We Will Begin Again

I am renouncing my love of Beyonce. I know she will be heartbroken upon hearing that I won’t be one of the many bitches bowing down to her. I loved her last week and today I’m breaking up with her (my workout playlist won’t follow though.) That’s how it goes in pop culture.

There’s no denying that Beyonce is an amazing performer and singer. She’s strong. She’s independent. Jay-Z took her last name. If that’s not fucking fierce then I don’t know what is. I mean, symbolically, right? Regardless, the world doesn’t need to be reassured of her talent. We would all much rather watch a Beyonce performance than be alone with our thoughts.

The thing is when a public figure gains that much power and ego, their hubris is bound to manifest itself in some form. According to Aristotle, hubris is to ill treat others for the sake of one’s own superiority. Beyonce tells us, hey I’m where you dreamed of being but I got here first and I own it. Don’t forget it, bow down bitches.

That’s when I said, “Um, no. I don’t think so Beyonce.”  That’s a Kanye move and nobody likes Kanye. Bey doesn’t get a pass on this one just because she’s fierce or independent. On the contrary, it’s because of those qualities that I expect better. I expect people like Kim K. to stoop that low and call other women bitches, not Beyonce. I always thought she was classy. I’m not saying she isn’t allowed to say bad words or say the word Bitch. I’m saying it’s irresponsible to give the impression that words like that are ok simply because you’ve earned your place in a society that is constantly trying to bring women and people of color down. And I guess one can argue that she isn’t an ambassador of women. She doesn’t speak for all women when she sings out the word Bitch. That I should leave her alone because I’m just a hater. Truth is, she is a public figure, she’s a role model, she sang (uh, “sang”) the National Anthem. She was picked out to do so because of her influence on society. When one gets to that level, there is a certain responsibility. In this world of 248 characters or less, words have an immense impact, especially if you’re Beyonce.

Bey has never admitted to being a feminist. She believes in equality and women empowerment but she’s not a feminist. Duh. I used to feel this way. I don’t know if I was just afraid of the word or I just wanted to be the really chill girl among the boys. Probably both. As I matured, I realized “Oh fuck, I am a feminist.” I stopped caring what other people thought. I stopped caring about the cool boys club. Especially since that cool boys club would overuse the word Bitch all the time. Ho and slut came in a real close second and third. But it wasn’t just the boys overusing it. The girls too. It sounds so much worse when it comes from girls. I used to think it was just a word but so is n-i-g-g-e-r.

I don’t know who came up with the bullshit saying “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.” They must have been a bitch ass nigger. Oh, they’re just words right?

No they’re not. Bones heal, unless you break your spine and you can never walk again in which case, I’m sorry. But most bones heal; words stick to your memory forever. When I need an excuse to cry I think about the kids that called me ugly, fat, werewolf, negra fea and Quasimodo. These words still bring up a lot of painful memories. They’re the reason why I can’t look in the mirror and feel good about myself, even after 18-20 years. I don’t think about those kids as grownups with problems, families, jobs, no they’re saved in the time capsule of my insecurities. I once saw one of my tormentors at a party after graduating high school. I was drunk and I told him, “Hey you used to torture me in junior high!” He told me he didn’t even realize we went to the same junior high.

It’s alarmingly too casual to say words like bitch. Just like the word nigger, it has been recycled and processed into a false state of mind. Women will use it to describe themselves, “I’m a bad bitch.” Women will use it to defame each other “She’s just a stupid bitch.” I think it’s a word that brings all of us down. In the popular satirical Adult Swim show, The Boondocks, there is a perfect scenario. Two black men bump into each other and start shooting at each other for the sake of their pride. Huey, the militant socially conscious 10 year old, describes this as a “nigga” moment. Later on in the episode, his grandfather is beat up by a blind hate filled black man. His pride is hurt so he sets up a public fight to prove his manhood. A crowd shows up and starts placing bets. Huey meditates on the meaning of all this and concludes that when there are two types of “nigga” moments. A private “nigga” moment shames each individual. A public “nigga” moment shames a whole race. His grandfather ends up killing the old blind man. At the end of the episode, Huey, his brother and his grandfather bring flowers to the old man’s parking space and start praying. Riley, the brother, asks why they have to do that if the grandfather killed him in the first place. Huey narrates that even though the world was better off without the old mean blind man, as black people they have to stick together. What Huey comes to realize is that the number one threat to black people isn’t cops or white people; it’s themselves because they can’t stick together.

