A Life More Ordinary

It's only maybe a week since I've allowed myself to put my guard down.

Really, I should say since I resigned myself to having my guard down. I don't have a choice in the matter. I'm so exhausted and fragile right now that really, the only choice is whether to leave the house or never leave the house. Since I enjoy earning a paycheck, I've opted for leaving the house defenseless and weak. But I thought at least it might help me figure out what happens in ordinary life--life without aliases and disguises and alter egos, without SuperPowers and nemeses and getaway cars.

So far, I've only discovered one major thing that happens when a girl walks around with her guard down: guys hit on her like there's no tomorrow. Seriously, dudes are crawling out of the woodwork to sling some mack on me. And we're not talking your expected alcohol-fueled party flirting, or the closing time move-in-for-the-kill. I'm talking about, like, on the street, you know? At the Quality Dairy. When I'm walking to class. It's like one of the scenes from Dawn of the Dead where you see all the zombies outside the mall trying to get in to murder the living, only replace "zombies" with "strange dudes looking to get laid". It's frickin' ridiculous.

Rescue Me

I've fallen down on the job, my babies.

For reals.

The last few months...I don't know.

Transitions are so rough. So, I left South Central and moved up here to Rust City, and everything was so different. Rust City is a great place and all--no complaints here--but it's so different from South Central that I think I got the culture shock. I mean, once the initial distractions of moving and unpacking and junk fell away, I started having a bit of a panic. The panic of realizing I was basically alone in a new city--once again, a girl completely on her own. I mean, there are folks here in Rust City I can call in the case of an emergency, folks that I can count on for the occasional work lunch and once-a-month knees-up at a karaoke bar in the country, but there's no one local that's really a part of my everyday life, you know? No one I can call up after work to chat about the crazy things that happened that day. No one to plan strange art projects with. No one to cause trouble with. No one to go to concerts. Or on road trips. Or watch movies. Or stay up all night with and have those conversations you only have at 3am. You know, just no one.

A Harsh Mistress

It's time for me to say that I think it's really funny when people stumble across this blog because they're looking for Fat Girl Porn. (I'm lookin' at you, Slovenia!) I can see the arc of anticipation, realization, and disappointment that ultimately leaves the searchers on the Mountain of No Joy.

Sorry, boys. Desire is a harsh mistress.

One Angry Girl

I know what it’s like when I get like this.

Angry. Frustrated. It doesn’t take a genius. Self-awareness isn’t a superpower—it just takes a little paying attention. And once you start paying attention to what you’re like, you can’t *stop* paying attention what you’re like. The thing about awareness is, once you got it, you got it. You know?

A little distinction here. It’s no surprise to anyone that I get pissed, because hey, if I had never been pissed, my SuperHero identity never would have been revealed. Great Big Girl would never have been born without the injustices that demanded her creation. So sure, I get filled with the Righteous Indignation or Touched with The Fire, and everybody’s seen that. And really, when The Fire is on me, I mainly get one of two reactions. Either the witnesses think, “Hey, the girl is right—that is unjust”, or they laugh. Because I feel The Fire with my whole body, and I can’t hide it, and I “Grrrrr!” and I shake my angry fist, and I open my throat and push the air up from the bottom of my lungs for the dramatic, emphatic, “That. Is. So. Wrong. I could. Fall. Down.” Yeah, I know. It’s not an act, though—it’s totally sincere. But people tend to think it’s funny.

I guess I can't time travel after all...

I can't stop looking at this picture and thinking about the day I took it. Everything was so peaceful and strange and perfect. I've been closing my eyes and trying to transport myself back there, but...nothing. I can't transport myself back a minute, let alone months back and thousands of miles away.

I'm searching for something. And I don't think all the charm and soothing telephone voices and magical push-up bras in the world will help me find it.

The Oracle Has Spoken

Sometimes you're hot.

And sometimes you're so hot, you can hardly stand it. That's me for the last few days. Like Friday, I was trying to unpack the books in my un-air-conditioned office, in my un-air-conditioned workplace, and I had a moment of intense, visceral understanding of the word "sweltering". I only managed to dump out the contents of a few boxes before I was stripped down to my tank top, sweating, sticking my face in front of my tiny office fan, trying to keep my makeup from sweating off. It didn't work. And it didn't take me long to decide that rather than pass out from heat stroke and risk having a new colleague find me inert on the floor like a freshman at a frat party--which wouldn't be the greatest first impression--I should go home to try to lower my body temperature. Which didn't really work, anyway.

So the last few days, I've been hot...that hot that is so hot you don't even want to shower because the effort of hair-washing will create heat that will outweigh the cooling effects of the water...that wear-no-clothes, don't-move-much, close-your-eyes-and-think-of-winter kind of hot. Just hot.

The Secrets of the Universe

I needed to read a book.

Like you do, you know? I needed to read a book. So I went over to the shelf, and I wasn't really making a conscious choice. My hand just reached out of its own accord and selected my old copy of Jack Kerouac's Desolation Angels. I probably hadn't read it in five, six, seven years, and really couldn't remember much about it, but my hand made a beeline for it.

I stick the book in my bag and head off to an appointment. I'm sitting in a waiting room, break out the book, and crack it open. Inside the book, I find a little note that I had written for myself years and years ago. It said:

Tell The Truth Faster.

I lost my breath. It was exactly what I needed to hear. That place, that day, that moment...exactly what I needed.

Then I knew--my younger self left this for me. I left this for myself years ago so that I could discover it at this exact moment. Because at this exact moment, I need to remember to tell the truth faster.

How could I possibly know that? . . . Unless I have unlocked the secrets of the Universe. Time travel, anyone?