Sweets

There is a sound like knees being skinned on concrete as she runs her mascara brush through her mousy eyelashes. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberry ice cream after it falls in the dirt; her eyeshadow is the color of bruises from a bully.

She deepens the artificial blush on her cheeks. There is a sound like tricycle tires deflating as she breathes. She's ready to fall in love.

Proof

I snuggled under the blankets. Then, realizing I'd overheat later, I peeled off the top comforter. As I rubbed my legs together to get warm, I had a startling moment of clarity: I'd rather be unsatisfied now and satisfied later than satisfied now and unsatisfied later.

This was so important that I wrote it on my hand so as not to forget. It applies to heat-induced dreams about vampires, sleepless nights annotating literature after procrastinating, waiting for dessert, and finally opening presents on Christmas.

Hopefully it applies to the rest of my life as well. Let dissatisfaction reign.

Ectoplasm

#92... These blog posts add up. I need to catch myself in a net.

Fictional Interlude (not quite right)

I've got a little bird
I'm gonna take her home
Put her in a cage
And disconnect the phone

"It’s not easy," she said, strung out and tearless. "People think it is, but it’s not. My face is completely covered with acne, and I’m still beautiful. I’ll always be beautiful, no matter what. I can’t escape it." She gave up on the Rubik's cube in her hands and tossed it away. "It’s horrible."

"You’re outdoing yourself," I said.

She was my friend now. Her parents’ beauty had blended harmoniously in her and her younger sister, two sets of green eyes with dark lashes. Even now, consumed by unattractive self-pity, she was stunning. Furthermore, she was right.

"I’m on Zoloft," she said. "Did you know that?"

"No," I said. "Good for you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" she asked, her eyes narrowing poisonously.

"I’m glad you’re seeking a cure for your problems," I said. "You also seem to be pleased with those problems. So, good for you."

"You’re being condescending again. But yes," she conceded, "I am pleased. Don’t you think depression is attractive?"

"Yes," I said.

"So maybe I can win you back," she said.

"No," I said, "you’d never have to win me back."

"What do you mean?"

"There’s nothing to win," I said. "You won it already."

"Do me a favor and don’t say shit like that."

"I love saying shit like that."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Not really, but why should I stop?"

"It’s fucking annoying, you know."

"I know."

Her brow furrowed as she played with her fingers. "It’s because shit like that makes me think I still have a chance with you," she said.

"I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. You’re naïve to think you’ll never fall in love again."

"You’re being condescending again."

"I don’t care."

"It hurts me not to be with you," she said in a strained voice.

"I’m flattered."

"You’re a dick."

I knew she was in pain when she left. Even if she never saw me again, she would still be beautiful.

Fucking Americans

Savasana, the corpse.
"Take this time to seal your practice with stillness," he enunciates.
But I am thinking about sex. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

The Bitch Walks

David Bowie was always the Lizard King for me; I didn't see it in Morrie. I walked for a long time today. Walking as a means of transportation lacks glory, whereas walking as a means of journey is luminescent with empowering Emile Hirsch appeal. As far as love goes, all I have is turning down.