dicha
Today, on lazy Bloody Mary Sunday, I'm howling like La Llorona, and you won't be rescued from me. My thoughts have grown hummingbird wings, ruby-throated for love and war. I was not born innocent or guiltless. In grade school, I discovered that the other children were born much worse. I might have stolen chapstick from the grocery store and kicked boys in the shins with my hard church shoes. However, I didn't play the headgames of other little girls. Little girls play these jacked up games, like I'm gonna mess with you harder than you can mess with me, just because I can do it. Seed pearl teeth, tanned skin, and laughter like a pack of dogs. You're sitting there with your knees against your chest, pretending not to cry at naptime, thinking, "This can't be happening."
O, but bitch, it is.
Maybe that's why I surround myself with men and boys. I know how to run with these wolves; I like their honest and clean scent. Even when a man is lying to you, he smells like he's not. There is no lingering smell of fresh blood with men and boys. If they wound you, they're up-front about it. They have no corners of their minds crammed with baggage and bones. They've learned to subsist on the remnants and to scavenge. It's pretty efficient, and I like little complications. I prefer my complexities to come from within, not outside of me.
Lately, I've been going to a pub that used to be a bank. I go on Wednesday evenings, and it's me and my silver Frida earrings dangling like milagros from my earlobes, a table full of man-boys, and pitchers of golden liquid that I never drink. The waitress has a Monroe piercing and sometimes buys us shots that taste sweet enough to numb thought processes and turn drunkenness into brilliance. We play a trivia game for money and almost always near-win. The host is an Irishman who uses us as the standard by which he can determine whether the questions he's asking are too hard or not. Our team name last week was The Fighting Amish. I wanted it to be The Amish Street Gang, Motherfuckers, but no one was buying that trash. Turning thirty means I am rowdy beyond what's good. I expect that being seventy will mean more of the same, only worse.
What is strange, my friends, is that I get hit on by twenty-year-old guys and am still carded everywhere I go, unless the bartender is like eighty and those broads know things. When those ladies pour my drink, I just know that they realise I've slept with a number that's less than one hundred but rhymes with shifty, and it gives me the heebie jeebies. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't mind being carded. How this all plays out is baffling to me is all. I'm in looking underage's thing all the time lately. My mom says it's because I never smoked and I don't do drugs anymore; Shaun claims it's the organic and mostly raw foods I eat; my dad says it's not drinking much. I think it's drinking my ass off on the times that I do it and cooling it the rest of the time, getting enough sleep, excercising when I can, and knowing when to gnaw on a candy bar and when to walk away from the artery clogging potential projectile.
Speaking of hot messes, on Friday, I went bowling with another large group of boys. They played hip-hop at the bowling alley. The shoes were cute enough that I wanted to swipe them, but like for real. I didn't, though. I guess part of being thirty is I don't want to get arrested for ganking shoes from a trendy bowling alley. If I'm going to get apprehended these days, I want it to be a goodie, and not after I've paid twenty dollars to be there. Our team was fierce at bowling, and we had the requisite immature bowling names you choose at the bowling alley. Mine was Assgrabbin. Seeing that light up on the screen whenever I did something amused the hell out of me. I am easily amused, I guess.
At one point, we'd had a few gin and tonics, and decided it'd be love-rock to see who could roll the fastest ball. See, that's the kind of high-tech joint we were at: the bowling alley measured the MPH of our rolls. Soon, I was thinking it would be a good idea to see how far down the alley I could get before they threw me out or something beeped loudly at me. What I didn't expect was the alley was really slick with wax. I mean, I knew it'd be waxed, but this was crazy and kind of cool. I slid into an almost-splits. Then, I thought that since I was on the floor in an uncomfortable position, I might as well lie down. A lot of folks clapped. There were a few "She so crazy" looks, but I guess you just had to be there.
Afterwards, we went to a dive bar with a live band that featured a mean organ player. The place promised drunken spelling bees for porn or cans of meat, so I was all over that. We ended up having our own little spelling bee at the table, me and the boys, and I found that spelling words is a lot harder when you're grown-up and drunk than it is when you're a ferocious little spelling bandit of a kid. Let me put it this way; I forgot how to spell Stolichnaya. I used to win spelling bees all the time.
Yes, I can be real and admit that I was messy enough not to remember a vodka. The end of the night found us in a gay club and somehow, I'd gained an admirer from Barcelona who thought I was Russian. At one point, a cocoa-skinned dancer tried to twirl me on the dancefloor, but I wasn't having it. By the time we got home, I wrapped myself up cozy-cozy in Shaun's bathrobe and fell promptly to sleep. The next morning brought the first hangover in ages, and one of the boys from the night before saying, "She is a she-devil."
I've been called worse and been in worse company. That's how it goes, I guess.
Jewel Home-slice Fatherfucker
P.S. I start Aveda tomorrow, Anthropologie on Sunday, and I am so excited! I got to buy new work-clothes yesterday and it made it more real to me. Also, I had a lovely Saturday evening out with Shaun, involving finding him a suit for his arguments section in law school, getting macaroni and cheese homestyle, and curling up for nuzzling and lazy dreaming.
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muse) wrote,
