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By Misti Date: 2003 Sep 25 Comment on this Work [[2003.09.25.23.51.20695]] |
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These days are no good. No good at all. My supervisor tells me my job is in danger. Too many tardies, not enough sales. My husband tells me he is weary of my endless drama/my tears/my fatigue/my "I Miss My Mom"s and "This World is Not My Playground"s. Today I gave my husband his birthday gifts two weeks early while we listened to his "Let it Be" cd. He watched "The Cable Guy" and it hit too close to home because no one will be my friend, either. I wanted to watch "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles." He said he could not watch a movie about teenage turtles. I called Dial-A-Poem. New poem, no messages. I suck. No one likes me. No one likes my poetry. No one will buy me a beer. I am not popular. I don't have the stuff that legends are made of. Whine whine whine. Yada yada yada. Boo hoo hoo. I am a caucasian girl crying over spilled milk and the crumbling stale pastry that is my skin. I am a woman who hasn't gotten the message. Tonight I cried and cussed and talked about killing myself. Tonight I left a pathetic, bawling message on my doctor's machine. Today I bought religious stickers for my husband. And socks because he needed socks. Today I scrubbed the bathroom sink. There were dots of turquoise toothpaste. Those are not cool. I lit candles. I did laundry. I was interviewed for a job that I don't want. I got a small Cherry Coke at Sonic and the girl forgot to bring me my change. I pushed the button and said,"I need my change." Every quarter counts. I hate the local poets. They are in a club that is cool and elite and I am not allowed to join. I don't want to hear from their wives or girlfriends. I am not trying to suck dick here I am trying to connect. I am not a slut. I don't have sex anymore. I have it but I don't enjoy it. I am a frigid woman with a hooded clitoris and a flabby body. No one will accuse me of being a shallow glamorous femme fatale. That is not what I'm here for. I am here to die everyday. I die and dance on coals and wear ashes on my face. I watch "Frida" and sob for two hours and see my daughter in the mirror, the daughter who was never mine. I buy posterboards and National Geographics and think about making collages but don't. I drink Dr. Pepper and hate myself for not being bubbly and blonde and successful like the Natalie doll who interviewed me this morning when I was barely there because I was exhausted and disenchanted. I would like to die and be reborn as someone who is irony deficient and charming and cute by all standards. A fuckworthy cheerleader. A girl with all A's and a Jessica Wakefield face and a Salma Hayek body. I would like to be an American winner. I would like to be a living breathing walking talking flirting doll that does not hurt. I want to say the same five things over and over again in the same cheery voice. "I am Misti and I love my life!" "You're cute. Let's play!" "Math is easy because I'm smart!" "I love boys. Boys are fun!" "We should trust Daddy. Daddy knows best!" Today I cried until the snot dripped down as I told my husband I don't want to drain him anymore. I want my mommy. These days are no good. No good at all. |