Something Raw

I don’t know how to begin this. Please forgive me for falling back into the safety net of disclaimers and apologies. I feel—or rather it is what is is—it has been months since I have written anything. I have jotted down lots of notes here and there, of what I’m going to write “seriously,” of what I’m going to write on this blog, even of what I’m going to write for a friend who wrote me a wonderful long letter last year, but I always let life, anxiety, obligations, and the irrationality of perfectionism stunt these fingers. I wanted to start the year for this blog with something upbeat, something hopeful, something that would supposedly train my mind not to dwell on the negative. I ended up not writing at all. I ended up doing one of the things I have been advocating against for the long time: hiding the bad and the sad. In an effort to avoid romanticizing shit, I bottled everything up, and my writing has gone to shit.

Well, okay. I did say I am going to start training my mind to be less negative: my writing isn’t entirely shit now… it’s just… not up to my shitty standards anymore. That statement is a start to positivity, I swear.

Let me just begin again. Let me just…

Hear the tap tap tap sound of the keys. Ease my way back and let the ball roll. Try to ignore that mean small voice in my chest that keeps trying to halt every word I muster because the words are wrong, because the words are too simple, because those are not the proper words, because the words lack. SHUT THE FUCK UP, SMALL VOICE.

Let me muster courage again. Oh hello, let me share with you my life again on the terms my fingers know.

Hello, Mister. Yes, I saw you. And I know you saw me. It’s funny because I was thinking about writers and I was thinking specifically about you when I saw you. You cut in front of me. I didn’t think of it much at that time. What I thought was: writers, huh, seem so little face to face.

Or was that face to back? Back to face? In any case, it was odd seeing you not because I distinctly remember you bragging about not going to malls ever. Never ever ever never ever. But odd because seeing you smaller in juxtapose to your grand statements on… every media possible. That smart but/and egoistic politics of yours that rakes in respect and annoyance from anyone paying attention. Basically, that’s me in the past and people close to me in the past and the present. You have a way with words, of course, always sooo big. Your aggression never ending.

And yet here you were, small.

But fat. Don’t get me wrong. A compliment. I like you this way. The friend of an ex said that you used to be hot but has let yourself go. I looked at an old picture and I was like, meh. I could say the correct thing, I suppose, along the lines of I like you however you look, but no. I like you better fat.

Nothing odd about that, really. I’ve always liked my targets bigger than me—horizontally or vertically. Envelope me in your grandiose, will ‘ya? Protect me with your anachronistic fashion sense. A never changing set of clothes like you’re part of the Scooby Doo gang.

It implies dependability, you see.

In any case, you’ll play the cool teen. And I’ll be that little girl sitting too close to the quaint thick television screen.

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