If only someone had told me it was the best worst of times. Maybe then I would have kept the receipts. Or demanded a refund.
But no one said a fucking word. Things that were plainly obvious to others remained stubbornly foreign to me; I was always the misshaped peg. And I kept trying to stuff myself inside all of the wrong holes.
I could never stomach the correct stillness of being bored. The mundane nature of pretend adulting goes against the nature of my chemistry; I am not hardwired for responsibility. And that disconnect causes more irritating friction than the back strap of a sandy beach thong.
So I stumble through as best I can. Playing the part of the drunken fool. Disrespecting boundaries. Because things are always more interesting from the other side. That place into which I was always cautioned against venturing. So of course I had to see what it was all about.
Tugging every loose thread. Perpetually playing in Capital Loop traffic. Striking matches anywhere, other than safely on the box. Sticking things in dykes, just because I could. And because I thought the offensive word play was hilarious. Even if she did not.
But I said it to her anyway.
Because it made for a better story.
And better stories make things worthwhile. Because I can hide myself amongst the clutter. Deflect from the staggering amount of personal editing that I’ve needed since even the earliest drafts of me.
The strike of a red pen never scared me; the blank page was always my biggest fear.
I find its emptiness profoundly upsetting. It is the call of an entirely different kind of void. The kind that mocks and taunts. Because unlike the ridiculousness of daily experiences, it is too clean.
And I like dirty things.
They are more fun than being stuck in the dial tone of a tone-deaf world. Or being trapped in an easily overlooked footnote in someone else’s poorly written novel.
Granted, I never expected to ever go down amongst the greats of literary history. Based on previous experience, it is far more likely that I will go down on someone’s sister.
And I’d probably write about that, too.
Everything is fair game; it’s only words. They don’t have to mean anything.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but love words should never be trusted.
