A Life I Never Meant

I love a mess. I love to clean, fix, mother, pamper. That's what I was taught as a little girl, the person I was raised to be. A cleaner. A fixer. A solver of problems.

And oh, man, are there some messes out there. I married one of them. I got him all cleaned up and good to go, and go he did. Now I see him out with his girlfriend in clothes I bought and I have to pretend that I am very progressive and modern, and I don't want to tear every hair out of every follicle on their bodies. Because I totally do.

And this whole single girl thing? I guess I would call it a wonderful drag. Because on the one hand, I'm nobody's sweetheart. And on the other...well, I'm nobody's sweetheart. There is no one to notice that I haven't had toilet paper in my place for like 4 days, but there is also no one to go buy it but me and damn, that's a drag.

And there's this whole casual sex thing, which I still don't get. The showing of the vagina is a big deal to me - preferably a drunk deal, but whatever - and it's even more sticky when the object of your affection has a girlfriend and ends up in jail. I mean - how does the second date go? Does it happen? What constitutes a date, anyway? An orgasm? Split appetizers?

My perception of fidelity is sort of mangled these days. I'm willing to admit that. I mean, you can't hold fidelity in your hands. You can't make someone be faithful. They can promise you, but they might be lying. Or they might change their minds. Maybe they just don't know what that means, to you or to themselves.

Me, I'm just tired of doing the right thing and having it blow up in my face. That, too, is a drag. I'm going to do what feels right to me, in my beady little heart. And right now, that means taking what I want - for the most part. I mean, today I wanted to call in to work and spend the day taking adderall and making lists of people I hate. But I'm going to do that later because you have to prioritize, even when you are in a very, very dark place.

And I am in a very, very dark place. But I'm also having a great time! Which is the weird thing. It's an equal mix of murderous and merriment. Kind of like the holidays, I guess.

This Is Not a Good Side of Me

I'm tired. I am so tired. I sit. I decompose.

I am distracted. I am unsure. I am lonely. This will be my first Christmas without you in six years and all I can think about is some boy I let in.

I don't know if this is progression or regression or if this is just life. If this is how people live.

I feel a deep and penetrating sadness that is not related to any man but to me. It is connected to me, rooted inside of me. I feel like I can't escape and like I am on the run.

I feel that I will never get to rest. There is no rest for the wicked. And I feel wicked.

I Don't Care

If you have a girlfriend. How many children you have. How much money you make.

I don't care.

I just want you to bite me. I want to feel your skin against mine. I want our teeth to gnash against each other.

Just So You Know

I dream about you. Sometimes they are filthy and other times I only touch your hand. But they are undoubtedly sexy dreams. I don't know what they mean, except that maybe I am moving right along. I don't know where I'll end up. Neither do you. But I hope that I end up in a compromising position with you.

Just So You Know

I am so tired of doing the right thing.

People Say I've Done All Right For A Girl

Good things don't come to those who wait, or work. Good things are dispersed randomly by the wind and any asshole can catch them if they are in the right place or climate.

Being good doesn't earn you good things. And being good won't comfort you when you are broken. What is comforting is damage, and not caring, and doing bad things. Bad bad bad. Being good will never inspire the people around you to be good. You will just be a souvenir, or something adorable to show off to their friends or parents. It will never matter that you are good. It will never matter that you are bad. Nothing will matter, actually. Your life will turn out how it is supposed to. You can work and be patient and be such a good good girl. You will not make a difference and you will not earn yourself a place in the hearts of others. You will earn yourself heartache, an abundance of heartache.

All these of years of holding, and withholding, and helping and patience. It was for nothing.

The Thing About That Is, Is That You're Wrong

I accept that my marriage is over.

I was always a very supportive spouse, and that has not changed. That will not change until the day I get my name back, because I am very serious about the vows I took. I will honor my husband, even during the dissolution of our marriage. This is not easy, but it is very important to me.

I asked him to leave, because seeing him in our place and hearing him leave for work without kissing me goodbye was incredibly painful. It was very difficult not to kiss him, hold his hand, make sure everything was okay with him. So, I asked him to leave. And he did. Begrudgingly and with a really shitty look on his face, but he did.

