I write with a pink Bic now
My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
“healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
the only one I ever learned by heart.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
on that stick and got a plus sign?
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.
With a yellow no.2 pencil.