FRAT BOYS DO NOT INDUCT NEW MEMBERS THAT’S ALL A MYTH
THEY HUG A LOT AND REAL HARD AND THEN LATER IN THE NIGHT A NEW BABY BOY COMES OUT OF ONE OF THEIR BUTTS
AND THEN THEY RAISE IT UP
TO BE A WHOLE NEW FRAT BOY
THAT’S HOW IT WORKS
Sometimes I think about all the times I almost cried and then think about how different my life would be if I had
I. Today I counted the number of men I’ve dated since I came to Massachusetts (or “dated”) and I got to 36. Just over two years and 36 men. 36 hellos in coffee shops, in bars, on corners. 36 explanations of who I am, what I stand for. 36 idiot introductions, 36 awkward handshakes. Last night in the bar I wanted to cry but I didn’t and so I kept smiling and I couldn’t remember why I wanted to cry after a while and someone took a picture and I drank more whiskey and thought about how later I’d remember why I wanted to cry at an inopportune moment like on the train or while I was sitting at my desk at work. 36 stories that don’t go anywhere. 36, Oh I know hims, 36 waves across the bar, 36 half smiles walking down the street.
Today I asked a friend, How do you know when to give up? If something is good but it’s not working because life is in the way do you just stop? and he said, Well sometimes the parts just don’t come together. It’s the right person but you’re ravenous or it’s the right person but you have no desire.
I smoke too many cigarettes again and my doctor says it may be contributing to my panic attacks which, naturally, makes me panic. I turn numbers over in my head. At work someone asks me for a fiscal analysis, apologizes for how complicated it is, and I finish it under an hour. They tell me my work is excellent and I want to say that it’s the only thing I understand anymore, variables that I can control. 36 is a number. I can understand a number. I can understand 36 bodies. I can understand the 1,656 chromosomes that gave rise to those particular morphologies—but I don’t understand what it means to not talk to them anymore. I tell someone that I feel like a sloppy echo chamber, like something that makes silence, and then I remember something I read about the quietest room on earth—so quiet you can hear your own blood flow through your veins.
II. The other night I had a lucid dream about J. At first it was just a memory. Watching him die again. Sitting in the kitchen not knowing how to cry about the thing he’d just said to me. And I remember thinking to myself, I don’t want to dream about J. Not like this. and then it changed. I was in a house I’ve never been in, with my cousin, and two of my best friends from high school and we were only kind of drunk and eating donuts and J was there and he looked healthy and happy. I told Ian about it and he said, A dream is good, even if it’s a bad dream. A kind of cleaning house, like smudging. I feel like you have to dream something thoroughly in order to forget it completely.
Walking across the river the wind catches the salt and the smell of brine goes straight to the back of my nose and, for a just a minute, I’m doing the only thing I can.
How slow life is,
How violent hope is.
When did you first notice that your sadness had its own life—when did you begin to feed it; when did you realize you knew it better than anything else?
EVERYONE LIED TO YOU, BUT IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT—THEY WANTED THE BEST FOR YOU WANTED YOU TO KNOW HOW TO HAVE UNCOMPLICATED JOY AND GOOD CREDIT, WANTED YOU TO LEARN ALL THE KINDS OF SILENCE YOU COULD ENJOY WITH ANOTHER PERSON, TO SEE FIREWORKS AND FEEL WONDER INSTEAD OF WORRYING ABOUT THE ATMOSPHERE AND ONE DAY YOU WILL REALIZE THAT
THIS WORLD IS NOT THE ONE YOU WERE TAUGHT TO SURVIVE AND SO YOU MUST BECOME A WORLD UNTO YOURSELF
In a society that has structured itself around needlessly complex communication the greatest danger in maintaining clarity is running the risk of being dismissed as crazy
Q:That's some fine boi right there and mama wants!
Don’t ever do this to me again.
I have a draft email from August 31st,
addressed to no one, that only says, “Someone needs to sort her fucking life out.”