Saturday
Still coughing. I'm sorry, lungs. We do it for the sake of art! Artists have shitty lungs! Heroin is passe, right? Suck it up.
Hookah tonight with Saadia. We mocked trendsetters with our scarves and lensless thrift store glasses only to realize that our hipster getup was widely unappreciated in the hood. Suburbia or the ghetto, we still blend in. We still giggle to ourselves. The taste of musky lemon is nauseating but at least it gives me a buzz. Overpriced water. We played drinking games sans drinking with the table sitting next to us. I forgot how boring virgins are.
We head home before midnight. In the car we sing renditions of our favorite 90's anthems made complete with Saadia's husky Hot Topic-core growl and my operatic vocal guitar solos. I can squirt, I tell her. Her and her boyfriend's sex life shares the same excitement as analog television. Grown up conversation. No radio needed to fill the silence.
I'm happy to go to sleep.
My parents do not sleep in the same bed anymore. My dad watches crime scene shows alone in their bedroom. We have sixteen rooms in our house. I have no idea where my mother sleeps.
Sunday
I have rituals. Nothing too out there; my fragile existence doesn't depend on Hail Mary's or brushing my teeth seven times a day. Whatever keeps the demons at bay. Show me the dude who ritualizes nap times and cheap beer and let him know that I would like to trade obsessions. Mine is elementary. I'm constantly making these internal bets in my mind. Loony hypotheses. For example, say that I don't know where my cat is. I bet myself that he might be sleeping on the chair in the living room. If he is, that means that Ian loves me. If he isn't, than I'm destined to a life of paperback romance novels and erotic evenings with Ben and Jerry.
I do this all the fucking time. If that light turns red than I will live to see my twenty-first birthday. If the laundry is still damp than I will be cured. Tinker with fate a bit.
I slept the morning away. One o'clock and I'm sitting shotgun in the minivan. They're talking rehab. My fists clench and I dig my thumbnail into my thigh. Not satisfying enough, so I reach for my earring and take it out and penetrate the denim with so much force so that I can feel the pressure collide and release. Much, much better.
The cafe opens tomorrow. We were quizzed on coffee preparation and register duties. Three other girls were hired. Pearla is unfailingly polite and smiles constantly. She's the typical immigrant worker who speaks limited English and has been assigned to make sandwiches. Then there's Emily, who's pretty and blonde with a boyfriend whom she makes pancakes for every morning. Having previously worked in a deli before, she is God's gift to the cafe and glares at me when I forget to turn the meat cutter off. Cherie Charcuterie. Tara is a staggering red-head with tattoos hailing from Queens. We joked about being party-hearty undergrads. I like her.
Today's low: the Korean co-partner, a pompous bitch in an apron, openly mocking my answer when she loudly asked what size t-shirt I would need. Medium? She smirked and asked, "Are you sure? Try it on for us then." Whatever, I'll take a large. I look busy so that nobody notices my locker room embarrassment.
Ian came by to pick me up. I lean alongside the Saab and take a drag to consider my defense for my drunken break down a week before. He stands directly three feet away, afraid to touch me. He's patient and accepts my lame attempt at an excuse with no probing. It's cold and time to drive home.
Settled besides him with the crooning of Dave Matthews to subside any anxiety, I'm happy to be a here. Back home I hide in my cove with the christmas lights on for heightened festivity.
I hide because I am not welcomed.
Still coughing. I'm sorry, lungs. We do it for the sake of art! Artists have shitty lungs! Heroin is passe, right? Suck it up.
Hookah tonight with Saadia. We mocked trendsetters with our scarves and lensless thrift store glasses only to realize that our hipster getup was widely unappreciated in the hood. Suburbia or the ghetto, we still blend in. We still giggle to ourselves. The taste of musky lemon is nauseating but at least it gives me a buzz. Overpriced water. We played drinking games sans drinking with the table sitting next to us. I forgot how boring virgins are.
We head home before midnight. In the car we sing renditions of our favorite 90's anthems made complete with Saadia's husky Hot Topic-core growl and my operatic vocal guitar solos. I can squirt, I tell her. Her and her boyfriend's sex life shares the same excitement as analog television. Grown up conversation. No radio needed to fill the silence.
I'm happy to go to sleep.
My parents do not sleep in the same bed anymore. My dad watches crime scene shows alone in their bedroom. We have sixteen rooms in our house. I have no idea where my mother sleeps.
Sunday
I have rituals. Nothing too out there; my fragile existence doesn't depend on Hail Mary's or brushing my teeth seven times a day. Whatever keeps the demons at bay. Show me the dude who ritualizes nap times and cheap beer and let him know that I would like to trade obsessions. Mine is elementary. I'm constantly making these internal bets in my mind. Loony hypotheses. For example, say that I don't know where my cat is. I bet myself that he might be sleeping on the chair in the living room. If he is, that means that Ian loves me. If he isn't, than I'm destined to a life of paperback romance novels and erotic evenings with Ben and Jerry.
I do this all the fucking time. If that light turns red than I will live to see my twenty-first birthday. If the laundry is still damp than I will be cured. Tinker with fate a bit.
I slept the morning away. One o'clock and I'm sitting shotgun in the minivan. They're talking rehab. My fists clench and I dig my thumbnail into my thigh. Not satisfying enough, so I reach for my earring and take it out and penetrate the denim with so much force so that I can feel the pressure collide and release. Much, much better.
The cafe opens tomorrow. We were quizzed on coffee preparation and register duties. Three other girls were hired. Pearla is unfailingly polite and smiles constantly. She's the typical immigrant worker who speaks limited English and has been assigned to make sandwiches. Then there's Emily, who's pretty and blonde with a boyfriend whom she makes pancakes for every morning. Having previously worked in a deli before, she is God's gift to the cafe and glares at me when I forget to turn the meat cutter off. Cherie Charcuterie. Tara is a staggering red-head with tattoos hailing from Queens. We joked about being party-hearty undergrads. I like her.
Today's low: the Korean co-partner, a pompous bitch in an apron, openly mocking my answer when she loudly asked what size t-shirt I would need. Medium? She smirked and asked, "Are you sure? Try it on for us then." Whatever, I'll take a large. I look busy so that nobody notices my locker room embarrassment.
Ian came by to pick me up. I lean alongside the Saab and take a drag to consider my defense for my drunken break down a week before. He stands directly three feet away, afraid to touch me. He's patient and accepts my lame attempt at an excuse with no probing. It's cold and time to drive home.
Settled besides him with the crooning of Dave Matthews to subside any anxiety, I'm happy to be a here. Back home I hide in my cove with the christmas lights on for heightened festivity.
I hide because I am not welcomed.
