You know what I like to do?
Sleep with guys who are called “Pieces of shit” by our mutual friend who introduced us just because they look like one of my exes. I’m a self destructive mess and I whole heartedly pity any man who takes it upon himself to actually deal with my shit one day. But because I am an artist, I use that as my “Get Out Of Responsibility Free Card” in this not so monogamous monopoly board of loveless lovers I’ve been tramping around on. Which leads me to recollect this story for you. This story that I cannot forget because my back is scarred. Literally.
This “piece of shit” I was introduced to, who looked fairly identical to my most serious of exes, was not only a piece of shit…but he was 20 and had to be snuck into the bar that lead us to the taxi that lead us to my bed.
I’m not proud of the mornings where I’ve woken up next to someone I don’t remember bringing home. But I am also not proud of the months and even years I have spent emotionally draining myself with a guy so that we could have meaningful sex. So YOU tell ME which of the two shames is more noble. It seems to me as though my body or my heart are always sitting in a torture room somewhere, spitting out bullshit in order to prolong inevitable death. Read the rest of this entry ?
When I was still dancing, I worked with this girl. Her name was E. We new so many E’s at the time, we started attaching adjectives to their names, when conversing about them. There was Cool E, Hippie E, and the E that we worked with. She came to be called Dumb E.