My mom owns her own business; she refuses to help any like minded women. In her struggle, women were always bitches to her. My girlfriends will constantly refer to other women they know and don’t know as dumb bitches. My sister wrote to her boyfriend that my mom is a big bitch. Beyonce demands we plebian bitches bow down to her.

In this society where we blame rape victims, where politicians need a definition of rape, where they need clarification on how the female reproductive system works, where pop hits have choruses like “you’re a stupid ho” and “I like bad bitches that my fucking problem,” not just as women but as human beings we need to stick together and promote positivity. Leave all egos behind.

God, if that’s not some hippie bullshit ideal…I’m a hopeless idealist. I’m a dreamer. But, I can believe right?

Words are history. Words are art. Words are memories. Words are war. Words are…my life and you don’t get a pass Beyonce.

Before I get the collective groans directed at me, I wasn’t trying to find it. It was in a Trader Joe’s bag along with all kinds of notebooks and papers. It didn’t seem like the place to hide something so private. Of course, I could have put it down as soon as I realized what it was.

But I didn’t.

My sister and I are incredibly close. At least I like to think we are. I am nine years older than her. I am 26, she’s 17. I know, that’s even worse. I read a teenagers journal. Not just any journal either. It was a journal between her boyfriend and her. They kept it during the time my mom took her phone away. I know, I’m even more terrible now. Invading the privacy of not just one but TWO teenagers.

Despite our age gap, my sister and I can communicate intellectually. She’s come to me for help on all things literary. One time we even discussed some philosophy at an Ihop. In her journal she stated that she was going through an existential crisis. That’s a phrase I overuse. Maybe she got it from somewhere else but I like to think that I’m the reason why she can understand a phrase like that.

My sister is incredibly private. She doesn’t like to talk about her crushes or her boyfriends. She rarely talks to me about her feelings. I don’t have a problem discussing mine. I mean, I am on this blog. She rarely comes to me with problems besides my mom being “annoying.” She’s a hardass. I assume she has every thing in control, that she’s laid back. She’s ok. She’s a good kid.

And then I read my sister’s journal.

It’s hard to separate the baby that I first saw at the hospital and the individual that she is becoming. It’s hard to accept that the baby with jet black hair and white mittens over her tiny hands, wiggling her little helpless body is now a grown woman with experiences, feelings, memories and frustrations completely separate from my own. I never took that into account when she begged me to stop the car so she can use the bathroom and I didn’t. I didn’t take into account the shame she would hold onto. I thought that a sorry would fix it. When my anger takes over me and I call her an idiot or stupid, I don’t stop to think that this is a memory that will hit like a wave carrying all the other memories of other people calling her names. I’m on that wave. It was never my intention. I suppose that’s how parents feel. It’s not their intention to hurt their kids but they do because we’re all guilty of being selfish in one way or another.

I read my sister’s journal. She wrote a five page entry on her school life. From preschool to now, she detailed the instances when life was unbearable. I remember life was unbearable at seventeen too. My lingering insecurity has always been that I’m too ugly for boys to like me. All my life I’ve had tons of friends. Amazing friends. I still do. I have lots of amazing friends that I can count on. But I’ve never had anyone that I can call, love. No one has ever shown me what it is to be loved. At 26, I’m still incredibly insecure about that. Just last week I went through some petty argument about it that had me crying all day. My sister knows love. She’s madly in love with her boyfriend. Something I didn’t know she was capable of. She’s stupidly in teenager love and that’s ok. However, she longs for friendships. She doesn’t have friends. Something I’ve poked fun at not knowing it was a real painful thought for her.

