I wrote this blog in color, then I took a selfie with no makeup, all natural, so I could look real…but then I changed it to black and white so I would look prettier. JAJAJA.
It’s fucked up about Lea’s boyfriend, yes. Have you heard of this? Where people get too into porn and they don’t get turned on by non-porn anymore? She’s sitting there in her lacy lingerie, wondering what the fuck is wrong with her, and he’s imagining wrapping some chick with giant fake tits all up in mummy wrap, except for her head, because she’s wearing an elephant mask, then making a hole with his stupid penis which he can’t get up without actually playing out this ridiculousness. I’m not saying that doing this kind of weird shit is always ridiculous. Do what you do, please. It’s just that there is a culture of this now, a sexual issue that has become sort of widespread (probably because of the internet, right?). People are having trouble getting off, or even turned on, without the show. Pfff, what the hell. That really sucks for love. You know what else is pretty fucked? Lea was Devastated when she found out her bf was seeking out, even paying for, online hookups, but she was too embarrassed to tell anyone. So she kept it to herself. It’s fucked up if you feel like you can’t tell your friends all the fucked up stuff that comes and goes in your life. It will always be coming and going, and it will likely be hard to deal with. Harder if you have no one to talk to. You just continue posting couple-y pics and crying in the shower so that you don’t notice it so much. You do that, and it will eat you like poison. It was probably eating her like poison. So here’s another fucked up thing. I think the reason she didn’t tell anyone is also because of the internet. This perpetuation of FAKENESS on social media. We’re all presenting ourselves about 100x better/more interesting/more in love/more crazy/more motivated/more crossfit/more etc than our world actually is. I’m not saying no one should share their cool shit with other people. But something has happened, and it feels bad. I’m pretty close with Lea, and I actually thought she and her boyfriend were all amazing-gross in love. Why did I think that? Facebook. Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter. Social media can easily make a person’s life look like something it’s not. And that’s so trending, and it has been trending for a long time, to present ourselves this way, and now it has spiraled out of control. I wish I had a solution or even a suggestion other than: be as genuine as possible, at all times. Easy to say, but ufff.
There’s another problem. I think we think we’re being genuine when we’re not. Maybe the solution to this is just to stop trying to compete with our 1200 Facebook friends all the time.Amy got this job and a new car and a gorgeous husband and a baby. I want to find an amazing boyfriend to marry. I live below the poverty line. My car smells like mold. I suck at life. This is a common reality thought-train, I’m pretty sure. I’ve been there, seeing other writers getting published and getting married to other writers and naming their babies after literary characters and it’s all just so perfect and cute. They work at universities and they read all the new, hot literature while rocking their Lolita’s and Hayden’s and Gatsby’s to sleep. Meanwhile, it appears what I do is date semi-sociopaths and engage in their strange types of emotional abuse in the name of what I have been calling magic. I finished my poetry book a year ago and haven’t gotten it published yet. A friend told me he thinks I may have something called Perfect Lover’s Dementia – a condition where one perpetually thinks they are falling in love. This condition will lead a person to never allow themselves to actually fall in love, as they will jump from one person to the next, truly thinking they are following their heart. Well, that’s scary. Do I do that? I don’t think so. But I sure am closer to that than the other side. I bet you can’t see that stuff from my turquoise beach photos. Haha, whatever. He made it up, anyway. What I was getting at is that I don’t think it is healthy, positive, productive, or anything good to compete with Facebook personas. It’s a much better idea, if we’re going to keep up with people via social media, to find joy in their joy, and let that energy flow into the world as a radiator of something positive, regardless of whether or not it is real. Because who the eff cares if it is real or not? The first step to being genuine might be to stop worrying about what other people think. In that process, I hope being judgmental falls apart like a cloud, dispersing without anyone even noticing. Now, on to more fucked up stuff that’s been orbiting around my universe, because that’s more interesting than my philosophical