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I am a banshee, but cannot get comfortable with being one, am always swinging from bansheeism to playacting sweetness and back. The truth is I cannot play nice and don’t want to, but want to want to, some days.
Possibly it was my imagination (and what does it matter if it was? what is any of this—love especially—if not imagination?)
I think the universe is tired of waiting for you to get the message.
“I posted it on my Tumblr.” I did not even know she had a Tumblr. I thought we were too old for Tumblr.
“There’s no ‘making art’ and not making art,” he said. “There’s just living. Art is just practice for being alive.”
“Listen: I am a messenger from the future. I am you in ten years. Pay attention! Don’t fetishize marriage and babies. Don’t succumb to the axial tilt of monogamy! I don’t pretend to know the details of your . . . situation, but I guarantee you, you’re as free as you’ll ever be. Have sex with anyone you want. Enjoy the fact that it might happen any minute. You could have sex with a man, a woman, both—tonight! You could have sex with someone twenty years older than you. You could have sex with someone from the other side of the planet. Better yet, be alone! Enjoy your body, come every day,
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I wanted to heave myself from the fetid hot tub of the human condition, so sick was I of everyone splashing around in there together.
The uncooperative cadence of the phrase my Myspace page perfectly encapsulates the awkwardness of the early aughts,
He cut lilacs from the bushes on campus with his Leatherman and piled them on my unmade bed even though we were broken up because the previous spring we’d been walking together and I guess I’d stopped and smelled them.
