Chick-slit

There are many books I'm eager to read, which is fitting given that I'm back in University. My sodding eyes want to feast themselves on more than chick-slit... you know, those chicky books that make you want to slash your wrists with a belt buckle from TopShop. They're cheap and pretend to be the anomaly to the genre. No, doesn't go into that cheesy area, the author says of her work. Hoax. There are always real exceptions, and they're usually the books that don't belong in the category from the start. They were just lobbed there because they were written by a chick. I'm on the watch for fulfilling reads.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I wouldn't. But I sometimes imagine my life down the road, so different from where I am today: I'd leave him. And it would be a relief, after all the panic and fear and crying and grieving. Ultimately, it would be a relief because I'd have a chance to be me again, without someone controlling, telling me how to behave with my own friends. Robbie said I was slighting them. Said I should spend more time coddling. He does this all the time, makes suggestions "for the better," but all I really hear are suggestions for change. How can I be different? Why can't I just be me? He says asking this is an excuse. "It's lazy" he says when I say "it's just how I am." He says I don't have to be, that I can change, should want to change. But I don't. I know we all tend to resist change, especially when we're being asked to, when it's not coming from within. Defensive, in a word. But at a certain point, it's all I hear from him, and I begin to wonder: when is it valid? I mean we all want to be our authentic selves, true to who we are or are meant to be, and maybe the people who come into our lives are there to steer us in the right (or wrong) direction... and our reaction drives us North, to our truest point. When--does anyone have pointers?--should we take their word for it and try to change, even if we don't want to?

Putting the "YES" in Yesterday

I gave my official "yes" yesterday to a nanny position. It's a four year old boy named Brighton and an infant named Margery. I cannot wait to start. I'm moving in. My own bathroom, marble, with a jacuzzi. And a room of my own, like Virginia. I think, quite honestly, that I took the job more because I wanted their life, in that white plush room. With their packed refrigerator. With their wealth and foyers. I took the job so I could live in that house, learning from the elite how it's done, much more so than liking children. Though I do like children. I just don't ever want any of my own. A room is enough.

The druggies and the fatties get it right in the getting

Well that didn't take long. The promise to never drink again kind of fell by the wayside. Riesling, I think it was. A Gewürztraminer, actually. Dry, yet sweet, like me. Wine is so much of what we are, from the notes of barnyard to the subtleties of the most unassuming floral hues. I feel light, as if I've spent the day starving. I like feeling this dysfunctional, starving myself, despite knowing how wrong it is. I ate two finger-fulls of mud pie today, standing in front of the fridge. Then I didn't eat anything for the lot of the day, aside from a single bite of Robbie's shortribs. Then the vino. It makes me want to have sex, the dirty kind that only fat girls know how to have. Fat girls work harder at sex. They have to. It's the only way they'll convince a guy to come back. I'm skinny, so I don't have to be good in bed.

Playboy and Easter Bunnies

I've always associated Easter with Playboy. It's to do of course with the satin ears I imagined Heff's girls wore, alone, with little else, aside from fishnets, waitress red lipstick, and tousled blond extensions . Though I suppose there's nothing quite sexy about Christ's resurrection, aside, of course, with the fact that "resurrection" doesn't sound all that unlike "erection." May you have coitus like rabbits on this holy day. Happy Easter.

For a Long Time

I'm nursing a hangover on a Tuesday. I just drank a protein shake because they say snacks high in protein sustain you longer. Kill hunger. I'm going to the gym despite really wanting to crawl into bed and eat egg and cheese sandwiches. I crave grease. I need more water in life. Not just today. I have my period, which makes me want the dark and cold. A cave. With movies. And sleep. Dark. More Captain Morgan. Sleep. I hate feeling this way. I'm not getting pissed again for a long time.

What They Don't Know

My younger sister Helen died when I was sixteen. She was twelve then. I don't know how G-d lets someone live only to twelve. Never officially a teenager. Never been kissed. I don't like to talk about it because people feel sorry for me. What most people don't know is my aunt and other older sister Mary drove home from the funeral and were killed in a car accident. My mother still sets the dinner table for them, as if my sisters, or her sister, are coming home. And she forgot my birthday this year, maybe because it hurts her less, reminds her less. Still who forgets to celebrate the living just because of the dead? I lost my sisters. She lost some of her daughters. I'm still here. I wish my life wasn't so hard. I know my parents love me, but it would be nice if they told me so every once in a while. I've never wanted children and cannot imagine this will ever change. Some people, I believe, just don't have that instinct or inclination. I don't think I was always like this, I think being a daughter in my house made me realize I don't want one. Ever.