ISSUES AND THEN SOME

There is a fat, annoying girl in my class. I make fun of her openly to dull the tinny echo her voice leaves in my ears. I sit there as she spews her incessant babble of bullshit that not one person gives a shit about, and I come to a conclusion: this bitch is getting more play than I am. What the fuck? I wear the continually frustrated face of a born-again virgin. It has been centuries since I have tasted lips and tongue and sweat. I am imprisoned in a past that I cannot escape and all that I want to do is fuck.
“Scoot down a little farther,” he says, “and spread your legs a little wider.” For the propagation of a species I despise, I open up for a stranger.
“My sexual frustration is getting the best of me.”
My therapist pisses me off with, “Why do you think you are so consumed with sex right now?”
“Because,” I respond, “my wrists are getting tired.”
Maybe my sarcasm is the reason I can’t get laid. Maybe I think too much or talk too much or maybe it is the five pounds I have gained. Maybe I should dye my hair black or maybe I should wear my make-up. I question my reality and your reality and the reality that that fucking bitch Lorene Wagner shoves down my throat on the morning news, and I try to put it all in perspective. I do not want to grow up or get married or have babies. I do not want to use people as a means to an end. I do not want to go another day feeling as if I am going to go insane because of people seeing only the visceral. I want to forget that people still use the terms “nigger” and “fag” and “trailer-trash” in serious conversation. I want sixty-five minutes of fucking to forget the twenty-odd years I have lived on this planet.
“If you were my neighbor, I would throw rocks at your window when I come home drunk at 3:00am and ask you to make me hot tea,” I say to the stranger who is now my friend.
“Honestly, where do you come up with this fucked up shit?”
Okay, maybe he isn’t now my friend. Maybe I am not doing a good job of putting things in perspective. Perhaps strangers are supposed to stay strangers and I should be happy with my “circle of friends.” Maybe when I couldn’t sleep again last night and I read, “it is possible to love completely without complete understanding,..” I should have paid more attention. I just need the understanding. I need to know that you understand what I’m saying, even when it doesn’t make any sense. I need to know that you will be my friend even if I did try and fuck you. Maybe everything will eventually be connected. Until it is, if you were my neighbor, I would climb the tree in your backyard and watch your silhouette as you read.