I’m sitting on vacation eating homemade sushi, drinking organic root beer, listening to whatever I can and having flashes of the game I was just playing on my mom’s iPad snap onto the hot pursuit screen of my laptop every now and then. Privileged, one would say.
I sit here trendily, being freshly tan, scantly dressed without makeup and looking what most boys have labeled as “my best”. Yet all I can sit and think is:
What’s she got that I don’t?
The more I think about it, all she’s got is the heart of a boy who’s mind is on me who I shouldn’t be bothering my time with.
And I realize that, up next to me?
I’ve got some things she don’t.
That I don’t care if nobody else see’s but me.
Because I’ve got my body.
And I have a hip toss that can’t be beat.
And I have, no lies, one hell of an ass.
I’ve got some recipes up my sleeve that would make a smart boy propose in a heartbeat.
I have a still mind and a steady heart that jump at the opportunity to dance when something excites them. But only to their favorite songs, because my tummy teaches them better than to get ahead of themselves.
I’ve got dusted antiques of memories that I’m teaching myself to stop using against you.
And I’ve got blue eyes. That change to green. And yellow. And red and brown and black. But when they’re blue, they are blue blue blue.
And I’ve got these legs. That are solid. That are like thunder. That are like flowers. That are like pikes that stab into your throat when you don’t listen well enough to my appetite.
Because I’ve got the capability of speaking goofy. And sexy. And dorky and homely and sassy and seriously.
I can be so serious.
And I have the ability to take a joke.
I have a onesie.
With monkey’s on the feet.
I don’t think she has one of those.
I’ve got my brain in my head and insanity in a jar. Because that’s something worth holding on to when you’re driving the bandwagon of best friends down the road of redemption to make the worst best decision to do something like…
Go skinny dipping. In a public lake. With a fresh piercing and rum in your stomach and a brand new heartbreak.
Insanity. In a jar. In my pocket. In my journal. At the tip of my tongue.
But I was also taught how to keep it particularly classy.
I still have my teddy that used to join me for tea parties.
I was told once that I had curves like Monroe. Like a classic, when I lie on my side. Naked.
I’d like to keep that one.
I’m really good at saving money when I grocery shop, that I know.
I understand appropriateness and circumstance and timing and when one should beat around the bush.
I have this incredible ability to satisfy somebody in their. Crevasse. In their. Creeks. With. Tingles. And. Gestures. And a lot of pounding and noises that, alone, are meant for horror films.
I also have an extreme comfort with the beauty of the blunt.
And I am one of few kids my age that may be fully in tune with their sexuality.
And I’m really good a gauging other people’s.
And there’s no doubt in my mind that I can make almost anybody feel at least good.
I have no fear there.
I love my fear of the darkness that lingers behind me in hallways. And I welcome the wanting to vomit as it clings to my shoulders and wraps around my waist, sucking on my tip toes.
I have old, vintage combat boots with not too long of a story.
No way she has the same story.
I have got this selection of friends. They never talk behind my back. And don’t go picking up my old trash. And no matter how lazy I get, they stay.
I understand the need to be lazy.
But have the capability to get things moving.
I adjust really well.
I’ve got a steady passion with a budding plan and outline, being backed up by an incredible institution that may very well be the jumping off point of my entire career, in a city that treats me like the fucking goddess I was born to be.
I have a city that tears at my skin every morning, waking me up mentally so that I don’t get lost in my reflection in the window and pay attention to how depressingly fucking real the state of our society is.
In the state of Illinois, in the city of Chicago, I’ve got a house and a home and a sense of direction in the grittiest place in the world; hard working, real aesthetics, architecturally sounding with a fucking boom in my bedroom. I’ve got Chicago. Over and over again, I’ve got Chicago. With the stripper heels he bought me and the condom she poked to destroy me and saliva on my lips, lookin a bit more like Poison Ivy. In Chicago, with my boots and a see through brasier, ratting my hair in a way that makes them think that the other side of the street may be a better option.
I’ve got Chicago. And I’ve got a self righteous attitude and an overwhelming appreciation for the art institute, but a lacking of patience to completely walk through. I’ve got bums and slick suits and watered coffee that’s not an Americano, just really shitty. And a building grid that glimmers with teamwork, just like the showed us in kindergarten.
I’ve got a city full of people who understand hard work and effort and dynamics and time and sex and… smiling.
I’ve got a city that smiles at me.
I’ve also got this love for 7-11, no matter how stressing our economic crisis is.
I mean, really. Have you tasted the iced mochas?
