I’m wearing my grandpa’s Indiana sweatshirt and my pearls. Jeans and no panties. I put my panties in my bag after we fucked, instead of putting them back on. They had come off over my ankle boots, so was I really going to put them back on after that?
When he made the quip about being in bed by 10:30 after a gallery show and a fuck, I thought he was joking. Woe is me. No. He dropped me right off. Those words, I don’t want you to feel like I am kicking you out, clearly lip service so better heard as he pulled up to my building. Kick me out of where? Your bed, or this delusion I had been in, one that he had voluntarily created. Some place where I thought it was ok to feel. To be honest. To… well, whatever.
We’re all liars, aren’t we? Just different things to lie about. Some of us lie to ourselves. We see more than is there. We trust when we should not. We believe so very truly, so very hard. We break our own hearts. And some of us have been lying to ourselves for so very long, the lie is just part of who we are and so everything else in our lives is just a lie, too. Incapable of sharing the truth with ourselves, let alone an audience, we have no idea even how to begin with what is true. Eventually, you live the lie and cannot define one from the other. …Which one are we talking about?
So. I am here. Here I am. In my grandpa’s sweatshirt with the letters I N D I A N A emblazoned and wearing away. Growing older with each wash. Just wearing out. Tired, maybe of stating the same thing one. more. time. How many times can you repeat yourself, anyway? Eventually, it’s just pathetically clear: no one is listening. Drowned out by the monotony of their own lives. Told over and over, as a mantra or a meditation ritual. As if your lies will bring you piece of mind.
Pearls, and an Indiana sweatshirt, it’s perfect, really, for this yet new truth. It’s all so fucking boring. So fucking tedious. Every single lie, and you just know it’s coming. You can almost see it on the lips. You can write it for them. It’s all so goddamn fucking boring. So. Why?
That question just resonates. And makes me weep. I’m weeping while I’m fucking, just mourning the loss of anything real. True. Non-coerced in this short time we have. Just something- that is honest, intimate, shared.
We really just want to share it all, when it all comes down to it. Be able to share with someone that has stake in it. In you. That lays claim to you and yours. That truly gives a shit what happens. But, we’re too busy lying for that, aren’t we?