She wrote about smoking weed at 13. Being and doing stupid things with boys. Thinking that life isn’t real. Giving up and being depressed. She wrote about how much she wanted to die. How suicide has been on her mind since she was a kid.

Initially, my authoritative side was slowly taking over. I stopped and I had to force myself to realize that I don’t have any authority. All I can offer, and what I have been offering, is just retrospective advice on how not to fuck up your life.
I smoked pot as a teenager as well. In my early 20′s too. I’ve bought cocaine at 2am. The last time I snorted cocaine was last year in Vegas. I’m like those Studio 54 disco queens who think of coke in a nostalgic way, “aaah those were the days.” How could I possibly act self righteous on my sister?

I still act stupid with boys. I get drunk and makeout with boys. Well, not so much lately. I’ve passed out while getting intimate on park slides. I can’t tell boys I have crushes on them. I tell boys I like about the boys I’ve fucked, because I’m stupid. I thought sex was the only way to feel human. I thought boys were the only source of confidence. I’m 26 and I still say “boys” like I’m 17. How could I be mad at my sister for thinking the same?

How could I possibly be mad at her for things that I sometimes still feel. For things that I am still trying to figure out myself. I give up constantly and then I get back up again because I’m older and all the stupid things that I’ve done still manifest themselves in my lack of income, education, career and love. I want to get mad at her because I constantly tell her about my regrets. But I can’t. These are the things that we all figure out on or own. She’s 17 and all I can do is just reinforce how much I love her.

In the course of writing this, my sister came home and fell asleep early. I walked into her room, laid down on her bed and woke her up with a tight hug. I started to cry while telling her how much I love her and how sorry I am if I had ever hurt her. She responded sleepy voiced, “I.L.Y too bro. You need to apologize for the times I used the bathroom after you.” Laughter and tears meshed together.

While I held her journal in my hands, I thought about this one day when I was probably 13. I wanted to die. I really wanted to die. I was made fun of constantly. My friends would talk behind my back. I hated gym class because it was just fuel for cruel kids. I went into my closet and I just wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes so tightly, refusing to open them. My stubborn tears sliding down my cheek. I closed my eyes so tight, like in movies, thinking that when I opened them it would be a completely new world. A world of nothingness because that’s what I was wishing for. Nothing. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to exist. I wanted to be nothing because that’s what death is,nothing. And nothing is peaceful. My sister opened the closet door and she was probably 4 years old. She just stood there looking at me, I could feel her and she asks me,

“Whats wrong mochi?”

“I want to die. I hate myself” sounding like a typical teenager.

“No, I don’t want you to die” and she wraps her little arms around my head, “I love you. You shouldn’t die.” and kisses my forehead.

I don’t regret reading her journal. It’s not something that I will ever throw in her face. It showed me how much my sister has grown. She’s an entirely different entity than me, as much as that hurts and scares me. It showed me how much I’ve failed her, how much my parents have failed her. I can only hope that in retrospect one day she’ll learn that or accept that the mistakes we’ve done or the neglect she’s been through wasn’t intended. I hope that she can learn that, just like I’m realizing the same thing about the mistakes of my parents.

But all I want to do is just go back to the week of November 28, 1995. The only time in my life that I had ever asked God for something and he gave it to me. That was when I knew I would never be lonely again. This little tiny being with the cutest feet, an oversized band aid on one of them, mittens on her hands, wiggling her little body, jet black hair, looking up at me, in the corner of a dark and dense hospital room. One day we’ll both want to die so badly. That day though, that day was perfect. No other day has or will ever be as perfect.

