I keep a small notebook in my handbag for when I’m drunk. I rarely write in it while I’m sober. I just checked it now for the first time in a while to see what I’ve been up to. It’s like reading postcards from someone else’s life. Compact slices of my life from different moments, that hardly make sense, yet just do. Here are some, not all are drunken:
I sometimes fight for things I don’t believe in, not causes, but ideas and compromises. Suddenly, I’m mid-sentence of an argument trying to convince someone else of something I’m not even sure I believe in. I fight these fights because I’m so used to getting my way, that even if “my way” isn’t ultimately what I even want, I’ll fight for it just because it is too late to change my mind. Just because I’ve already committed, put down my card, dug my heels in, said, “I’m sure.” And even if I’m not, I’ll convince myself. And then, I’ll get my way, and I’ll wonder with that heavy limp feeling when you’ve slept too long and your body is tired is. I’ll wonder in a daze, “why did I start this conversation? Why was I this catalyst when I have no idea what I want?” And then I’ll push REALLY HARD and pretend I’m certain. I’ll fight for something I’m not even sure I want, just to get what I want, despite myself. I don’t want to be right or win, because, as it turns out, it’s lonely at the top. I’d rather be wrong and honest and not have to fight. Why can’t I keep my big trap closed?
Everyone sees it but me, and if I projected my life onto the screen to watch it, it would be obvious even to me. He’s perfect for me.
I’m sitting outside at the corner table of Isabella’s on the
Phil needs a banana piece of art for the yellow room. For ButAnna.
I met an older gentleman named Bill at a bar called Asterisk in
“Oh, for who?”
“I need help with that,” he said.
“Oh, well, sorry, I don’t get free Viagra.” I can’t believe my mouth sometimes.
“I meant help with a web site.”
I met Brian for a first date at Bryant Park Grill, not exactly the atmosphere that encourages the baring of our most appalling secrets. Bryant Park Grill consists of a lot of blue shirts, horrendous neckties, laptop bags and middle aged men who because they aren’t bald yet insist on wearing their hair high and wide, a nod to Max Hedrom. The pocket kerchief can be spotted here, I’m afraid, usually on the same men who pay someone to highlight their hair and pronounce schedule, “shed-ule,” as if it has something to do with Rudolph. You’ve heard of eight men out? This is eight men in, a pathetic circle of trust consisting of folded arms, $5 beers, and goatees, complete with blackberry and removable wedding bands.
Since when is Shepherd’s Pie “light fare?” Since The Banc says so on their menu, right beside “Filet Mignon Baguette.” I love that mignon means cute. Cute beef.
Whatever, call me racist. I hate having to be on the defensive, but whatever. It’s my celebratory night for putting black on white paper. I’m out with Gay Max, Smelly, Shawn, and Co. at The Other Room because Salon was empty. We left and hit “The Coral Room” for
I know I’m white when the “Shake Your Ass” song makes me think of Hugh Grant. As a white person in a black club, you’re very aware of your rhythm, aware of your hands and how fast you’re moving. I don’t want to be that freaky white chick, so I watch the women who beset me as a cue to how fast I can move. Mostly it’s sultry, but fcukit. Eventually, I close my eyes and stop caring. This is it kids, the redhead without rhythm, and guess what? I really don’t care. I imagine as a black person it’s tough to live up to the rhythm stereotype. It’s like a reserved, reticent, redhead having to feign passion to live up to the red on the head fire in the bed stereotype. Something I’d know nothing about.
You can feel the bass in your chest while you Cain people watch. Everything is backlit, and all I can think of is home and hamburgers. A Persian girl with big jeweled earrings she probably made herself is talking to a crusty bearded redheaded guy who’s wearing a trucker’s hat. When I pass her, she introduces me to a man whose name I cannot hear, so I ask to see his I.D. Surprisingly, he obliges. D.O.B.: 1983. I say, “Dude, you’re Almost a Bowling for Soup Song.” Cain is young kids spending Daddy’s money on cigarettes and the upturned pink collar. The hooch is on the house. Metal wristwatch, cuffed striped button down, jeans, some kind of loafer. If someone turned on the lights, stopped the music, they’d scatter like roaches, but you’d notice the tall chick with the breasts is really in platform wedges and a too small top. That chick would be me.
The couple beside me is smoking pot, the lit up part in his mouth while she tokes. Who does this?
I’d like a dirty martini. Actually, make it obscenely dirty.