Halo, Goodbye

“Are you a Twizzlers person, or a Red Vines girl?” Without responding I tossed my phone like a frisbee. I watched, both frustrated and impressed, at my ability to effortlessly generate casual chaos as it somehow launched under my pillow and managed to skid across the floor. I have insurance on that phone case, don’t panic. I knew what happened next. I would fail to conjure the energy to respond until the last minute, to which I’d then cancel said movie plans ( I shudder at the word “date”) with some asinine excuse. Typically I’d go in with something vague, before my anxiety booted up five speed, causing me to get suspiciously specific with my lie, to someone who I’d likely never see again. Sometimes I spend twenty minutes coming up with these lies.

This is how it always went. It wasn’t the question about the candy that sucked the soul from my body, it was the implication that I was one or the other. The Twizzlers person, or the Red Vine girl. This implied binary thinking, and the dingleberry word “girl” tossed at the end just made me nauseous for some reason. I would have chosen neither, as my candy of choice, but also it seemed blaringly obvious to me that red vines were the better choice of the two.

None of these things actually mattered at all, really. The source of my frustration was less with Frank, (Greg?), and more with how my life was unraveling in general. Somehow my artistic ambitions, that had once seemed to shimmer in my peripherals through any shade of darkness, had become a bitter punchline in the joke of my existence. I lived alone, and because I had vehemently vetoed the stigma of a lonely cat lady in her mid-thirties, I had a lizard instead. His name is Garfield and he hates me. I have grown to love that he hates me and shows it, I respect his transparency.

I used to think of myself as an optimist, but anyone who meets me now might describe me as whatever the perpendicular opposite of that would be. Not entirely realistic, nor pessimistic, but some diagonal hybrid of the two--maybe a manic cynic misanthrope. I get excited about my tendency to see things in decline, because if I bottled all my hatred for myself, society, and others into one little spot in my heart I think I might end up in politics or something--and boy what a drag that would be.

So instead I continue the same cycles, wielding relationships that make me more tired than I already am all the time, taking jobs that don’t respect my talent or time, forming friendships that are self serving, and eating really healthy and disciplined until about eleven PM, when the reality of my impending death finally settles in. That feeling always reminds me of quicksand, you start to sink, then your spastic gestures to retreat from a thought you shouldn’t have dipped your toes in only proliferates the sinking until you have a mouth full of sand and your neighbors wonder why you are screaming help and twitching your arms above your head like a severed grasshopper.

It’s eleven forty five. My phone is vibrating, and Frank or Greg, or whatever, is probably rethinking his dumb question and getting anxious, or is unassuming and too self-assured to even realize his Twizzler comment somehow gave me a stomachache. Now I’m staring into the abyss of my fridge for the fiftieth time tonight, expecting to see something new in there, looking at me deliciously guilt free. I go for the peanut butter and raspberries, as I do every night, even though I try to pretend I won’t make the same choice, over and over again. Creature comforts.

I’m staring at the wall and shoving frozen raspberries on my tongue and thinking for the third time today, sixth time this week, and eightieth time this month, how the hell I got here. I offer a raspberry to Garfield, who gives me his best side eye. How did the aspiring poet song-writer end up somewhere in the armpit of America, alone and in hate with everything and everyone? I would love to blame capitalism but some artists have made it work, so I guess the culprit is the woman currently sitting at my kitchen table with peanut butter smears on her robe, because she is too broke to afford a place with a washer and dryer.

Buzz. Lay off Frankenstein! I think, or maybe say, out loud. I used to be really generous, once upon a time. That seemed to not go well. It left me vulnerable for piranha, the first one bit off my pinky toe--which threw me off balance, but I was still stellar at basketball. The next few nibbled the rest of my toes, and now I have no toes and no cat and I’m afraid to eat fancy dinners because I wonder if it will be the last one I can afford. I teach kids to write poetry, and freelance music gigs give me enough money to afford the internet and a handful of other pocket sucking necessities you need to survive. I used to do people favors, and grow tomatoes, and give good hugs, but thinking of tending to fragile things, and being trusting and gentle with people threatens to snip the green wire in my heart bomb.

