It’s Messy

Unlikely happens, true. But this is a Mars bar changing shape, Angelina taking Pitt, Clooney divorcing, again. He’s smarter than that.

This is our Graduate moment, the time we define ourselves through a film we saw when we were young, didn’t understand and thought that this, now, was figuring out what it stood for, meant.

But we’re piecing together unfittable films and in the book it’s not an ambiguous drive, but an almost certain collapse after spurring moments that can’t last because snap decisions are Primark tights, good for one night.

If you think about people you’ve dated, you’ll always find one, five, four, you could’ve had more with. Doesn’t mean you should have.



You’d think I mean diseases, that I’d caught some STDs from you, the way you look at the legs of employees, the hemlines of blouses, the stitches holding buttons together. But that’s not it. I kind of wish that was it, then you’d be easy to forget, reject, like stained clothes from eBay or shows with Zooey Deschanel in. Not awful just clumsy. Not even clumsy because that can be cute, just done before, badly scripted, slowly sinking, the slip so miniscule nobody sees it, and I’m not watching so I don’t see it either.

I thought love was a slow but definite fade, that relapses were for proper addictions to addictive substances: coffee, Diet Coke, caffeine, Matt Damon. But it turns out, it’s a freaking obsession, and it’s the waning that kills me, the slope that’s an absolute tease. When you think you’re in the end zone you’re due another turn, a sickness bout. The bends.

We don’t have any real friends. But you do have a girlfriend. And my timing is horribly teenage. I wait until you’re happily married, settled, pregnant, tied, ringed, betrothed, vowed, pinkie promised to somebody and that’s when I act. And if we were really fated, if we were fatalists, if there was a god calling shots on each situation like a director of films, TV, surgery, theatre, would each action be so ill-timed, badly defined, exactly wrong? I guess that’d be pretty funny to watch, actually. If you were like a sadist or something.


Once, we were a behind doors, key under mat, two coffee cups for no reason couple. Now, I pull your mask down because your eyes are not enough and I take mine off because it made my nose look huge and that’s a good way to hide, win Oscars, or even be nominated, but I’m more into you than that. Accolades are for past lives.

In past lives we were at this point but perhaps I was younger than you are and you were more compromised than I am and you made the same choices as I have.

I don’t want to regress, find some spiritualist who can tell us what happened to us. I want to uncover it, marry it, decipher. The Da Vinci Code’s a fucking good read. I am not a completist, or someone who thinks inaccuracies make for bad stories. I would lie and lie and lie for you. I would write a book for you, talk copious amounts for shit for you. Hell, I’ll cook for you, if you really have the stomach.

But now, just now, I want to know what you look like without a mask on. Costumes are for bedrooms and you are for me as Angelina is to _____.

Now Accepting Applications For My 8th Best Friend

I’m a secret keeper. Guilt is my go-to emotion. I don’t think guilt existed when religion didn’t. There was a time before religion existed. Think about it: dinosaurs. Language is a construct solid like a conservatory, man-made mostly, the reason I was brought up to believe men would save me, that all words associated with women have been pejorative at some point.

I won’t share drinks or lipstick. If you date my ex-boyfriend, I’ll harass you passive aggressively until he hurts you how he hurt me, which is to say emotionally. If you ____ him, I’ll _______ delete you, put your number on dating sites next to pictures of Pamela Anderson lookalikes, I’ll list you in lonely heart’s.

I bought a best friend necklace for Gemma but I didn’t give it to her. I bought the same ring as one of my friends and thought it meant engagement, or marriage, or whatever rings meant or mean. The books I read growing up made me hope I’d make a good wife one day, but the nagging feeling, next to the guilt, that’s a chip that got fitted, like the ones conspiracy theorists think they got probed with, is that I won’t, and that that’s even a problem.

I’ll make you dinner. I’ll watch The Sitter with you. We’ll pass comment on Jonah Hill, speculate whether we’d kiss him. We’ll research geomagnetic storms so we have something to say to him, because actors play characters with similar beliefs to the ones they have, and identical interests.