Here are the facts, okay, and pay close attention now. The facts are that after they polished my teeth at the dentist they didn’t tell me if I had to abstain from eating for an hour like they normally do and now I don’t know if the green juice I guzzled down in the same time it takes to make a split decision to lean in for a kiss is staining my teeth. They didn’t tell me so I don’t know. Right? These are the facts. Are you following?
The other facts involve things along the lines of my writing here being better than elsewhere and what does that get me? Hmm. I’m thinking now. Eek!
In this, out that. This year, someone told me The Art of Noticing is in. I mean for fucks sake — do people need to know now when they should halt and resume their thinking? I’m not judging, if that’s what you’re assuming. I can’t be judgmental because I’m in therapy. That’s just how that works.
Strangers are starting to pronounce my name correctly on the first try more often than they did last year. That must mean it’s becoming more common. ALDEN is out this year, okay people? You heard it here first. Stop naming your babies Alden, please! I don’t want to become mousey by default.
I was at Nectar’s Sunday night and I walk in and this guy’s admissions sticker from The Met had fallen into his bolognaise. “That guy is eating The Met,” I said to my father. He laughed really hard at that. He’s the only one who finds me funny, I’m pretty sure. George sent hummus and olives for the table. Thank you, George, I was famished. I got the bolognaise because I had been primed by the exciting anomaly upon my entrance. Dad’s pasta was better than mine because it had capers. Fuck. I never learn.
I’m still reading so intuition still exists, thank god. And the love still exists. And when I forget that it exists, I read some old letters. And even then if that doesn’t work I give myself a little smooch on my arm. A therapist didn’t even tell me to do that! Can you believe that? It’s not actually an act of self-love, though — I just want to see sometimes what it feels like to be kissed by me.
I still hope it’s me, though. I hope all roads lead back to me. Not in a selfish, arrogant way. I just have to take myself home at some point. And at home, the dust on my shelves is me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s mine, but yes, it’s me.
“It’s me,” I whisper to myself at night. “Uh huh…that’s right. Whatcha gonna do about it?” And then I laugh at myself and open my eyes to see if anyone heard it.