I envied every chameleon with a wig change or outfit designed by some supposed celebrity designer although stitching clothes together never struck me as a forward facing career but it is now. And high school girls swapped dye bottles weekly but I kept my hair colour ’til I was 28 and it was an awkward give up, devoid of all the right moves.
I’d morph selectively, pick roles with the tenacity of Tom Cruise, absolutely in control of a destiny I was ready for, that I could taste like the food from the next tent over at a festival with something else frying in front of me: pasties or frites or paella.
At the top, criticism rolls off but people expect private property to be operative like the game Operation, and first takes stomach, and next claims eyes. But I don’t want pieces. I’m still interested in decisions. And you’re impeccable at them.
Everyone wants to tongue kiss Tom Cruise, even the deniers, or, especially those. I learnt in middle school, don’t protest anything too much – and I’m talking politics, rallies and heckling from girls sure they’ve figured your secret out. But I didn’t fancy Nikki, didn’t want George, or I did but not when they thought it. It’s the blushing, the “No no no,” that gets you found. Instead it’s better to stick with a “maybe,” to stay with a “sure,” to play with a “could be.”
And every hater I’ve met, faced with the chance, would fuck Tom Cruise, French kiss him, if only for the experience of it, to say they touched god with their eyes open and savoured every second although they slipped like new-fangled rollercoaster rides, more concerned with speed, projection, than sway and swing and spin and the string in the pit of stomachs pulled like a puppet by air.