The New Me

by Halle Butler

I think I’m drawn to temp work for the slight atmospheric changes. The new offices and coworkers provide a nice illusion of variety. Like how people switch out their cats’ wet food from Chicken and Liver to Sea Bass, but in the end, it’s all just flavored anus.

There are things we all know we shouldn’t do but do regardless. She might think that venting will help her find the relief and clarity she needs to move forward toward some lame ideal.

It should be easier to feel good.

I knew that if I tacitly allowed her to dominate the conversation, it would addict her to my company and lead her to flatter me by texting me and contacting me frequently, which would make me feel safe, an insider to a small group. It was perfect for both of us, I imagine.

Back at my desk I sit and slowly collect money that I can use to pay the rent on my apartment and on food so that I can continue to live and continue to come to this room and sit at this desk and slowly collect money.

She loved—on the list of things she loved, this would be near the top—being in sweats, under a blanket, mildly stoned with a snack buffet in front of her.

Better to be inside, better to be sick like I am now than to be out not accomplishing what I thought I might accomplish.

Good to be sick, good to be alone, good that it’s cold, good to stay inside, good that no one needs anything from me. Good to be me, good to be me!

You can’t ask someone to help you without letting them know you’re different than advertised, that you’ve been thinking and feeling strange things this whole time. That you’re uglier, weaker, more annoying, more basic, less interesting than promised. Without letting on that your feelings are easily hurt, and that you are boring, just like everyone else. Once you expose yourself as insecure, it’s easy to feel resentment if you’re not immediately put back at ease. If there’s even a flicker, a tiny recognition of your bad qualities, the resentment kicks in, the deal is broken, and suddenly you’re

both angry strangers, spending hours alone in a room together and completely unsure of why.

It could be worse for me, I think. I could have a forehead like that.

The tragedies we steel ourselves for never come for years and years, and our negative fantasies wear us down inch by inch, so that when the blow actually comes, there’s little of us left to care.

To say it felt good or to say it felt bad to run would both be untrue statements.

She’d gotten it out of her system, knew what it was about, and no longer needed it—the “it” being vulgar and desperate ways of living justified by the false pretense of nonconformity as a sign of intelligence and authenticity.