I collect his mail. I make sure he gets his paycheck. I have not destroyed any of his belongings, even the $50 Eels LP that I bought for him. I fantasize about running a lighter down just one side of the record, rendering it COMPLETELY FUCKING USELESS. But I'm not going to do that, because our marriage meant more to me than that and I am a lady.

I encourage him to see his therapist, his doctor. Ask if he needs gas money. I help him pick out a new cellphone.

All of this to say: why do you have to be such a dick when I am giving you what you want? You want a fucking divorce, you are getting one. I have given you everything you ever wanted and I hate to say this, but you're acting a little ungrateful. Just leave me alone and divorce me. I don't want to fight with you. I know that you hate me, because you keep saying I HATE YOU and trust me, I got it. You fucking hate me. You tell me you hate me, you tell our friends you hate me. It's beginning to get awkward, and here's why: You keep telling everyone I'm a monster, but you are looking more and more like a monster everyday. So people are confused, you know? What are they to think?

You have chosen to share the intimate details of our marriage with your friends and family. I have chosen to, um, not do that. I'm not trying to hide any of my transgressions or make myself seem any better than I am. I'm fantastic. I'm also a very private person and I don't think it's anyone's business what our marriage was, or wasn't. In fact, no one will ever know what we had except for you and me. And that's the name of that tune.

Just remember this, darling husband of mine. You broke your last promise to me. And that is shameful.

And In The End, We Were Taken By Surprise

One time you punched me in the face once as I was driving down the highway because you didn't like what I had said to you, or what you thought I was about to say.

You called me fat, told me I looked like a man, made me ashamed of my hunger and my body. I brought out a dress I wore one of those days and it was impossibly tiny. So small compared to the body I live in now. I cried and cried, and spent so much time apologizing to you for being something I wasn't. And now I am, and you are gone.

You made fun of me for idolizing my father, for always calling him first when I was in trouble. But I never could count on you to be there, answer your phone, be sober, care enough, know what to do.

The night I got in that car accident coming to see you, I was scared and drugged, and I begged you to stay with me. As soon as I feel asleep, you crept out and I woke up alone and disoriented.

You never cared enough.

Today Is A Good Day

Today, I don't mind so much that you are divorcing me. That you cut me out of your life after I built you and bought you socks and got you that fucking amp and went to every single one of your shows even when the band was shitty. I don't mind so much.

Yesterday? I minded a lot. I cried and cried, probably more in those 24 salty hours than I have in the 16 days since you told me you were leaving me because I'm mean and you just can't do it any more.

If you called me today and told me it was all a mistake, I would take you back in a heartbeat and the moment your skin touched mine, I would know it was a mistake and there I would be again. In that fucking marriage with you.

I have talked to you every day for the last six years and now you are so gone, so so so gone. And I just miss you so much. I miss you being there and hearing you and yeah even yelling at you. I miss that. I miss knowing that someone loved me, except let's face it. I never really knew that. I knew you loved music and I knew that you loved me taking care of you, taking care of things. You loved smoking pot, I know that. But me? I'm not sure how you ever really felt about me.

Those rings I took off and still look at everyday, well they protected me. They were a wall, bands of safety. They told the world someone loved me, it didn't matter how bad my hair looked or how much weight I gained, or the fact that basically I was going insane. It didn't matter because I had those rings and that meant I had you.

I still have the rings, yeah, but you are so so so gone. I wish you had let me have my fancy anniversary dinner. I wish I could have kissed you one more time. I wish that I hadn't been wrong.

Just So You Know

I will never be there again to see you play guitar.

Everything you are wearing, I bought for you.

I am still feeling for my rings and crying myself to sleep.

This is not as hard as I thought it would be.

This is harder than I thought it would be.

I will let you go. It is not what I want. It's what you want. And I have always given you what you want.

It's Your LIttle Red Wagon

My husband is divorcing me. My husband is divorcing me. My husband is divorcing me.

I have to keep telling myself this so I don't call him by a pet name or buy him something at the grocery store or put on my wedding rings.

My husband is divorcing me. It's a done deal, my friends.

I have loved him for so long.

