Disgusting.
It was tossed across the non-descript hotel room towards me, and I realized it was something I definitely wanted to play hot potato with. I think the sum total of her words that night were enough to burn a hole much larger than a cigarette might in the flowered, polyester bedspread.
I don't want to believe her.
We have never agreed on this; harsh words fly, insight replaced by insolence... I the pouty 12/16/19/24 year old desperately attempting to staunch the whine seeping into my voice with a bandage of reason, she the weary matriarch, self-assured, sour-faced and pondering the root of my evil: Where in God's name did I get this repulsive compulsion to loose my clevage on the unsuspecting world, to not censor (in fact, to celebrate) that which has the least bit to do with what really makes up me: my body.
My pictures online disturb her. Unsettled, dissapointed, she tells me: Porn. It's porn... trashy, mediocre porn. You aren't even good at it. You can never be a teacher now. You can never run for office. You can never, you can never...
Thoughts slither in the back of my brain, hissing that she is valid in her tirade of nevers: I have enough trouble lately fending thoughts of the same vein off. When the night comes lacking even a sliver of a moon, when it is pitch black and I am floating in the vaccum of an empty starless Virginia sky, I begin to suspect I won't fullfill the requirements for anything. Except, on a good day, a pulse monitor. On those evenings, I tend to light another smoke, and wait helplessly to be turned loose of apathy's vise. However, tonight, here, now... I can't smoke enough, can't cope enough, the words keep pelting me no matter which Mary Cassat painting I turn towards. My God, she just won't shut-up.
I can do... whatever I want to do, I whisper. Crying. The scratchy bedspread is blurring now, a tapestry of what would be, under different circumstances, an offensive array of colors bleeding together. Irony abounds; wondering why it it me that has to tell her this. Fearing that she really means the worst of what she's said. Dissapointed that she doesn't; that it is far more complex than just writing her off as heartless.
The words stop. My heart starts.
Hotels suck.
8:27 p.m. - 2001-07-31
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
Border - 2004-07-26
Propaganda - 2004-02-20
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