rant, I’m guessing… It’s fucked up that Mike was out on the town with a girl (recurrent fuck buddy, sure), one minute with his arm around her, and then next ditching her to pursue another girl, trying to make it seem casual. It didn’t work, so he just caught up with her a few minutes later, as she stood there wondering what the fuck was happening. It’s fucked up that I loved every minute that Ricardo was here at my house thinking my roommate was my new boyfriend (it was a Sunday, we were lying on the couch bien crudos when he showed up, and the house looked like a beautiful disaster of love and fun). I watched him squirm as my roommate invited him in for a beer. He was so uncomfortable sitting there, he couldn’t even look me in the eye. He was expecting I’d fawn over him with my eyes, let myself be pulled into the magic we used to have. That’s how it used to go when he showed up. I shouldn’t have enjoyed his disappointment and his jealousy, but I fucking did. UFFF. It’s fucked up that I kind of fb/ig stalk girls certain girls, wondering which ones someone I love might be sleeping with. For the record, I stalk them, then I let it go. I’m not judging, I’m not mad, I’m not sad. I’m just a regular-fucked-up curious person who lives a fairly unconventional life based on fairly unconventional beliefs and lifestyle choices. Information like this is infinitely interesting to me. Ha. I’m also the one that quietly opens your medicine cabinets and drawers and closets and photos. Just looking.
It’s fucked up the way certain details stand out, but not other ones that might seem more important. You remember a guy coming on this vintage t-shirt you had. It had sailboats on it. His face, not quite as vivid in your memory. Here’s another cool one. Skipping hanging out with your family on Christmas for a 24-hour adventure lock-in with a new-ish lover, with a bunch of booze and a couple of dildos (big red bows on them??) and some candles, too. That’s how things like cars get stolen, I’ve heard. I think it’s beautiful, that story. Who else thinks it’s beautiful? Does that make us fucked up? What are our values? That is not a hypothetical question. We should be asking ourselves these questions sometimes. At least I should.
What else? Tim is addicted to a few particular drugs. He lies to himself and others around him, people that take care of him. Without those people taking care of him, he would be fucking lost, or dead, or in jail, maybe. And he just steals from them and lies to them and I’m not sure if he is sorry or not, because he does it, then he stops, then he does it again. And the people taking care of Tim, they are really fucked up about it, because he’s their son, and all they want is for him to be happy and successful in accomplishing his goals, whatever they are. So they let him lie and steal and take advantage of their kindness, in exchange for him not being dead. In exchange for the hope that he when he stops, he won’t ever regress back into that life.
Franz told me that I’d be perfect if I got a boob job. He even offered to pay for it. We were at the beach, hanging out, drinking some beers in a crowd of springbreakers. All of a sudden he said it. I cried so much, but not in front of him. I didn’t cry because I felt bad about myself, though. Thank fucking god he said it to me and not someone whose soul would have been crushed by such a fucked up, backhanded comment. I cried because that’s not how you’re supposed to think about someone who you love. What the fuck. Does he really think that? What does it even mean, this perfect? And if he does, and I think he’s an awesome person, then who the fuck else in the world is thinking that kind of bullshit, actually finding it to be true in their heart? People I love having those kinds of fucked up thoughts. Yiiiikes. It’s not even that I think boob jobs are bad. I get wanting to be attractive. I get wanting attention. So what is it about that comment that’s so awful? Putting that shallow mentality onto someone else, planting it in their head, using it in a way that is likely to make them feel horrible, that’s what it is.
It’s fucked up that I write most of this fucked up stuff about sex, because I know that’s what the majority of people who might read this want to read about. I’m not saying I don’t like writing this way. What am I saying? I make choices based on things like I know so many people enjoyed 50 Shades of Gray, enjoyed it hardcore, because we all have darkness, and it provided a medium to embrace that darkness for a minute. Even if that movie was awful, it doesn’t matter.
You know what isn’t fucked up? The feeling of kindredship, especially about things that might be hard to talk about, but are a part of who we are, our collections of experiences. Feeling connected with people is maybe one of the best things.