“You told me you like my mouth. You want to kiss me. My mouth is a wound and you want to kiss me. But you’re like that: You want to go leaping over cliffs—you want to go drinking poison and then write pretty poems about it—and all I want to do is fuck you. You want flowers and sonnets and us to be together until the end of the world and I’d just like a blow job, I’d just like to be friends. That’s what I’d really like. Something warm and snuggly like a friendship. And to fuck you. The flowers are going to die and the cliffs are going to erode and we might as well go fuck since we’re going to anyway. We’ll fuck and fight and eat and drink and smoke and fuck and smoke and fuck and get married and in six months from now we’ll stop making the world stop to fuck each other and one year from now I’ll get fat and you’ll go bald and I’ll take prozac and you’ll take viagra I’ll get obsessed with my biological clock and my career and you’ll get obsessed with your hairline and your career and two years from now you’d rather watch reruns than fuck me and I’d rather be drinking than fuck you so we’ll drink in separate bars and one night someone who likes my mouth will buy me a drink that drink will be attached to a hand there will be a human holding that drink the kind with ears and I will tell whoever it is all about you and how we used to forget to eat when we were in bed for three days and your ears will be burning across town where you are telling whoever it is how I don’t understand you and two years from now, that girl with that drink she will nod that yes that I am nodding at you tonight that nod, that yes that means you’re not coming home because just for a second the world has gone away because just for a second there’s someone who understands you and that night it will be her pretty mouth you want and that night I will pass out at home, alone with a bottle that reminds me of us because it’ll be empty because it’ll be gone I will pass out waiting for you to come home listening to country music—and I hate country music—but I’ll be feeling tragic and it’ll be the most romantic moment I’ve ever had and I’ll be alone and you’ll be across town with that girl who right now is in high school and right now I just met you and right now I think you should take me home and fuck me because it only gets uglier from here we only get uglier from here so take me to the edge of that cliff you love and pour me a shot of your silky poison you can take this mouth this wound you want but you can’t kiss and make it better.”—Daphne Gottlieb (via thepepperinyourpot)
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash your pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
“And it’s not ‘clever lonely’ (like Morrissey) or ‘interesting lonely’ (like Radiohead); it’s ‘lonely lonely,’ like the way it feels when you’re being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder.”—Chuck Klosterman, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs
“I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.”—Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
I am in love with your sense of style! where do you get most of your clothes?
Really??? well oh boy. =) thanks. I honestly do get my clothes from a ton of places. Thrift stores are my haven, online (asos.com is the shit), and unfortunately the usual chains every now and then (urban, forever 21, zara, even Target!)