random2

            I looked at the clock on my phone and considered the fact that it was almost 5 a.m. My stomach fluttered like it does when one consumes a single bottle of red wine in less than four hours. I wasn't sure if Nebraska sold alcohol on Sundays, but it turns out they're trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents just like the rest of us. I should go crawl into DK's bed, I thought. For two seconds, I wondered if that would cross the feminist lines the United States has established in the last two years. Since Drumpf became "president" last year, consent is the most valuable commodity in the streets and in the sheets.

           I haven't talked to him since January and before that, October. I stayed the night at his house over on Osage Street. I don't even care that he bought it from his grandpa, a 25-year-old with some equity is always sexy. I'm only a year younger and the most valuable possession I own is a smart tv my dad bought me for Christmas. I pictured myself walking in his front door, passing the kitchen and living room, winding my way down his stairs, through the small basement living room, and slipping into his bed. He would be startled at first, but after I said, "Why didn't you answer my text the other day?" he would know it's just me. His long arms would stretch over my waist as he yawns, "You know I pay attention to my phone."

            Yeah, I smiled to the ceiling. That's a great plan. I hopped into the shower, because I'm polite as shit. Showing up to a booty call with an unclean body is like a surgeon with grease stains on his scrubs. I'd still let him perform because he has the knowledge and equipment, but I'd be pretty fuckin' uneasy about it and concerned about infections the whole time. I tip-toed up the stairs so as to not wake my 65-year-old roommate. He has wheat harvest this time of year. I tossed my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles towel on the sink and turned the shower handle to hot even though I know it's not good for my skin. The coziness of liquid warmth pushes cognitive dissonance into the most desolate corners of the mind. When I tilted my head backwards, I felt my hair barely brush my shoulders. Why the fuck did I cut all my hair off?

            I washed my body and brushed my teeth: the minimum standard for this shower. I ran my hand over my vagina and felt prickles. I leaned down to grab shaving cream and a yellow women's razor out of my shower caddy.  I squeezed the liquid on my hands and rubbed them together.

           It would be the understatement of the century to say I've been dealing with some things. What I'm trying to do here is ask for a solid. Well, social psychologist Barry Schwartz says the optimum number of choices are six to ten, so I'll give you some favors to choose from.

Can you...

• Loan forgive my $22,000 worth of debt for my 3 1/2 years at community college

• Nuke that guy in Fort Collins (you know the one)

• "Accidentally" leak the cure to cancer

• Give reparations to African-Americans

• Re-elect Obeezy for a third term

• Start treating U.S. citizens with respect

• Just admit Bush did 9/11

• "Accidentally" leak the cure to AIDS


           Any of these requests would suffice. Since you're tracking my whereabouts at all times, you know how to get in touch with me. Just let me know.


           Your homie,
                     J

random1

            Why do I feel like I'm so undeserving of love? The last syllable of that thought barely brushed the tip of my cerebrum when a message lit up my phone like a REZZ concert.
            "Are you up? Busy?
             Alive? jkjk But I miss you," my sister texts. She's not my biological sister; we've just known each other for eight years and been through some heavy shit together. When you're 24, that's a minute. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. I know she's trying to make me laugh but also check in on me and see if I'm okay. When I fall off the Earth, people that love me know I've fallen off.
            "I've been going through A Time™ lately.... I'm sorry," I reply with the quickness.
            "Don't be sorry. I been busy as shit the past few weeks. My first day off was Wednesday and I spent half the day doing laundry :("
            "I just go through these manic phases where I want to publish a book that becomes an American classic & is taught in schools or become a DJ that travels the world and makes people happy with my music but then I'm like, oh lovey... you're not meant to be Somebody, silly..."
            "Dude, how do you think I feel with the name my mama gave me?" Roberta Star. My eyes squint and my mouth opens real wide and I laugh. She's got me there. I see that she's writing some more, but I just put my phone down and I stare off into space. Literally my eyes are settled on my altar situated on my dresser: two Buddha statues (one corpulent, one emaciated), a tiny bust of Nefertiti, a crystal ball on an orange mount I bought on the internet, the tarot deck that's lived with me for seven years, a cheap incense holder, and writing stones among other offerings. But that's not where I am. My mind is consistently delving through alternate histories, scenarios, and universes.

n-o

     It's not that I don't want to do this week's prompt as much as a new moon and solar eclipse made an appearance on July 2nd and then Mercury went into retrograde on July 3rd so the week was packed full to the brim of self-loathing and heartache and regret and sadness and worthlessness. These are not the ideal conditions to write anything of value.

     Name a time when you said no: right now. I refuse to do a remotely decent post. Okee bye!

la challenge

            This angel I used to know that disguised herself as a therapist once told me that I experience life in real time and then I go home to write about it as a means to process and cope. Per usual, she was not incorrect. So when my 15-year-old cousin developed a habit of calling me to discuss the drama and trauma in her life— eerily reminiscent of my own childhood—I aggressively urged her to start a blog. Sometimes we have secrets and stressors that are so deep-seated we need a mine canary to let us know danger is lurking. If not, one might resort to self-harm in the most insidious ways.

• Have you ever drank so much UV Blue that you blacked out and walked into a barbwire fence and earned mutilating scars all over your body?
• Have you ever put yourself in a position to be taken advantage of by a strange man and when you confront him about your discomfort he says, “I told you I would sleep on the floor”?
• Have you ever went into your friend’s house when they weren’t there and veered directly to their stash of weed and helped yourself to a handful because, after all, you’re sure they wouldn’t mind?
• Have you ever sat in the living room of a busted trailer at 2am with a taken-apart disposable razor listening to Beautiful by Eminem and It's Been Awhile by Staind while you make ten even, parallel lines in your skin because your brother is on meth and your mom has depression (so she sleeps a lot) and your dad loathes you and your other brother lives in his own isolated world that doesn't include you & your needs? 

            You know what I do even when I do not feel like it? Live. Exist. Be here. Physically. Because mentally I stay living in the past: every mistake, every faux pas, every flaw, every mean word that’s left my mouth, every heart I ever hurt, every tear that was the result of my arrogance. The all of it. What did Relient K say? Who I am hates who I’ve been.

            For the last… oh, let’s say three years, I’ve referred to myself in third-person. I’d be like, “Old Nessie would have slapped the shit out of that girl at the club who, when I said, ‘Can I get a drink?’ (because she was standing in between me and the bar) looked at me sideways and was all, ‘I’m not the bartender.’” Wig. I was telling my old-man-friend a story that involved this third-person ritual and he brought to my attention that it’s just a defense mechanism. By extracting myself from previous, fucked-up situations, I disassociate and be replaced. It wasn’t me that did those things, said those things. It was her. The other me. The un-me. Portuguese poet/writer/philosopher Fernando Pessoa said, “Ah, who will save me from existing? It’s neither death nor life that I want.” 10/10, sir. Can relate.