anxious anxious anxious.
the waiting game always stirs up that churning in my middle and the clenching of my jaw, a mantra in my head silently repeating “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry” as if everyone will psychically receive the message.
waiting for a certain piece of life-changing mail to arrive that will make my life a million times less stressful, yet might make others judge my choices.
waiting for those emails that will confirm that everyone is cool with me completely rearranging my thursday, even though it’s burning me up inside that it’s Not Actually Very Cool.
waiting to sign that contract that will set my holiday season in stone. wanting to put the puzzle together but missing all of the edge pieces.
and ultimately, really just hoping that i show up everywhere i need to be in the next five days on time and in the right clothing.
time to get scared - time to change plan
don’t know how to treat a lady
don’t know how to be a man
time to admit - what you call defeat
'cause there's women running past you now
and you just drag your feet
man makes a gun - man goes to war
man can kill and man can drink
and man can take a whore
kill all the blacks - kill all the reds
and if there’s war between the sexes
then there’ll be no people left
and so it goes - go round again
but now and then we wonder who the real men are
it’s weird when scaffolding gets taken down from a street you’ve only ever known with scaffolding. you walk down it like, “why is it…super daytime out? how did i get here? this is what this is supposed to look like? where are the metal bars that made the sidewalk lanes? people don’t know how to walk, this is chaos.”
to the guy hanging on the corner outside of the preschool: i am wearing shorts because it is fucking hot outside. i’m dressed nicely because i am heading to work. NONE OF THIS IS FOR YOU. i am not your “baby,” nor will i stop for you to give you my name and number. your comments of “beautiful” and “gorgeous” are not compliments. i am not a painting in a museum for you to admire.
also, your lip smacking is repulsive, not sexy.
so when i said sternly, “please leave me alone,” i REALLY meant, “fuck off, shit bag.”
"if ONE MORE PERSON slams me with their bag or body, i WILL lose it."
"PLEASE don’t dance in my space. you are behind me. i cannot see you. don’t you dare dance up my ass, then act annoyed when i turn around and almost collide with you."
"the amount of desperation in this room is making me queasy."
"oh yeah, that’s right. i HATE 8th avenue."
"DO NOT TOUCH MY ASS, YOU SHIT STICK."
"ugh. it’s HOT."
ahhhhh, feels good to be home.