febrero 21, 2014
The benefits of mood lighting.
"R U doing NE thing 2nite? U should come hang."
SEND.
And just like that, he’s here.
He pulls out a bottle of wine from a backpack. It’s endearing until I remember he has a motorcycle and literally has to have a backpack if he ever wants to bring anything anywhere. Then I become envious as I picture him gliding back and forth through the cars that crawl at a dismal rate of barely, but he moves through a sea of angry fists pounding on steering wheels like a bird narrowly flits through power lines, and I realize that it’s almost the same thing as flying.
He opens the bottle of wine with ease which makes me uneasy.
I don’t know why, but men that open bottles of alcohol with ease terrify me.
Maybe it’s because I used to watch my uncle open bottle after bottle as his body deteriorated from so much substance. But it’s in the same way (opening bottles) that one dresses their toothbrush with paste and polishes the pearls in their mouth to glossy mint perfection, and I’d think "why does my uncle find comfort in the flippant levity of becoming some unfunny clown version of himself?”
It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized you could escape the self-loathing and sadness with substance. It’s great for a while until you realize that you’ve gone missing and you send out a search team of soul-sniffing bloodhounds that hunt through a forest of pills and casual sex, only to return with nothing. It’s exhausting, and not just for the pups.
Anyway, he pours the wine…
We are a whole bottle in.
Our mouths are stained purple like children that have sucked down too many grape popsicles and look down in shame as their mother, hands on her hips, holds up the empty box.
Guilty is what we are.
"Got anymore wine?" He asks.
The truth is, I never have wine. I don’t like the fact that wine seems to be the universal social adult beverage, so no, I don’t have wine.
I drink whiskey.
I drink whiskey because I can literally feel it warm my heart, and God bless that feeling!
But no. No more alcohol.
I want him to leave so I don’t make bad choices.
We’ve already read poetry out loud all night, and if that hasn’t turned me on already (it definitely has), then more alcohol most certainly will.
I offer an alternative, pot, thinking he’ll say no.
He doesn’t say no.
We smoke pot together and talk about dragons as the smoke blows through his nostrils.
The lemonade that we’re drinking rinses away the purple from our mouths, but not the guilt. That’s still there.
Yes mom, I ate all the goddamn popsicles and I’m sorry, okay?!
We are stoned now, so I do the most cliche thing ever and put Fleetwood Mac on in the record player.
Monday Morning comes on and it’s perfect.
It’s so perfect that I don’t feel guilty anymore.
We lay on the floor, and it’s so cliche, it’s so cliche that it’s clichA, B, and C.
I switch on my light-up Jesus from Party City because getting stoned has become a religious practice for me at this point. We watch the ceiling light pulse to music even though it really isn’t pulsing to any particular beat because it’s a plastic piece of shit. Then Rhiannon comes on. I tell him it’s the song I’m named after, which is true. No, my name isn’t Rhiannon, but both of parents thought Fleetwood Mac sang "Breeeeeeeannnnnna" instead of "Rhiannnnnnonnnnn". The Bree"anna" was then changed to Bree”ana” because “why the hell not?”
He laughs at my story and then stops short.
"What are we doing?" He asks.
I’m glad he asks this because I’ve been thinking the same thing all night but I’m not really sure.
I do know that it may have something to do with the type of loneliness that most people try to face but bow out after five minutes because being alone with your own terrible self is truly awful sometimes.
We are both in a place of un-want. It’s the worst.
He was in a toxic relationship, and I was about to start a toxic one but backed out at the very last second (I’ve already begun patting myself on the back for that one).
Anyway, “what are we doing?” "I don’t know" is my common response to any heavy question.
Lets just relax and not give each other a chance or reason to hurt one another. Sound good?
I didn’t say that of course.
What I did say was: "I don’t know. I guess we’re hanging out and having fun."
"I don’t want to ruin this." He says.
"Ruin what?" I ask.
"Isn’t that what people are supposed to say? I don’t want to ruin this friendship?"
He looks concerned and I shrug. I kind of assumed that this wasn’t an actual friendship. We would sleep together a few times and then realize that we should cut it short for both of our sakes.
But he is my friend. I like him. He listens.
"I can’t be in a relationship right now." He says.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Cowboy!
"I don’t want to be in a relationship." I say.
Then I begin to wonder why he felt the need to make that so abundantly clear. What vibe am I giving off? What action or statement have I made to cause such a confession? This isn’t the first time that I’ve had this nugget shoved in my face. It’s an unfair thing to say to somebody so early on.
