Dear Nobody (18 page)

Dear Nobody,

I was just watching an interview with Gene Wilder, one of my favorite actors. When asked what to concentrate on while acting, he said to concentrate on nothing. Nada. Knowing he's a genius, I was heeding his every word. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made to me. Every day, in real life, how much are we really concentrating? In simple actions like having a conversation with a familiar face or in arguing with an unpleasant associate, how often do we look back and think of how we forgot to mention something—or of the perfect rebuttal to an argument? If we had been fully concentrated on the situation, we'd know what we wanted to say; what the perfect thing to do at that moment would have been. It's only later when we are really concentrating—by then our heads are clear—after we've gone over the situation in our mind a few more times. By then, we are not distracted by the heat of the moment, the shock of what the person is saying, or who that guy was that just walked by.

Dear Nobody,

I guess I really like to write. Maybe someday I'll be a writer. I've been writing lately just to write. I can't decide if it's because I like releasing thoughts from my cluttered head, or because I just like the way the pen feels gliding along the paper? They go together so well. Oh, and one thing about a boring life—you've got to stretch your imagination farther to come up with fiction, than if your living a busy, entertaining life. Busy lives have more inspiration. I guess, overall, a bored writer becomes the best writer, because they develop a more brilliant imagination; while the busy writer may only develop the skill of moving reality into fiction.

Dear Nobody,

Today Geoff—that “ex-boyfriend” of mine—called me. We talked for a while. He broke up with that other girlfriend because she was saying really asshole-things. He says he wants to see me again. He said another PRETTY ASSHOLE THING, too. I'm not even going to get into all this shit though, because I'm kind of upset now.

Basically, guys just want pussy. Girls just want something or anything. It's not fair. Sexism pisses me off. I fucking hate it. Whenever a guy does something like burp really loud, I want to shove a tampon right in his fucking mouth. Like burping and shit is a guy thing. If a guy does it, he's being a guy, if a girl does it, she's being gross.

What really pisses me off is that a guy can fuck as many girls as he wants, and he's just considered a guy that gets it a lot. A girl that has a lot of sex is called a slut. If a girl sucks dick, she's usually called a “ho.” If a guy eats pussy; he's just a guy that gets smooth pussy.

Double standards really suck.

Guys say that a girl gets loose if they have sex too much. I guess a girl CAN get loose just from doing it one or two times. Not even really loose, just not tight; but I don't know—is that really true?

Dear Nobody,

I went over to Geoff's house today. It was probably a terrible idea. After we talked, I walked home alone—smelling like him. The taste of him was still prominent in my mouth and throat. I almost liked it, in a self-derogatory way. It seems like anything having to do with Geoff is self-derogatory.

This isn't like me. I had always considered myself the extreme example of dignity—but not lately. However, if anyone were to say otherwise, I would deny it profusely. My failings and the personal fraudulence to my pride are very private, secret thoughts of mine. Sometimes I feel like I need them to keep my realities in check—other times I think they are the opposite, and keep me away from reality.

Like after tonight, I know what the chances of him calling are, but I dove into this head first, fully acknowledging the devastation I could be causing to my ego. It helps me to think of it that way—to think of MYSELF as the person causing the damage. It makes me feel less like the victim—I can still be the cement wall of emotional endurance—just so long as I can control it all.

See, I really don't CARE if he calls me.

I'm PLANNING on him not calling me.

Maybe.

Still, if he did—it'd be nice.

Hello?

Hello, reality, are you still there?

I think we've been disconnected.

Dear Nobody,

Don't hate me—Geoff and I are back together again. I don't know how long it will last this time and I'm pretending not to care.

Dear Nobody,

Geoff and I are back together FOR NOW. I am desperately in love with him and he says he feels the same. I really fucked up my life this past summer. I'm gonna try picking up the pieces now. I want things to be calm and to keep getting calmer. However, my health keeps getting worse. I'm not sure I'm ready to anticipate my death anymore. I can't. I'm hoping they'll find a cure in my lifetime—they've already perfected cloning. They say that can help them cure me. I hope so.

Dear Nobody,

I knew I would be going back into the hospital soon, so Geoff and I went down to the rope swing last night to try and get my jollies while I still could. It was freezing out. I had on a big winter coat and gloves. Some of the boys there had no coats on, but I could tell they were freezing even if they were trying not to show it. We were all in a big circle and I was sitting on a dirty old box spring mattress that was lying on the ground near the tree. There was a candle in the middle of our circle and two cases of cheap beer. I held my beer in the gloved hand, because it was so cold. I lent Geoff my other glove so he could hold his beer because he didn't have any gloves on him.

When it got to be too cold to be outside we relocated to an old abandoned house that is pretty far downtown; on the East End almost. We kept drinking quickly because the drunker we got, the less cold we'd be. A guy across from me with no coat and a beanie hat pulled out a pack of generic cigarettes and offered one to the guy next to him. He was sitting on one of those old-people-plastic toilets. The girl next to him was on a broken lawn chair. I didn't really know the other two people next to her. Someone threw a piece of ripped off cardboard from the beer case in the candle's flame. It was starting to burn out. It was getting darker, and I could barely make out anyone's face. No one was really talking—just the guzzle of beer cans being drank in one gulp broke the silence.

Someone else on the mattress lit her lighter to look for cigarette butts by her feet. I could see a cloud of cold from her mouth when she breathed out.

This guy John burped really loud, and a few of the guys laughed.

The girl with brown hair said, “That's gross,” then burped even louder; it almost sounded like she'd thrown up.

People were talking now, and it didn't seem so cold anymore. I was talking to the people on my left side, and they were looking at me, amused. The candle was just about burnt out when this cute Mexican kid stood up, looking a little happy, a little drunk; and said he was going to get another candle from the closet upstairs. Everyone just looked at him, no one really said anything. I stood up and said I'd go with him because he shouldn't have to go alone. I walked up the steps behind him. He was using his lighter as a flashlight.

We went into the bedroom and looked around. He didn't say anything, and neither did I. I walked over to the frosty window and looked out. It was snowing. He stood there looking around. I didn't like the silence, so I had to say something. “Find the candles yet?” I said, with too much faked concern, because I knew he already had.

“Yeah,” he answered slowly.

“Okay, good,” I said, and we started walking down stairs.

When we got back everyone was laughing, and passing around some ugly broken bowl with a devil face on it. Some guy had my glove on, and the girl who had been wearing it went someplace to pee. I sat down next to Geoff and kissed him on his cheek. I held his hand. It was cold; not as cold as I thought it would be, but cold. Geoff was kind of staring off into the distance. It was getting quieter, but a few people were still talking. They were getting louder. I couldn't tell who was trashed and who was just drunk, but I had that feeling in my stomach I get when I'm pretty drunk.

The girl who had been sitting next to me came back into the room and flopped down on the floor next to the mattress looking listless. I asked her if she was okay. She didn't hear me, but I knew she was, so I turned my attention to the flame on the floor and listened to the other people talking. There were maybe six beers left from the second case, so I reached out and grabbed two and sat them behind me, while I finished the beer in my hand.

I heard one of the boys getting loud with another boy. I got into it, then the Spanish kid told us to shut up, that the neighbors would hear us if we kept arguing. We all forgot about it, and I kissed my boyfriend on the cheek one more time. He was really drunk—a lot of beer cans were at his feet.

“I love you,” he said, hugging me.

I laughed and squeezed his arm. The Mexican and his brown haired girlfriend were looking at us, smiling.