I hate the idea of a place like Starbucks, but the sound of a Caffe Latte coughing up cinnamon in its foamy rim is so mouthwatering that I give in sometimes.
I pay attention to the news but don’t let it ruin me.
I hate my legs and my accent and the garbage on the street and the silent lack of direction in my life and my shitty cell service and that I’m actually such a prude when it comes to choosing the people I fuck, but I have an unhealthy addiction to paradoxes.
I have time.
And the ability to let go of something that I know, without a doubt, may be one of the best things that may ever happened to us.
I’ve got no shame in admitting that.
But I am also, above all that I am or have, an emotional genius.
And I have emotions.
And, believe it or not, so do you.
Instead of throwing punches for my defenses, I have kindness in my blood that transfers throughout my entire body, that will give up on working towards your happiness when you think the time is right.
I’ve got ears, you give the word.
And just in case, I’ve got some giggles stored in my trapper keeper and a peanut gallery in support of me for when you realize that this may have been a huge mistake.
Coming up second to my geniosity (followed closely for my talent in linguistics, obviously), is my strength. Strength in persistence and love and moving on and in my legs and heart and mind and maybe a little in my upper body and in decisiveness and also in my blow jobs.
I am strong and will not let you fuck me when you come visit me next.
Strong like the iron bars on my bed that you won’t get to grip.
And I am strong, and will let my heart keep pumping the imprint of your real smile and shivered muscles when you stretch as long as it wants.
I’ve got a real strong memory of making him really fucking happy. Terrifyingly.
I’ve got enough strength left in my voice box to tell you exactly what is what, but I’m going to use that strength instead to find another boy to make me come.
I’ve got the strength to lead this writing back to focusing on me instead of something else.
Because I’ve got a sense of direction.
And I had this dog. She passed recently. And she loved me better than anybody else ever could, teaching me that worrying about who will ever care enough and whether I’ll be good enough and what I do and don’t have shouldn’t ever even matter.
Because all you need is likeness.
No glitter and fairy dust and wedding bands and lack of air supply.
A smile and a snuggle.
Rationality. I’ve got a lot of it.
So much to realize that we’re young, and to be looking for forever after right now is a lost cause, like scavenging the dictionary for the word you just made up.
Lots of paper cuts.
And we’re young, so go fucking eat something greasy, because you might not be able to when you’re 35.
I’ve got a boy. It may not be one to hold hands with or your God or a child. I’m not even referencing my dad.I’ve got a boy in me that spits out from mud puddles and fart jokes and old boxers and video games. Even though I’m really bad at them.
And I’ve got a fun attitude and several senses of humor and a good grasp on non-irritating sarcasm.
I’ve got incredible sex appeal. But you’ll only know that if I find you worthy.
I’m good at mischief.
I’ve got a really epic, forever spanning, open music collection. I guarantee you’ll find something that you like.
I’ve got this one sweater, dude. Jesus. Smells like dirt and looks like vomit. And I wear it EVERYWHERE.
I got and get and had compliments.
And I got a smile on my face.
I got excited.
And then stopped to think.
Because having Hip Hop tracks hump my ear drums kind of does that while I type.
She’s got a lot, too.
And some of my gots, she might not want.
And maybe there are things she had and decided to toss in the trash.
I’m sure she gets compliments and loves her legs.
He likes them, too.
And I’m happy for her.
I get what I got, she can have hers.
Everybody can go die for the sake of missing each other, avoiding the beauty of existence that is crying for their attention, shimmering over waters and tingling in their panties; the availability of living on without making each other so damn miserable. Because there’s so much more out there than Disney movies. Stop killing romance.
In the mean while, what I will always have is the calm understanding that this. What I have now and what will fall from my stack and climb to the top in a week, will always be good enough. And I should stop looking. I hope she knows that, too.
There’s one thing I lack. And that’s a particularly competitive side. Except with certain games and cooking.
I wouldn’t say anybody won. We all just lose sight sometimes of the things that are true trophies.
(I have an undying appreciation for Hallmark cards. I take pride in that.)
I’ve got a lasting appreciation for women, which is why I’d never really compare her to me in the first place.
We’ve both got our things that make us worthy and lovely.
Besides. I’ve got coloring books and some boys asking to kiss me and a lot of time that I dare not waste.
There is way too much of just enough on my plate.
i just looked at a clock that said 11:11, stopped for a minute, thought for a wish, but the only thing that came out was:
I’m going to do incredibly.
Pretty sure I’m okay.