swings and circuses
I am not a good girl, or a good woman, or even an especially pretty monster. I'm socially awkward in what is often a very real, very serious, very not-cute-or-endearing way. (Starting barfights by accident- awkward. Inappropriate flirting and oversharing with complete strangers- awkward. Not being able to look anyone in the eyes and tell them that I love them EVER, not even if they're my own parents- awkward. Not being able to look anyone in the eyes at all- awkward. Not realizing it's a date even after the boy I'm with pays for all the food and takes me to a party with alcoholic beverages and then to his house and almost throwing up when he tries to go in for a kiss- awkward. Irrationally disliking people because I don't like their voices or their Bad Teen Mustaches or their excessive bumper-stickering of their cars and then being really grouchy at them all the time even though I know it's wrong- awkward.) I'm not photogenic. I'm not confident. I'm too impatient, too bored by complicated rules and restrictions, and too lacking in small motor refinement to become genuinely skilled at much of anything. I don't have a startling capacity for love. I don't even have a regular capacity for love. I have a smaller than average capacity for love, and it's mostly directed towards books. I will probably die alone in a room. I will probably be unmourned. I will probably have, like, thirty cats...or, no, not cats, something more bizarre and less cliched and less potentially lovable...lizards, maybe. Iguanas. My undiscovered corpse will be partially devoured by my many iguanas over the course of several days until the stench of putrefaction alerts my downstairs neighbors to the fact of my demise and they call 911 and the whole building is overrun by guys in hazmat suits who take the hissing, biting iguanas to wherever it is they take hissing, biting iguanas-- maybe they just release them into the sewer system, or the political system; that would explain a lot-- and they find all my books, all my papers, everything I've been working on in all my adult years as a near-anchoress, and they'll take them out and put them in the recycling 'cause they're a fire hazard or the neighbors will sneak in and steal them for toilet paper or kindling 'cause the future is full of shortages, and I will be no Henrietta Darger.
That said, the spring weather is positively lovely, the trees are chartreuse and golden-green, and if I have a redeeming quality, it is that I'm smart enough to impress people with useless information and interesting turns of phrase. Also, I can carry a lot of weight on my head, and dance all right. And sometimes all right is good enough, you know? I blew everybody else's oral presentations out of the metaphorical water last week just because I had actually, completely memorized a poem (like we were supposed to), and actually attempted to give a dramatic recitation of said poem (like we were supposed to) instead of speeding through it as quickly as possible. It hardly mattered that I then read most of Anne Sexton's biographical information off the back of my hand.
And my best friend has a boy...thing...who has her thanking the universe and wondering whether she's having a wish-fulfillment dream or really living it, and how can I not be happy on her account? I mean, shit, she sounds like she's flying like some girl in a Chagall, in her mind if not in fact. (And I float like some girl in a Chagall in fact, if not in my mind. Oh, swings and circuses.)
Also, the barbecue grill and the cardboard box are vastly underutilized instruments in modern popular music.
That said, the spring weather is positively lovely, the trees are chartreuse and golden-green, and if I have a redeeming quality, it is that I'm smart enough to impress people with useless information and interesting turns of phrase. Also, I can carry a lot of weight on my head, and dance all right. And sometimes all right is good enough, you know? I blew everybody else's oral presentations out of the metaphorical water last week just because I had actually, completely memorized a poem (like we were supposed to), and actually attempted to give a dramatic recitation of said poem (like we were supposed to) instead of speeding through it as quickly as possible. It hardly mattered that I then read most of Anne Sexton's biographical information off the back of my hand.
And my best friend has a boy...thing...who has her thanking the universe and wondering whether she's having a wish-fulfillment dream or really living it, and how can I not be happy on her account? I mean, shit, she sounds like she's flying like some girl in a Chagall, in her mind if not in fact. (And I float like some girl in a Chagall in fact, if not in my mind. Oh, swings and circuses.)
Also, the barbecue grill and the cardboard box are vastly underutilized instruments in modern popular music.