This week was amazing. I usually don’t get to drive the bookmobile but my supervisor let me. I suppose we can call it training since she will be moving on pretty soon. On Wednesday it was our time to visit the school. The week before, I had a special display on Louis Sachar books for the 3^rd graders. I read them a couple of chapters off of Wayside School is Falling Down, one of my favorites as a child. They enjoyed the simple ridiculousness of Sachar, who I credit as the founder of my offbeat and witty humor. At the end I announced that I would be holding a writing contest for the funniest story. They asked with excitement what the prize was but I only told them it was a surprise. I actually didn’t have that figured out but kids love the mystery of surprises, even if it’s a super cool pencil. Actually, am I still living in 1995? I’ll think of something good.

———-Overheard speaker: Music Line 2. Music Line 2———————-

I stop dusting the same empty row between the Drama dvd’s and the Comedy dvd’s. I got a twenty five cent pay increment, I suppose my dusting skills are impeccable and whenever customers walk by, they must comment “God damn, that empty row is so fucking clean. Whoever dusted that must be like a God among dusters.”

I get on the phone and it’s one of the regular customers who has the most unfortunate stuttering problem. He is 46 or 56. He’s a virgin because he thinks with “the right head.” He wears a fanny pack. On the phone it takes him probably a full 30 seconds to pronounce one word. It probably takes him 5 minutes to tell me what he wants. It takes me another 5 to figure out what he wants. He then repeats whatever information I give him as a question. So if I tell him “No we don’t have it in store but we can order it for you” “S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-o you-you-you-you-you-you donthaveit?” “No, but we can order it” “Kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-canyouorderitforme.”

I feel like a terrible human being but he depresses me.

Where was I? Oh yeah, after work I took my parents out to dinner. I had been telling them that dinner was on me for a while. I wanted to take them out on my first check but I kind of got a little selfish when I went to the mall with my mom. I bought a couple of new dresses and she told me not to even worry about it, I could take them out next check or the next or the next. She was just happy to see me happy. She was most excited about me being able to finally pay off a big chunk of my dumb bills. I had asked her to look over my finances and she told me that within the next 6 months I could purchase a new car. I told her to hold off on that daydream because instead maybe I could move out? She told me I was crazy, in that teasing way, but that she was happy that I was thinking about that.

——————-Customer walks into music department—————–

“Hello”
A woman walks in. She’s wearing a business suit and gives off that “time is money” vibe. She walks back and forth near the music CD’s and yells something fast and inaudible to me. I am standing practically on the opposite side of the department. She starts walking up to me really fast and repeating what she had said until she’s finally too close for comfort and asks me “Where are your machines where I can listen to the CD’s?”
“We don’t have them anymore actually”
“You don’t have them anymore?!” with a really annoyed expression

At this point, I just want to leave. She interrupted the little quality time I had and now it was broken. I swear, they tell me, “look on the bright side” “the glass is half full” “be positive” “have faith” and…and…and I walk into work thinking this and I look at my schedule and I have 7 hours for the next week. I have $150 worth of bills to pay this second half of the week. There I go again asking my mom to loan me money, to give me little jobs, to pay me for being her daughter. I start to think, is this their way of telling me goodbye? What did I do? Did I push the company on edge with my pay increase? God, buy a fucking membership, please? Yes, I ask GOD. I ask HIM to buy a membership. He wouldn’t say no? I just said “fucking” to God. Great. I start to think, this is how it feels to be an unskilled worker. I’m part of that demographic. I’m that demographic of people who will never have job security. I start to think, I hate being fucking brown. It’s always white people at the top. It’s always some dumb white person in charge of me. I fucking hate being brown. God, I’m ugly too! And then I start to think about him. He must be so happy. He must have a pretty skinny girlfriend and is living the life. I fucking hate him. I don’t want him to be happy. He can be happy after I’m happy. And then this bitch walks in with her attitude…