How could you assume I’d spend one quiet evening alone with you, and then want to jump into your life?
I don’t. I really, really, really, really don’t.
Then I realized that it isn’t him.
It isn’t me either.
Its never me (although, I’d probably fuck it up in some other way down the line), this comes from my current lover’s past lovers and their giant expectations. How I hate these strangers for ruining it for the rest of us!
I wanted to shake him, I wanted to shake all of my random lovers at that moment, and scream "I EXPECT NOTHING BUT FUN FROM YOU!"
Then there comes a moment of silence, which, in my head, I dedicate to all relationships everywhere.
Stevie Nicks interrupts this silence which then forces us into each other’s arms.
Damn you, Stevie!
As our lips explore each others faces and necks, I can’t help but think about my parents.
Did they smoke pot in the early 80’s and make out to Fleetwood Mac? Did they listen to Rhiannon and think “hey, I’m gonna name my future child some variation of that weird-ass name”? It’s crazy because knowing that I was named after that song has made me shape my life around this woman. I’m totally a Rhiannon, and making out on my living room floor while the Jesus figurine switches from green, to red, to blue, it feels right all of a sudden, because that’s the benefit of mood lighting!
I ring like a bell in the night and wouldn’t you love to love me?
Boy.
Boy in the middle of my living room.
Beautiful boy, wouldn’t you love to love me right now?
Love me more than I love myself, it’ll be easy, I promise.
And he’s saying all the right things to me and I decide that I want to say all the right things to his body.
So I do.
There’s always that moment after a late night of debauchery where you ask yourself "should I stay or should I leave?" I can see him asking himself that very question.
He turns to me and says “I should probably get going, huh?”
(As if its even a question, we both know he’s leaving).
"We’ve both got work in the morning, so that’s probably best."
He then speeds off on his motorcycle. He takes off like a cannon, loud and angry, headed toward the intersection.
I’m jealous again.
He gets to fly away on that bike of his.
He gets the fresh night air to wash away the impurities.
I get to go back inside and be alone with what just happened.
It’s completely unfair.
I go back inside and examine the empty mason jars that are stained purple from the wine and I think to myself:
Would he have stayed if I promised him heaven?
And also,
will either one of us ever win?
SEND.
And just like that, he’s here.
He pulls out a bottle of wine from a backpack. It’s endearing until I remember he has a motorcycle and literally has to have a backpack if he ever wants to bring anything anywhere. Then I become envious as I picture him gliding back and forth through the cars that crawl at a dismal rate of barely, but he moves through a sea of angry fists pounding on steering wheels like a bird narrowly flits through power lines, and I realize that it’s almost the same thing as flying.
He opens the bottle of wine with ease which makes me uneasy.
I don’t know why, but men that open bottles of alcohol with ease terrify me.
Maybe it’s because I used to watch my uncle open bottle after bottle as his body deteriorated from so much substance. But it’s in the same way (opening bottles) that one dresses their toothbrush with paste and polishes the pearls in their mouth to glossy mint perfection, and I’d think "why does my uncle find comfort in the flippant levity of becoming some unfunny clown version of himself?”
It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I realized you could escape the self-loathing and sadness with substance. It’s great for a while until you realize that you’ve gone missing and you send out a search team of soul-sniffing bloodhounds that hunt through a forest of pills and casual sex, only to return with nothing. It’s exhausting, and not just for the pups.
Anyway, he pours the wine…
We are a whole bottle in.
Our mouths are stained purple like children that have sucked down too many grape popsicles and look down in shame as their mother, hands on her hips, holds up the empty box.
Guilty is what we are.
"Got anymore wine?" He asks.
The truth is, I never have wine. I don’t like the fact that wine seems to be the universal social adult beverage, so no, I don’t have wine.
I drink whiskey.
I drink whiskey because I can literally feel it warm my heart, and God bless that feeling!
But no. No more alcohol.
I want him to leave so I don’t make bad choices.
We’ve already read poetry out loud all night, and if that hasn’t turned me on already (it definitely has), then more alcohol most certainly will.
I offer an alternative, pot, thinking he’ll say no.
He doesn’t say no.
We smoke pot together and talk about dragons as the smoke blows through his nostrils.
The lemonade that we’re drinking rinses away the purple from our mouths, but not the guilt. That’s still there.
Yes mom, I ate all the goddamn popsicles and I’m sorry, okay?!
