more sushi than I have in my entire life. For some reason men always make first dates in sushi bars. To this idea I cannot quite comprehend. I see nothing sexy about slurping down raw fish. But, perhaps I play the game well. The fat bastard never ate sushi. It’s times like these when I miss him.
Last night I couldn’t even have sex with El Douche. I just moved away listless. Emotionless, that strangled feeling I am so accustomed to. I thought about Noah. Xanax. Trying to numb this feeling, to muffle the sounds of my breaking heart.
I just want to be happy again. I don’t know where to find it. I volunteer at CHOP, giving away what heart I have left to people that deserve it more than I.
Noah knows I’m dating. I text him during bathroom breaks. Under the table in between false emotions. I’m confused. I don’t know what to feel anymore, how to react, how to be the real me. I just want to be normal again.
I feel like a bulimic Purged of any ambition or dreams. This city is devoid of hope, devoid of real, it’s full of empty. Things change here. Things crumble. People try to become something here, but they never succeed, sucked back in the endless circle of hatefulness and deceit, the city of brotherly love.
I had the latina stay the night. I was lonely. We watched an episode of entourage. Her brown skin sunuggling up to mine. Warmth and friendship. Rare emotions here. An almost treasure. During the day I barely remember, but the nights are Technicolor.
Hold hands before you cross the street…
El Douche rolled over and kissed me on the forehead.
“Wake up sleepy.”
I squeezed open my eyes and looked at the clock and mumbled.
He laughed.
“Let’s go look at cars.”
I forced myself out of bed and into the first Juicy track suit I could get my hands on. We went to every luxury car dealership in Cherry Hill. I test drove every last car, until I got my hands on my dream car.
It’s meant to be easier, this vacuum-sealed, flat-packed, round-edged, abbreviated, alleviated life. But nothing fits, nothing melds, nothing slides and edges don’t quite meet and it’s the wrong shape, and that’s not right, and no one told me that this paying of tax and getting of accountant and dealing with money and jimmying my way back into the system would be so uncomfortable. I didn’t ever fit and so I don’t belong, and now it’s starting to show.
“Which one do you like best?”
“That one.” I pointed to the little white one
Well, I like it. No. I love the car. The problem with this America, it fits no one, you have to make it fit, crowbar yourself in like they were too small jeans. Along with the credit history, the bank account, the SS number Can I write yet? Can I? I’m meant to be writing a fucking book.
I breathed in deeply “So we don’t have a good chance?”
“Well. Not if someone else applies, someone who has a more stable income, more established credit.”
A more stable personality, someone who finds they’re a perfect fit in life’s perfect puzzle, that it fits them perfectly, smoothly, just like a, like a, like a
Like a perfect little stripper.
I was silent in the car back to his house. He slid his hand into my palm.
“It’ll be fine.”
I cyphoned down the last of my coffee and stared blankly out the window. I have the cash. I have the will, but once again am left looking for help, for assistance, for someone to hold my hand.
“So, I don’t have bad credit? I just don’t have enough?”
“Well, yeah, it’s kind of a catch 22.”
I sighed.
“I can co-sign the loan for you.” He said.
“No, I’m trying to do this on my own for once.”
“Do what?”
“Live.”
No matter what I do, how much I try to get there on my own. Reality smacks me in the face and forces me to hold the hand of something stronger, better, faster. I’m working towards it still. This sense of being independent. This new idea. Where things are not handed to me. I will get there, on my own, just you wait.
