Sunday, July 26, 2015

The Blog About Bulimia

Forcing my parent's dog to sleep with me by picking him up and holding him until he cuddles me is not analogous to my love life but kinda.

I started this blog post not really knowing what I wanted to write about but feeling an urge to write. Which is good because I’ve been sort of slacking on writing or creative thinking lately. May was slow for me at work so I was more concerned about making money in June and July than making art, which is something that every artistic individual can relate to. I’m good now and I never truly struggle anymore, but maybe that’s the real issue at hand: J.K. Rowling started writing Harry Potter on a napkin and I just bought a new Macbook for 2k.

#scruff for your new iPhone wallpaper.
At first I was going to write "The Blog About the Sex Show in Amsterdam”, which I attended with some friends in May while touring Europe. As one can derive from the titular title, I watched people have sex on stage. And while it was well and good to see a Shrek- and Morticia Adams-lookalike go at it doggy-style while drinking Dutch beer, I left the theatre feeling a lot like I felt waking up in some strange girl’s bed in Manhattan on any given Monday: nothing. I got up, peed, walked out the door, and assumed the duties of humanhood.

Which is something that has really irked me recently, not only after watching a girl smoke an entire cigar with her vagina. Because I catch myself being cold nowadays and I can’t tell if it’s me getting older and wiser and realizing that not giving a fuck is a lot easier than giving a fuck, or that I really don’t give a fuck and it has nothing to do with age.

I turned twenty-eight last month and I haven’t done what I said I was going to do six years ago when I moved to New York Ciity with stardust and glamor and a rope tied to a cloud. I haven’t become a Broadway star. I haven’t written a best-selling book. I haven’t had a serious girlfriend longer than a year, or one that hasn’t crushed me into pixie dust so she could throw my ashes behind her and attempt to fly far away. And yet somewhere deep down, I still believe in fairytales.

I got drinks with a girl that I thought wasn’t good for me recently. Two wine bottles in she asked me, “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

And I decided to answer truthfully because why the fuck not? I’m twenty-eight. There was a lot to be divulged about the parts of me that stuck to the shadows but seemed to grab ahold in just the right light and that I fought off or suppressed until some days I turned inward or inside out and let the doubt creep in and the world out.
Before my eyes were scarred from the Amsterdam sex show.

“I struggle with suicidal thoughts sometimes. Nothing serious, always fleeting. Like when I sit on a building ledge overlooking the city, my initial reaction would be how awesome it would be to throw myself off of it. For that brief second I’d be flying, or as close as man can get without wings or an engine.”

The girl looked at me. Her eyes reflected the neon of Manhattan.

“I don’t know where they come from or why. I’m sure it has to be rooted in something about how I don’t feel good enough ever. What’s yours?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to be real…”

I shrugged and sucked on my beer foam. “I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m nearly thirty.”

“You’re twenty-eight, Sam.”

“You’re twenty-two. I could be your father.”

“My father?”

“In some cultures, yes.”

“What culture is that?”

“I don’t know. The indigenous walkabout culture of Fuckoffery. What’s your secret?”

“I’m bulimic.”

I choked. I had come at her swinging with teenage angst and antagonism in the facade of flouted adulthood and all I got was gospel truth. She was twenty-two and older than me.

 “So I want to die to live and you want to be skinnier to be happy,” I said.

“Yours sounds a lot more poetic.”

“It’s just 50 Shades of Fucked Up. I’m not Lord Byron.”

“No you’re not.”

I turned the other cheek. “Women have it rough nowadays, don’t they? I mean it’s fucked up, incredibly fucked up how superficial it has all become. A hundred years ago people were more concerned that their sod house didn’t get destroyed in a tornado, not that their caloric intake was less than their calories burned. Fuck, my grandma grew up in rural Texas with an outhouse and not being able to afford shoes and she was born in the 1920s. When did it become this?”

“I don’t know.”

“One of our distant ancestors must have had some wonk spunk to contribute because I doubt a bunch of cavewomen were running around sticking their fingers down their throats complaining how they ate too much woolly mammoth meat. Where did these ‘I’m not good enough’ thoughts come from? And why do I have them too but in different facets? Is this what makes us human? Doubt? Does the fact that I want to make something of myself make me human, or is it the doubt that says I won't?”

The girl put her hand on my hand. “You’re really cute right now.”

I looped my fingers up around her fingers and looked down at them. “You’ve gotta stop sticking these down you’re throat. You must pay a lot to be this manicured.”
Read. Bukowski.

“I might as well cut off my hands.”

“You’d be a pretty amputee even if you were fat.”

“Thanks for being honest with me. You have a way with words, Mr. Prince.”

So did Bukowski. He wrote: "People owe each other certain loyalties even if they weren't married. In a way, the trust should run deeper because it wasn't sanctified by law."

“It's all that keeps me from jumping off the roof."

I paid our check.