Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.” —Jade Sharma, Problems

But the easiest way to tell who a man really is, is to injure his ego and see how he reacts.

I wonder if love can be ugly. If it can do the wrong thing. Bad things. I wonder if it can ever really die.

But so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game.

Men are all the same, Mom once told us, but it’s the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re good that you really have to watch out for.

Dad and Amy were cool about Daphne, but I always suspected they would take my not being totally straight as proof that Alexandra turned us into man-haters. Which she tried. But I love men. I just don’t trust or respect them.

The world will drive a woman insane, then point at them and laugh.

I didn’t want the mice in the house, but I never wanted them dead either. I wanted them to move out into a tree stump, where they could dress in aprons and serve each other tea in cute mouse-sized cups.

Men are never selfish. They’re smart. Women are always selfish. You want to be single? Selfish. You’re a wife and mother and do anything other than dote on your husband and children? Selfish. I want you and your sisters to learn to take that word as a compliment. Anyone who says that to you is trying to discourage you from doing what you want. That’s how you know you’re doing something right.

It just makes me wonder about belief and delusion. What’s the difference there, really? Maybe delusion is an eagerness to believe. A desperation for it.

Remembering is not always a light shone into darkness. Sometimes it’s a claw reaching out and dragging you back.

I accept that it exists. That there’s a being out there that wants my attention, my energy, my best, my worst. My joy. My pain. That’s taken from me and would continue to take should I allow it, should I continue to dance with it, and if I were to say anything about it, no one would listen. No one would believe me. Not really. Not without their doubts. Without questioning my honesty, my integrity, my sanity. Whether I deserved it. There’s a being out there that would fuck with me just because it can, with no consequences. Because it’s bored. Just because. Too bad for it, I know that game and play it better.