When I was a little girl, I used to dream of growing up and becoming a drug addict. I’m not sure where this ambition came from. My family consists of strict non-addicts and all I watched as a child was Nick at Nite, Wishbone, and neighborhood children running from my house in terror. I was somewhat violent. No big deal.
But my desire for drug addiction was not as self-destructive as it may sound. I only sought it for the cinematic aspects – the shaking, the sweating, the twitching, the crying, the screaming, the gay bathroom sex…ok, so The Basketball Diaries
is my only frame of reference for drug addiction. Whatever. My point is, my desire for the dramatics of a life-ruining sickness led to many preteen hours spent over a sink, splashing water onto my face, slapping my cheeks and staring intensely at my own reflection before screaming and throwing a handful of loose Smarties at the mirror, only to panic and immediately grasp them all, shoving them into my mouth and swigging down a glass of water before collapsing onto the floor in tears of self-hatred. Yes, I have parents. Yes, they are great.
The disturbing part is that I never really grew out of this. Recently I’ve been drinking alone, not because I’m unhappy (although…I mean…yeahhhh) but because I like to cradle a wine glass in my hand as I tremble, ever-so-slightly, twirling long strands of pearls around my fingers, weeping silent tears, streaking puffy cheeks with mascara, as I sip from my glass and wonder where I went wrong in my career now that I am an aging alcoholic starlet. I vary the storyline from time to time, becoming energetic, flirtatious, and underwear clad as I traipse around my apartment with fake eye lashes, splashing wine all over myself, pretending to be Edie Sedgwick. I have yet to graduate to amphetamines. It’s only a matter of time.
But these are not lies. I actually do these things. I also have most conversations with my sister pretending to be a black pimp, conversations with my brother pretending to be a soul-less slightly retarded sorority girl, and conversations with myself pretending to be perfectly sane. Clearly I am none of these things.
I have found that my behavior is increasingly erratic when I live alone. When I live alone I am nothing short of a complete and utter mess, literally and psychologically. Last night I skipped back and forth down my hallway several times around 2:00 am. I’d love to know why. I really would.
I’d also like to know why I find this:
So much more attractive than this:
Any thoughts on the subject would be greatly appreciated.
The girl who still doesn’t understand how magnets work, despite her many attempts to find out