reductions.
i make the sandwich i don't need to eat while i stand over the sink. i take knife-fulls of peanut butter and spread it on a piece of bread, making sure to reach every corner of the bread. my dog notices that i'm in the kitchen, and instinctively, he comes to beg at my feet. i put the knife in the sink, the bread on a paper towel, and the lid on the peanut butter. my dog barks, letting me know he's there. i spoon a small amount of jelly onto the companion piece of bread, making sure it stays towards the center of the bread. spoon in the sink, sandwich the bread, lid on the jelly. my dog follows me as i walk out of the kitchen.
i sit on the couch and pick up the book i'm reading. it's written by a gay man who's funnier than almost every straight man i know. i eat the sandwich and turn the page, smiling at what i'm reading but at the same time feeling more bored than ever. the dog barks and inches closer to me, his laser look of concentration made less serious by the string of drool that's escaped his lips. he's lost all sense of tact with age, and his begging has become more of an out-right demand instead of a casual suggestion. i put the book down and give him a piece of the sandwich, knowing full well that it encourages the begging. but he's suffering from a liver disorder. peanut butter and jelly is the least that i can offer.
he follows me from room to room as i finish the sandwich. i make coffee, pick up my shoes, and check my phone. banal txt messages from friends or my sister; something usually about school, where i'll be tonight, or what looks best with patent leather thigh-high stillettos. i wonder why i haven't heard from one person, why i no longer want to hear from another, or why i don't care anymore about hearing from yet another. a friend calls and i don't answer. not because i don't want to talk to them, but because i have nothing to say. for some reason, "today, i finished all my laundry, re-arranged my books, did the dishes, and finished my holocaust reading," or "today i learned that the verb tourner means to return to, as well as turn over," doesn't come through on it's promise of gripping human drama. what i want to talk about, and what they want to hear, are my horrible life decisions, because that makes them permanent, makes them real. and makes their life look better by comparison. besides, they're not the person i really want to talk to. and that person's not calling.
the dog stands behind me and barks and it causes me to jump out of my skin. for this, i don't give him the rest of my sandwich crust. i pet him instead. i go online and pay this week's bill, effectively bringing my bank account to near fatal collapse. i check my wallet to make sure that i have $10 for gas tomorrow. being broke while i'm in school better pay off in spades once i'm able to work full time. i walk back into the kitchen to get coffee, but the dog doesn't follow me. why would he? it's not like i have anything more to offer him. instead, he's comatose on the recliner. he's become a parasite.
i go upstairs and throw my shoes in my room. my laundry doesn't pile up anymore because i do it every two weeks now. i can't remember the last time i wore lingerie to school because all the other underwear was dirty, or had two day socks because i ran out of clean pairs. my office is finally rearranged and i can only nit pick at it. "my" bathroom, however, remains a mess, because four other people use it and i can't control their messes by myself. it's distracting to have my environment in working condition.
i drink my coffee and smoke a cigarette as i stand by the sliding glass door. i wish i could park a dumpster under the deck and throw out ninety percent of my parent's belongings. i'm comforted by the fact that they're encouraging me to be a minimalist. i keep an ear out for my mom's car, so she won't catch me smoking. my dog wines on the other side of the door. he loves me again now that i can do something for him. i let him out and watch him as he circles the deck and barks at the neighbor's dog. i extinguish my cigarette and take the butt inside to flush it down the toilet. leave no evidence behind.
i check my phone: 1 new message. my heart races. but it's from verizon, reminding me how to save minutes. i go upstairs to take a nap. tori amos understands me, i think to myself. yes, that makes me a tool, but that's ok, because tori amos is still pretty great, i remind myself. i'm 22, i'm pseudo-gainfully employed, and i'm fucking awesome as hell.
at least, that's what my therapist keeps reminding me.
i sit on the couch and pick up the book i'm reading. it's written by a gay man who's funnier than almost every straight man i know. i eat the sandwich and turn the page, smiling at what i'm reading but at the same time feeling more bored than ever. the dog barks and inches closer to me, his laser look of concentration made less serious by the string of drool that's escaped his lips. he's lost all sense of tact with age, and his begging has become more of an out-right demand instead of a casual suggestion. i put the book down and give him a piece of the sandwich, knowing full well that it encourages the begging. but he's suffering from a liver disorder. peanut butter and jelly is the least that i can offer.
he follows me from room to room as i finish the sandwich. i make coffee, pick up my shoes, and check my phone. banal txt messages from friends or my sister; something usually about school, where i'll be tonight, or what looks best with patent leather thigh-high stillettos. i wonder why i haven't heard from one person, why i no longer want to hear from another, or why i don't care anymore about hearing from yet another. a friend calls and i don't answer. not because i don't want to talk to them, but because i have nothing to say. for some reason, "today, i finished all my laundry, re-arranged my books, did the dishes, and finished my holocaust reading," or "today i learned that the verb tourner means to return to, as well as turn over," doesn't come through on it's promise of gripping human drama. what i want to talk about, and what they want to hear, are my horrible life decisions, because that makes them permanent, makes them real. and makes their life look better by comparison. besides, they're not the person i really want to talk to. and that person's not calling.
the dog stands behind me and barks and it causes me to jump out of my skin. for this, i don't give him the rest of my sandwich crust. i pet him instead. i go online and pay this week's bill, effectively bringing my bank account to near fatal collapse. i check my wallet to make sure that i have $10 for gas tomorrow. being broke while i'm in school better pay off in spades once i'm able to work full time. i walk back into the kitchen to get coffee, but the dog doesn't follow me. why would he? it's not like i have anything more to offer him. instead, he's comatose on the recliner. he's become a parasite.
i go upstairs and throw my shoes in my room. my laundry doesn't pile up anymore because i do it every two weeks now. i can't remember the last time i wore lingerie to school because all the other underwear was dirty, or had two day socks because i ran out of clean pairs. my office is finally rearranged and i can only nit pick at it. "my" bathroom, however, remains a mess, because four other people use it and i can't control their messes by myself. it's distracting to have my environment in working condition.
i drink my coffee and smoke a cigarette as i stand by the sliding glass door. i wish i could park a dumpster under the deck and throw out ninety percent of my parent's belongings. i'm comforted by the fact that they're encouraging me to be a minimalist. i keep an ear out for my mom's car, so she won't catch me smoking. my dog wines on the other side of the door. he loves me again now that i can do something for him. i let him out and watch him as he circles the deck and barks at the neighbor's dog. i extinguish my cigarette and take the butt inside to flush it down the toilet. leave no evidence behind.
i check my phone: 1 new message. my heart races. but it's from verizon, reminding me how to save minutes. i go upstairs to take a nap. tori amos understands me, i think to myself. yes, that makes me a tool, but that's ok, because tori amos is still pretty great, i remind myself. i'm 22, i'm pseudo-gainfully employed, and i'm fucking awesome as hell.
at least, that's what my therapist keeps reminding me.