And now? It's just details. Debt. My name. His things, my things. Even though we have no children, I always thought of us a family and he thought of our marriage as a millstone, some kind of obstacle to his becoming.

There was nothing I wouldn't do. No lengths I wouldn't go to.

As bad as it was at times, as empty and scarred as I felt, I never would have walked away from him. I would continue to try, every day, to unlock him. To make him into a real live boy. To light a fire in him, to inspire him to reciprocate.

Someone I love is dying, and I can't save them. That's what my heart is telling me. Someone is dying.

I thought I had been heartbroken before, but those in retrospect were just bruises. I am heartbroken. I am out of my mind.

Just So You Know

I hate that you don't love me, too.

Straight To You

I've decided to stay married. To stop thinking about what could be and what should have been and just...live my life. Be his wife, be the person I meant to be. I don't know what happened to me or why I couldn't stop it. I don't know why I still let these old ghosts haunt me. This is a life I never meant. I know that. I made promises I intend to keep. I made mistakes I know I can change.

Just So You Know

I idolize my father because he's a fucking saint.

Just So You Know

I am a fucking rock star.

Just So You Know

It doesn't get any easier.

Troubles Enough

I have the tendency to be a rather flip person, particularly when I'm in public. I spent so much of my life in a trench, it doesn't really interest me to be perceived as a very "deep" person although I like to think that most of the people in my life know that there's at least something going on inside of me besides biological functions.

I was a freshmen in college when the infamous September 11 attacks happened in New York. I went to a Catholic college and the next day there was a prayer service out on the lawn. Most of my friends were Christian, if not Catholic, and went to the service. I opted out - I don't crash parties and I'm not going to muck up your nice religious moment with my indifference. Later that day , a friend remarked that it was sad for her to see me walk off alone from the service. And I said, "Hey, it's okay. I'm secure enough in my own beliefs to let you do your own thing." And then this GUY that I was sort of dating looked at me and said, rather scornfully, "You don't believe anything."

First, let me assure you that this particular budding relationship experienced a very early frost. I mean, really. I don't believe anything? Seriously?

As someone without a set belief system or religious background, let me say that not only do I believe PLENTY of things, but that it hasn't always been easy deciphering what is true and what isn't in this big fucked up world. There's no book for people like me, at least not a single book with all the pertinent information. I've sorted some things out. I've made some mistakes, had my mind changed, and even changed some minds. I can definitely say that it's been a long row to hoe, but there are certain things I believe without a shadow of doubt, and these things are dear to me.

Because I Like This Kind of Pie

I cut leaves into my pies.

When I make a pie, I take my best, sharpest knife and I cut two leaves into the top so that the crust doesn't bubble and bake. I think this reveals more about me than my accent, education, profession, or clothing. Moreso than my heartache, my dreams, and the scar from my tonsillectomy - this gesture communicates what I am. And what I am is unfailingly in love with the idea of a good life. Not the good life, mind you. Just a good, simple life...maybe one that Bruce Springsteen would write about.

Here's the catch: I don't have that kind of life. I never did, and I probably never will. Though the use of "never" is widely discouraged as being negatively prophetic, I calls them as I sees them. That kind of iconic life was just not allotted for me at the beginning of it all. I regret this. I regret this more than the most horrible things I have actually done.

I grew up in tense, measured chaos. I won't get into specifics - that's vulgar. I haven't slept in 20 years—not really—and I don't have any hopes of sleeping for another 20.

In my spare time, I've created a kind of media kit for my life and times. The good points are exaggerated, the low points are made into hysterical 30-second anecdotes that I tell my co-workers at lunch as I roll my eyes at my silly, colorful life with my silly, colorful family. I expound on the really, really great moments and I dig little graves for the brutal moments. Ultimately, I live somewhere in between the memories and the cover stories.

At the end of the day, what happened...happened. I am many things – a wife, sister, best friend, worst enemy, good tipper. But mostly, I am a girl who cuts leaves into her pies as a way of living the dream, even if it's just for a few moments.

Just So You Know

Scarlet Fever couldn't kill me and neither can you. 