“No we don’t have them anymore”
“Why Not?!”
“I…I…” I give up. “…I really don’t know.” I really don’t. I never bothered to ask. Usually I just spit out some, oh corporate you know kinda stuff. But today, I give up.
“Oh, you don’t know? So you don’t ask questions at work? You just work with no thoughts in your head? I’m a manager at my job and I got to be manager because I asked questions-“
“Oh, Good for you”
“Good FOR ME?! Wow. Good for me!”
“Yeaaa good for you”
“You know what thanks for your GREAT customer service”
“OH, YOU’RE WELCOME”

And like the little wimp that I am, I preceded to cry in the corner and asked to leave early because I wasn’t feeling well. The whole way home I cried about my stupid job, my stupid 7 hours, my stupid car that makes stupid noises, my stupid ugly brown skin, that stupid bitch, stupid white people, my stupid friends, stupid God, the god damned stupid dusters.

I went into my bathroom. I had started my stupid dumb period.

And I cried because I thought “I’m such a stupid dramatic stereotype.”
And then I cried some more because I was crying about not having hours but I cut my own hours therefore I’m more stupid than I thought.

But it’s okay. Not everyday, week or even month is like this. I just need to remember the little Dan Savage on my right shoulder whispering “it gets better it gets better.” I’m not the type of person that will adopt those trite messages of positivity. I’m a positive person, hard to believe, but I am. I just have a different approach. I take the Dave Chappelle approach and I keep it real. That day might have been an example of when keeping it real went wrong.

I keep it real. No I don’t have that job because there’s something better for me and God has better plans. No, I would have been amazing at that job and I don’t have that job because the state of California is fucked and God hates libraries, obviously.

I’m also rational and I allow myself a day of insanity, pity and sadness. It’s okay. I realize I probably scared any potential mates out there saying to themselves “This lady writer is charming-oh wait a minute…” We all know what a great reputation lady writers have after all.

Also, the other infamous “him” in my writings was a prevalent thought in the past months. I am happy to report that not only am I happier with myself but I am also not ugly. In fact, I think I’m too cute for him now a days.

I will probably have another day like this where I refuse to live outside my head. Where everything outside of myself is just a tumbleweed of dumb crap slowly rolling towards me and I’ll stand there waiting for it. When it hits me I’ll cry and I’ll think where did this come from and why me and I hate everyone. And that’s okay because I’ll move on once I brush that shit off.

I become inebriated enough to still hold a conversation. I don’t know how but somehow I involve myself into a conversation with A or some men. This is when I usually disappear from my group of friends because flirting scientists, like Cosmo, say men are intimidated by a large group of women. As they should be. My main goal is to emphasize but not directly say that “I am not like most girls” just like most girls say. Since we are all unique delicate flowers especially when slurring between stale breaths of beer.

I know I drive the conversation towards academics. I’m a degree-digger even though I have earned zero degrees myself. But this is important to me. It shows some level of commitment and dedication. Most importantly, it can be an indicative of how good or bad a conversation might turn out. However, I try to stay away from Math and Science majors. Of course, I must remember that that’s not always the case and I must remind myself that I am an overgrown loser beaming with potentially amazing conversation that smells like unique and delicate flowers. So I shouldn’t be a drunken snob.

I manage to be charming in my drunken and awkward openness. I strategically place the information about being a lady of the books. I will probably crack a joke about them buying me a drink and they will immediately respond with a just remembered “Oh, yea! What are you drinking?” But I quickly shy away from the offer insisting I was just joking. In return they insist that they know but would still like to buy me a drink. I politely keep saying no and assure them that “It’s ok. I can buy myself a drink” but in a totally cute way of course not all “feminist” like. But I really can’t afford to buy drinks. I work in retail where my hours fluctuate from 30 to 7 hours a week. Sometimes I can’t even afford to drive to work. But they insist because my humor somehow charmed them enough to keep this night going.