I’m desperate. That’s why I’m writing to you. It’s hard to fall asleep, and when I finally do I find myself dreaming the same dream. It’s always me in a white silk robe, like I’m either dead, or an angel or both, (are angels dead?) and I’m always living in the same mansion. It’s so big I can’t find my way around, and the walls all look the same. It’s like a laminated labyrinth and the dimensions are all weird and my lips are twice their size and I can’t speak but I can sing, and my husband is always blonde and rich, and we have two cats and two dogs, and two kids. It’s very specific, and every morning I eat cinnamon rolls with the kids, but my lips are too big to kiss them goodnight. I have a huge pool but I can’t leave the house to get to it. I’m not sure what this means.

I have tried meditation, and I mean, it helps while I’m doing it, but five minutes later I’m angry or anxious again. Typically I refrain from any conscious self help practice (maybe that's the problem?) but I feel like I’ve tried it in the past and decided it was for weak minded, desperate people. Which, I must say, is better than what I am, at this moment. I read something that said you should start by trying to rewrite your broken thoughts by replacing them with new ones, positive ones. There’s apparently science behind it, which I can get behind, so stop judging me, little black book.

I’m giving it a shot. I’m capable. I’m preeeeeettttt---. Wow. This is actually a lot harder than it seems. Ok ok, I’m doing it for real now. I’m beautiful. I’m capable. I’m kind. I am loved for my flaws, just like everyone else. It said in the self-help book to get specific, so, tomorrow I will finally get an acceptance letter from the New Yorker for the poem about fragile gentle things that threaten to snip the green wire in my heart bomb. Okay, goodnight.

Wow. I genuinely don’t know what to say. This afternoon while I was replacing my phone case and I heard the bing, I got that nausea again in the pit of my stomach and dreaded refreshing my emails to see another person vying for another chunk of my time for a tenth of what I could afford or energetically muster---and guess what came through! I’m telling you because even though it’s literally one of the biggest accomplishments of my life thus far (yes I did say I was in my mid-thirties) I didn’t really have anyone to brag to. I’m still a skeptic of affirmations, but screw it. I’m also a fan of coincidences so maybe I can make more happen if I abandon all hope of maintaining some image of pseudo scientific prowess. Before Friday I will have twenty-thousand dollars in my bank account!

Okay. This is honestly becoming a little terrifying at this point. The first few days after jotting down that affirmation I was thinking about all the ways I could make twenty thousand dollars, but I slowly resorted back to feeling busy, overwhelmed, and exhausted and forgot all about it. I went to the gas station for an energy drink and some incense to banish the evil demons in my head, and decided on a whim to get a scratcher. I’m not kidding. This is not a drill. I scratched the ticket and won twenty thousand dollars. I’m genuinely horrified. I’m excited and thrilled, but do I even deserve this? Was it supposed to be this easy all along? I still get queasy thinking about the answer being something as simple as “believe in yourself” this whole time. It honestly makes me feel kind of pretentious and stupid. So, while I feel great, I am also getting the sense that I’m being followed by some omnipresent force? Is that you, little black book? Did the thrift store you came from find you napping in the corner of some mystic voodoo shop?

Either way, I got a wide selection of books, all in the subject of neuro influence on the micro to macro, etc. etc. I am going to do some intense research on this phenomenon, possibly take a course, talk to some professional speakers on the subject, the whole shebang. But I figured I would jot in what I really want more than anything, something that just includes it all. Before the end of the week, I will be living my own dream, from this point forward. LIVING, THE, DREAM, for the rest of my life. Okay. I’m a tad manic right now, I’m still on the eleven PM raspberry peanut butter cycle but that seems like it’s just not ready to change yet, so c’est la vie!

Little black book. I went over it again and again. It is the seventh time today, thirtieth time this week, and one hundredth time this month, wondering how the hell I got here. Well, none of that is actually true, because there are, subsequently, no clocks where I am. I figured it out. You warrant my respect, you are a leviathan, worse than the piranhas aforementioned in previous entrees. “LIVING THE DREAM”. Quite the play on words. Why is it that this affirmation wont work anymore? Can you tell me that?

I have written, tomorrow I will wake up, every day, to no avail. My kids are greasy and whiny, my husband smells like cologne and it makes me queasy. The walls remind me of vanilla lip smacker lip gloss and nothing feels real, well, I suppose it isn’t. You know very well this isn’t the dream I meant when I said dream, little black book. Please. I miss Garfield. I miss raspberries, I hate cinnamon rolls, I hate that my bed is always warm, I miss the cold side unoccupied by a plastic body. I will take my life back and never affirm another thing, I swear!

Little Black Book?