We are stoned now, so I do the most cliche thing ever and put Fleetwood Mac on in the record player.
Monday Morning comes on and it’s perfect.
It’s so perfect that I don’t feel guilty anymore.
We lay on the floor, and it’s so cliche, it’s so cliche that it’s clichA, B, and C.
I switch on my light-up Jesus from Party City because getting stoned has become a religious practice for me at this point. We watch the ceiling light pulse to music even though it really isn’t pulsing to any particular beat because it’s a plastic piece of shit. Then Rhiannon comes on. I tell him it’s the song I’m named after, which is true. No, my name isn’t Rhiannon, but both of parents thought Fleetwood Mac sang "Breeeeeeeannnnnna" instead of "Rhiannnnnnonnnnn". The Bree"anna" was then changed to Bree”ana” because “why the hell not?”
He laughs at my story and then stops short.
"What are we doing?" He asks.
I’m glad he asks this because I’ve been thinking the same thing all night but I’m not really sure.
I do know that it may have something to do with the type of loneliness that most people try to face but bow out after five minutes because being alone with your own terrible self is truly awful sometimes.
We are both in a place of un-want. It’s the worst.
He was in a toxic relationship, and I was about to start a toxic one but backed out at the very last second (I’ve already begun patting myself on the back for that one).
Anyway, “what are we doing?” "I don’t know" is my common response to any heavy question.
Lets just relax and not give each other a chance or reason to hurt one another. Sound good?
I didn’t say that of course.
What I did say was: "I don’t know. I guess we’re hanging out and having fun."
"I don’t want to ruin this." He says.
"Ruin what?" I ask.
"Isn’t that what people are supposed to say? I don’t want to ruin this friendship?"
He looks concerned and I shrug. I kind of assumed that this wasn’t an actual friendship. We would sleep together a few times and then realize that we should cut it short for both of our sakes.
But he is my friend. I like him. He listens.
"I can’t be in a relationship right now." He says.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Cowboy!
"I don’t want to be in a relationship." I say.
Then I begin to wonder why he felt the need to make that so abundantly clear. What vibe am I giving off? What action or statement have I made to cause such a confession? This isn’t the first time that I’ve had this nugget shoved in my face. It’s an unfair thing to say to somebody so early on.
How could you assume I’d spend one quiet evening alone with you, and then want to jump into your life?
I don’t. I really, really, really, really don’t.
Then I realized that it isn’t him.
It isn’t me either.
Its never me (although, I’d probably fuck it up in some other way down the line), this comes from my current lover’s past lovers and their giant expectations. How I hate these strangers for ruining it for the rest of us!
I wanted to shake him, I wanted to shake all of my random lovers at that moment, and scream "I EXPECT NOTHING BUT FUN FROM YOU!"
Then there comes a moment of silence, which, in my head, I dedicate to all relationships everywhere.
Stevie Nicks interrupts this silence which then forces us into each other’s arms.
Damn you, Stevie!
As our lips explore each others faces and necks, I can’t help but think about my parents.
Did they smoke pot in the early 80’s and make out to Fleetwood Mac? Did they listen to Rhiannon and think “hey, I’m gonna name my future child some variation of that weird-ass name”? It’s crazy because knowing that I was named after that song has made me shape my life around this woman. I’m totally a Rhiannon, and making out on my living room floor while the Jesus figurine switches from green, to red, to blue, it feels right all of a sudden, because that’s the benefit of mood lighting!
I ring like a bell in the night and wouldn’t you love to love me?
Boy.
Boy in the middle of my living room.
Beautiful boy, wouldn’t you love to love me right now?
Love me more than I love myself, it’ll be easy, I promise.
And he’s saying all the right things to me and I decide that I want to say all the right things to his body.
So I do.
There’s always that moment after a late night of debauchery where you ask yourself "should I stay or should I leave?" I can see him asking himself that very question.
He turns to me and says “I should probably get going, huh?”
(As if its even a question, we both know he’s leaving).
"We’ve both got work in the morning, so that’s probably best."
He then speeds off on his motorcycle. He takes off like a cannon, loud and angry, headed toward the intersection.
I’m jealous again.
He gets to fly away on that bike of his.
He gets the fresh night air to wash away the impurities.
I get to go back inside and be alone with what just happened.
It’s completely unfair.
I go back inside and examine the empty mason jars that are stained purple from the wine and I think to myself:
Would he have stayed if I promised him heaven?
And also,
will either one of us ever win?
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