i’m so angry. i’m so mean. i expect total leeway for all shortcomings and failures, but i give none. i expect everyone to fit my tight definitions of what i desire in people, and i have such a hard time accepting–and enjoying–people for their individual selves. i expect the show always on while i’m always still adjusting my costume.

this is an easy out, but Facebook does this to me a lot. i see people’s stream of conscious, and their grammar might be bad or their topic may be obscure, and i’m frustrated: “why aren’t you the you i want you to be?!?”

and to myself. i get so mad at me. why did i make that choice? why am i afraid of the post office? why do i hate going outside?

right now i’m stuck on this tattoo. my artist called me once, it’s been a few years, and she said money’s tight. i’ll tattoo you as long as you can sit for a certain amount of money. and man was it a bargain. here’s the catch: i didn’t get the tattoo i really wanted. i sold my arm for someone else’s rent money.

why the hell did i do that? there are so many ways each and every one of us are prostitutes to something, but i actually sold skin. i am permanently marked for a big fucking mistake.

i’m trying forgiveness today. i’ve changed the name of the flower. it was supposed to be a gardenia in honor of my grandmother and my husband for sentimental reasons. i’ve come to realize it looks more like a camellia. flipping through a flower book trying to see if there was something i wanted to paint, i saw a magic answer. it said that camellias mean “you’re adorable.”

forgive me, Chrissy; i’m adorable.

Crying Wolf

in college, i was in love with a woman named Stacia Wolf. she not only had the most perfect name ever, she brought a distinction to our group of friends as being the most brilliant of the females amongst us giggling dahlias.

my favorite moments with Stacia were when she slipped away from maturity land, leaving her fiancé and future step-daughter behind for a night alone with me getting blind drunk. in retrospect, from womanhood, i wish we had gotten tipsy in my dorm room and had the deep sort of girl-talk we did in my drunken torpor, but with the gravitas of the edge of sobriety making those nights more memorable to her. but i presume she hung out with me because she knew i was the party girl of our group and would not just get her trashed on cheap liquor but lead her to the best parties within walking distance. (never drive drunk kids, NEVER drive drunk.)
as we drank, she confessed to me her secret fears of marrying her controlling fiance direct from college and instantly acquiring a seven-year-old daughter and hostile baby mama cum ex-wife. in those sloppy moments, i begged her not to marry. did i tell her i loved her yet? i know i did later, but in the moments of seriousness, i begged her, pointing out she just told me she was semi-afraid of the over-bearing demeanor the future husband already displayed, feared baby mama, and could she be a 20-year-old mother to a seven-year-old child resistant to her because of her confusion about the divorce? these were weighty things for any woman to ponder, let alone a newly graduated genius deserving grad school coffee huse chats and not midnight wet beds.
i burned for Stacia, stared at her as best i could through pure-grain and koolaid eyes. i remember we played checkers one night before walking to a party, and i didn’t even try the game i wanted her to win so badly. i listlessly pushed around my black tablets, leaning on a crooked elbow arm, drinking her sweet water cane liquor face. we actually cried over checkers as she poured out her distilled heart concerning her grave graduation gift. could she do it? Stacia, come to grad school with me! please! you can help me with my papers, tone them to your brilliance, and i’d guide you to self-discovery free of the man who wanted to gobble your life.¬†
she ditched me at the party, indicative of how she used me for imbibed tears and moved on. always the same pattern. drink, debate, ditch.
Stacia, my sweet Stacia, what happened to you? i still love you.