On my 4th maybe 5th drink, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t even know the name of the person in front of me. I don’t really care what they have to say about X topic. I just have the biggest urge to get out of the crowd and make out.

Because I don’t really like the person in front of me, because I don’t really care to know them, because I just wanted a free drink to feel pretty, because I will never have daydreams about us, I am bold and in my girl-child voice I suggest we make out. This doesn’t happen often since I don’t go out much but once in a blue moon it happens. And when it happens, I make out under the cigarette smoke woven through the fluorescent lights of gaudy Vegas casinos or the dark driveways of unsuspecting American home owners.

And suddenly I’ll stop because the alcohol is simmering and the rouge of my flushed cheeks is returning to its original pale copper color. It simmers with each prolonged drunken swap of spit that isn’t fun anymore. And suddenly I feel cheap. And suddenly this person is a stranger again. I feel the spit of death and fear and that unbearable moment of clarity like the eye of a hurricane.

I am not like most girls, so why am I acting like it?

All I can do is hope that the suppressed erection inside the strangers pants doesn’t turn into anger. That he’ll walk me safely to my hotel room. That he’ll let me go back to my friends. I can hear my grandmother in my head, “Well, why the hell where you being a whore in the first place?!” I hear my mother asking me what was I doing? I think that I have learned nothing from growing up on obscenely dramatic Hispanic media. That if I end up dead, raped, beat or all three, it will inevitably be my fault since my attitude walks around thinking “that can’t happen to me.”

I go back safely, but death and fear permeate. All I want to do is hear the voice of any of the boys that never liked me and will never like me “like that.”

Because it’s comforting, because I am drunk and stupid, because it’s expected, because I’m a victim of rom-coms as much as I’d like to bury and kill that thought. Because all I know is the struggle to convince a man I am good enough for him. Because I will never be good enough to my father. And all I want to do is call a boy to feel human, to feel like I mean something, anything, if he picks up. And then my soul feels cheap. I prostituted my soul to build up a mans ego. We hang up and I am sober and empty.

I like to answer this question that nobody asks.
Repetitive sentences that elevate my self indulgence
The Internet was created for me
And only me

And I love that I can hang up on a recording of Tom Waits in New York,
My telephone is bringing me into this wave, into this limbo, into this lost sea,
Of meaningless progress,
Because we’re all still starving in some way or another.

What’s on my mind?
I woke up with a heartache on my temple
And a slight twitch and ache in my eye
That I suspect is a young aneurysm
Hiding in that throb behind my skull

What’s on my mind?
When I was seven, I wrote a letter to my father
I told him I was planning to run away
I don’t think he read it but all I remember was his speeding palm.
I nervously craved for the palm of your hand because it was the only way.

What’s on my mind?
That “feminine mystique” that I lack
Because pale is in and thin is in
And I’m brown forever
And I’ve been thick since I was a kid

What’s on my mind?
I wrote out the letters that sent this message:
Happy Belated Birthday.
Because I am stubborn and a fool
But I didn’t respond to your: Thank You.

What’s on my mind?
That all the stories I know
That all the stories I’ve met
That all the stories I will meet and know
That I know how they end.

What’s on my mind?
How everyone falls in love but me
This immunity that I posses
Can easily break down when The Ronnettes play
But then I think, weddings built on songs, expire within 3 years.

What’s on my mind?
The photographs on my wall are dead
There was a picture of you
There was a picture of love now defunct
There were words from D.C. now meaningless

And there was a picture of a seventeen year old me
Without a phone. Without a credit card. Virginity still in tact.
A photograph taken by a camera with film
Exposed in a dark room and processed and given to me.

There are dead words on my wall
There are dead philosophies on my wall
There are dead technologies on my wall
There is dead love on my wall.

Whats on your mind?

