Today I traveled to Daughters of Charity for my second Hepatitis Shot. Apparently Georgia thinks that coming from Louisiana I may be ridden with every possible disease known to man.
For all I know they have it right. Walking barefoot down canal at 3 am on a Saturday night, contracting cuts on the bottom of my feet that turn into large purple welts that don't heal for weeks, probably constitutes a real reason for inoculation.
I spent twenty minutes waiting on a nurse to decide that what I told her was right. Too tired to describe the whole issue here but when I got home my pants were covered in blood. So I suppose everyone in the waiting room and everyone anywhere saw that. And I wasn't even embarrassed. That may be a luxury I miss when I leave New Orleans. The "no one gives a fuck" luxury.
I came home and thought about all the things I have to do this month. Decide if I want to pay rent. Decide when to move with no money. Decide what to do with my things. I'm of the opinion someone can have most of everything. It's not worth the hassle.
My boss is fazing me out of my job. It's just as well...she's toxic. I wonder how I got to this point, at 32 years old, where moving with no money to a town with no home from a job that is toxic to a possible homeless state seems is a decision I have made. I wonder that others don't live this matter-of-factly with as little panic about such a state as I live in. I see others my age on my Facebook with careers and families and mortgages and it doesn't faze me that I'm not at that point. I just wonder in an objective sort of way, looking into my life, that I don't panic more. I wonder if I'm completely sane. The answer is obvious though, I wouldn't know anyway so why worry about it.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Hey Dilek
Dear Dilek,
You had me in turning chairs made of fake leather and unknown cloth, for the first time in my life having my "hair done" before work for five dollars, a ridiculous amount. But life was a fashion show there and I remember fighting myself when I told you "I don't want to meet any one else." "He likes American girls" was your answer and as if that was enough of an explanation I agreed, because I truly was in love with you, and being in love means saying yes. One love isn't enough to foster another, I learned.
But part of the show was dying my hair blonde, because yellow was an extraordinary color there. And sitting in the bar where I pretended I belonged, only because it was vaguely familiar when the Turks would nod in my direction, not enough to acknowledge I belonged (because I didn't) but enough to let me pretend, for which I was grateful. Because belonging there was something I never mastered.
So I sat, and I waited, and he came.
And if he liked American girls, it was something I never experienced. But he wore sweaters that fit him with no holes, and that was something I've never dated...I came from a world of torn shirt boys and loose fitting jeans and guitars that played Alice in Chains and late night fishing for change for a bottle of whiskey from Rouse's.
I was impressed by his jeans that were dark and perfectly cut above the brown striped shoes, and his hair that was washed on a regular basis.
Was a ridiculous thing to send late night texts (or sexts) that ended in our marriage. And it was the best sex I ever had. I've heard worse reasons for marriage.
And I still don't know if he married me for the move to America, or because of love, or maybe it was the sex...but that's beyond his ability for honesty.. if asked he'll say he loved me and it was a noble move on his part, full of pride and other emotions that help develop a persona of respect. And that's why it ended in divorce...he could never be honest. Or maybe he was, and I just could never accept his answer.
And today he says I'm part of his past and he can't go there again.
And I accept because it's what I do.
And it's probably bullshit on my part that I still feel so used.
You had me in turning chairs made of fake leather and unknown cloth, for the first time in my life having my "hair done" before work for five dollars, a ridiculous amount. But life was a fashion show there and I remember fighting myself when I told you "I don't want to meet any one else." "He likes American girls" was your answer and as if that was enough of an explanation I agreed, because I truly was in love with you, and being in love means saying yes. One love isn't enough to foster another, I learned.
But part of the show was dying my hair blonde, because yellow was an extraordinary color there. And sitting in the bar where I pretended I belonged, only because it was vaguely familiar when the Turks would nod in my direction, not enough to acknowledge I belonged (because I didn't) but enough to let me pretend, for which I was grateful. Because belonging there was something I never mastered.
So I sat, and I waited, and he came.
And if he liked American girls, it was something I never experienced. But he wore sweaters that fit him with no holes, and that was something I've never dated...I came from a world of torn shirt boys and loose fitting jeans and guitars that played Alice in Chains and late night fishing for change for a bottle of whiskey from Rouse's.
I was impressed by his jeans that were dark and perfectly cut above the brown striped shoes, and his hair that was washed on a regular basis.
Was a ridiculous thing to send late night texts (or sexts) that ended in our marriage. And it was the best sex I ever had. I've heard worse reasons for marriage.
And I still don't know if he married me for the move to America, or because of love, or maybe it was the sex...but that's beyond his ability for honesty.. if asked he'll say he loved me and it was a noble move on his part, full of pride and other emotions that help develop a persona of respect. And that's why it ended in divorce...he could never be honest. Or maybe he was, and I just could never accept his answer.
And today he says I'm part of his past and he can't go there again.
And I accept because it's what I do.
And it's probably bullshit on my part that I still feel so used.
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