Leaving here for sure

There's a time in my life that I remember fondly, much too fondly. I look back on it a lot and wish I was still there, with a group of people that didn't even really even know me or where I came from. Those feelings are a betrayal to my husband, my education, all the things I've been able to accomplish since then. But still, there are days that I can't shake from my head the cobwebs of those days. I'm normally a  very eloquent person, but any grace escapes me when it comes to this era of my life.

All I can say is that I was surrounded by a  group of people that allowed me to feel superior, to feel as though I had stumbled upon something very special that would last a long, long time. I was wrong.

What was really the case, is tht I had found a way to cover up my past, my history and distract people with my clothes, my hair, and my innate ability to make some men feel like gods. I was a demure indie rock goddess and eventully you would make me a mix tape, see my pierced breasts, buy me a milkshake, or fuck my best friend. You would never be mine, and I would never be yours. And for one particular man, he also got to break my heart. What wasn't already broken by other circumstances in my life. To say tht I felt special is an understatement. I felt loved, protected. I felt like I floated three inches above the ground.

There were nights when I wnted to clutch the arms of my companion and ask them if they knew what I had to do to be there with them on that curb. All the things I hd to deny, hide, or relearn. Of course, they didn't know. I hadn't told them. I would never tell anyone.

When it all fell apart, as all things do, I puzzled over the whys and wherefores for years. I felt such fierce affection for people I had hidden myself from. I desperately wanted to reclaim that feeling, those people. I needed to feel like I was part of something, part of them. They were part of me.

I spent lot of time feeling wounded and have since realized that I wasn't wounded by any of them. You can't wound ghost, and that's what I was. That's what I am.

I am angry that you broke my heart, that you took my time and my love. I want back the moments that I warmed you as we slept and the times we talked about the children we would have. The times I waited for you as you fucked someone else are my fault - you never asked me to wait. You didn't want that from me. I used to say that you haunted me, but now I know tht I haunted you. I know you, from the tips of your long fingernils to the wings you keep hoping to sprout. You know nothing about me - probably not even my middle name. 

I'm shaking you out of my hair. What you did to me was unfair, careless. But just know that any affection you had for me was for a construct and not a person. If you ever did love me, if part of you still does, cease. Desist. I am a million miles away.

The best thing ever

Once upon a time, I worked at a coffee shop that was smack dab in the middle of three homeless shelters. It was the bum Bermuda Triangle, basically. I worked 10 hour shifts and the money I made barely covered my parking tickets. From, you know, where I parked my car during the shift. 

Anyway, one of my many duties, aside from making lukewarm drinks with spoiled milk, was stocking our beverage cooler. We sold cans of pop, juices, whatever. The cans of pop were the most popular among our "clientele" because they were only a dollar. So anyway, one day I am stocking the cooler and I drop this one can of Coke, like, seven times. I am not kidding. That can was so bloated and full of fizz by the time I got it to the cooler, I was surprised it hadn't exploded. I shoved it in the back and went back to work sweeping the carpet. Because we didn't have a vacuum.

Flash forward to 4:45 PM, the end of my shift. Bums and students are filtering in like crazy and without me realizing it, I sell this one particularly insane bum that bloated, dented can of Coke. 

He goes over and sits down on one of our diseased arm chairs and starts making fun of my boyfriend (now husband) about wanting to have sex with furniture. I don't really know where this insult came from and neither does he. 

My boyfriend (now husband) is about to tell this guy to go back to his crawlspace when he opens that abused can of Coke. Which, amazingly, perfectly, shoots out of the can and hits him directly in the eye. 

In that moment, everything in my shitty life made sense. I knew without a doubt that, eventually, everything would be okay. And it wasn't - not for a long time. But it is now.

And I gave the guy a free Sprite for his troubles. 

Just So You Know

If I fall asleep while watching ANOTHER episode of Paranormal State, I will definitely have a nightmare, freak out when you enter the room, and have to be led to the bedroom whilst sobbing and asking where I am. And then I will ask for a shot of Diet Coke to calm my nerves. 

Just So You Know

If you park like an asshole next to me, I will leave you a note that reads, "The next time you park like this, I'm going to bash in your headlights."

Just So You Know

When you say to me, "I got you a Lean Pocket," I hear, "Hey, you're fat."