Hear/Say

Convulsions
Spastic motions
Vibrating oceans
of emotions

I have a not-so-guilty pleasure of listening to brash, vulgar music snapping bluntly sexual lyrics

Show me where da money at boy come with that monestat

The best is when I’m walking in public…it’s on a hardy volume 25, and I get this silly swagger where every lift of the foot pops my shoulders and makes me throw my leg out as I strut forward

pop that coochie you know dat procedure if you want that cash gotta shake that ass make it look like a seizure

It makes me feel “alive” and “street”

Maybe this is unrelated, but I have trouble responding to romantic behaviors,

i.e.

hand holding

sweet hugs

dancing with a man

affectionate embraces that you’re supposed to ‘casually’ hang out in

they should really have a class for this: “HOW TO BE ROMANTIC” bullshit;

when it happens I can’t help but see some B-list comedy play out in my head. Snarky lines as you go in for the kiss. Pent up enthusiasm pools out lazily , losing any momentum of passion. Sure, I’ll hold  your hand. I guess you’ll feel weird if I don’t.

Sitting on the couch propped up against each other feels the most natural.

On my last date, I made him order two strong drinks while I sipped my limeade. I knew he needed it.

I can’t help but be that person who is semi-into the moment, where any proposition of intimacy prompts me to remove myself like a phantom shadow. As a phantom shadow, I stand a couple yards away and watch him earnestly take my hand as I smoke my phantom cigarette and stoically blow out my phantom smoke. I think about what Tao Lin would write about in this moment.  I think about absurd crises that might interrupt the cloying sweetness. Like an obese bear with a shaved chest lumbering in and smashing a table. Or if I stood up and roared like a lion.

Or I think about brunch. I think about how amazingly eggs bacon and coffee go well together.

He stops and strokes my face. He tucks my hair behind my ear.

I smile and I think about oatmeal with cranberries and brown sugar.

He pauses.

I think about how I’ll never sing like Mariah Carey.

And then I lean in to kiss him.