It is, as they say, indescribable. When trying to explain how the Grand Canyon is, all I can say is “it’s an experience.” When I break it down in my head I think, well it was just a bunch of rock formations that looked pretty uniform from my view. But walking up to the Grand Canyon was like Disneyland. I didn’t know which direction to go, what tram to take, and what spots to avoid. Feelings pulling me left and right and finally being at the edge of the rail staring into that gigantic crater, that my internal panoramic vision frantically failed to capture, all I felt was a flood of emotion within me that was utterly surreal. Perhaps I am one of those sensitive writer types and that’s why my eyes drowned with suppressed emotion that drained down my throat into the pit of my stomach. And if I could describe or define that feeling it would be: absolutely nothingness. I was standing in front of one of the natural wonders of the world and I felt like I was absolutely nothing. I needed to feel like nothing because it was a reaffirmation that all the bullshit that fuels my depression meant nothing when measured against the earth. And everything that had transpired the last six months, unrequited love, cheap fucks and a shitty job meant nothing on the grand scale of nature. I was less than miniscule. Thousands upon thousands of little souls have walked where I walked. They stood where I stood. They gazed at the same wonderous hole I gazed at. Usually, something like that would make me feel insignificant but instead it made me feel like I belonged to the same nothingness that everyone belongs to.

I don’t know if that makes sense but it made me feel a thousand times better. It relieved my months worth depression over a “break up”, quotation marks done on purpose because it wasn’t a real relationship. It was a five-year friendship where the last 2 years of it involved on/off “complicated” feelings and midnight rendezvous. I’d be a liar if I said I still didn’t think about it on lonely nights. And when I stay up thinking about it, I think about how much I miss that feeling of post sex talk. Well, I miss the sex too of course. I miss that feeling after sex when the speed of our breath slowed down to normal and we analyzed the acting merits of Marlon Wayans. That’s what I miss because nothing else is as genuine and random as post sex talk with someone who shared their most guarded secrets with me and vice versa. I was his best friend, a fact that he lamented as he tearfully tried to persuade me to take back my goodbye. But to reduce this sentimental moment to typical heartbroken woman banter, men are fucking stupid. And even though I loved him, I fell for him for the wrong reasons. We bonded over violent histories and when my friends asked why I was even his friend I used one of the battered woman excuses “You don’t know him like I do” but the truth was and is that he is a simple man with simple tastes. I on the other hand come from that history of complicated aspiring women writers. I am Dorothy Parkers soul sister and simply put, men just don’t know how to fucking deal with us so they prefer to chase a pretty face with simple thoughts than an ok face with critical thoughts. That’s how it is in relatively small cities.

And I’m standing there, on the edge, holding on the rail and I’m gazing at the depth of whatever square meters my vision is able to mentally capture as memories. And one thought permeates in my throat, I am nothing; all that was nothing and it wont matter but I am wiser because of it but it doesn’t matter anymore and even though the past erodes slowly and each lonely night hurts, one day everything will stop and the craters in the abyss of my heart are signs of survival, of existence and growth. But it all boils down to one seminal sentence: Fuck that shit. I am not better than the women he will fuck or love. He is not better than the men I may fuck or love. I have come to accept that some things just aren’t meant to be. Sadly, I have come to realize that plots to Ashton Kutcher films don’t work out so well in real life. Sometimes you just don’t find your car but most importantly, friends with benefits rarely have happy endings.I guess if I could describe the Grand Canyon it would be that place where you go and decide to let go of negativity and to fuck that shit to hell.

The silence and serenity of the Grand Canyon held millions of dumped thoughts of the heartbroken, the lost and the depressed when I peered into it. That isolated breeze where I stood still rejuvenated my soul. The Colorado River in the distance, with its blue green fresh water, represented the rebirth of my creative spirit. And even though time erodes slowly and some nights hurt, and the lines on my forehead and in the corner of my eye will soon start to show, I am nothing. When I am nothing there are no limits and everything is possible.

But you know, the Grand Canyon is probably just some big hole of nature and I’m just some sensitive writer type that over thinks everything. Whatever.