Nothing's Fair In Love And War..

He looks at me and says, "So who are you then? Really?"

And I take a moment to think about it as my eyes slide away from his caustic gaze. He's serious when he asks me this question and maybe it catches me a little off guard. Usually when people ask this question they want to know what you do, what you like, what you listen to. And most of the time they don't really care unless they're pursuing something like a romance. Even then it's just good small talk. Besides, who am I really? I don't think anybody's anybody, not really. Except for maybe if you're under the pretense that we truthfully are what we eat, in which case I'd be a Ritalin pill and two eggs, over easy.

Him and I, we're sitting in the corner of a bookstore off 5th and Baltimore in the Walldorf District, or what some call the French District, where nobody's really French but the cafe's sell baguettes and one of the boutiques has a cut-out of the Eiffle tower pasted to their front window. Nobody puts much effort into things these days. They don't have to.

I had told him I was 18. I wasn't. I told him I was Julia. It wasn't. I told him I loved him too. I couldn't tell you why. I didn't. I don't know. Maybe I did.

I tell him, I don't know. I tell him this because in all likelihood it's probably the only thing I know for sure is true. Anymore, when people ask me questions like this I just make something up to entertain them. I don't soul-search inside myself because I've never thought of myself as more than a composite of the rest of the world, a product of some sort. I figure, if they really knew themselves, they'd know me too. Anymore, it's easier to just make somebody up than to define the intricacies that comprise my whole and separate me from the masses. I'd have to know alot more about the world than just my perspective of it to determine anything for sure, and anyways, who's to say I'm who I say I am? People change, so nobody's ever really who they say they are. Not for long anyway. Besides, by the time I've figured myself out, somebody's fucked me up good and everything's changed.

And he tells me, "I think I deserve to know."

I don't think he does. I don't think he deserves anything.

I'm a liar, I say. It's the truth, which is funny when you think about it, and it feels weird saying it but his green eyes don't look hurt by any fallacy on my behalf and it bothers me so I tell him what he wants to hear so that maybe he'll shut up and leave, or so that maybe I can at least get some reaction. I don't know why he's here to begin with. I didn't invite him.

Then it dawns on me that maybe he likes the lies better. Reality's not a pretty place. People disappear under headlines and girls fall in love with other men. Maybe he needs the escape of spending the night inside somebody that doesn't really exist. Maybe he knew the truth all along.

Fuck. What is wrong with people these days?

"You're a bitch." And he says it like I should be offended, but he sat there moments ago asking who I am, and now he thinks telling me the answer solves the problem. Truth is, he's probably right. Lot of good it does the both of us now.

Me and him, we dated for about a month. It was fun at first, but only because it was wrong. I met him at a busy bar and grill on game night and had noticed he was married. I inquired about the ring and he said, "Yeah, what about it?"

So I asked him, "How married?"

Twenty minutes later we were fucking in the bathroom stall and the manager was knocking on the door telling us we needed to leave or he'd call the police. And it was supposed to be a one night thing. Nothing that lasted. Just, for one night in my life I wanted to be a whore like everyone else. It sounds silly now. Four weeks later he was talking about divorce and I was getting ready to graduate and didn't have time to deal with that shit. Half way through the fifth week he found a picture of me in the local paper with a couple of girls from the track team at a fundraiser for our school. The caption listed us by our first initial, last name, and age. The picture was of my profile, so it wouldn't have been a problem if I wasn't wearing the same thing in the picture as what I had left his house in the morning it was taken. His hoodie. With his last name. I could have tried to lie, say it wasn't me, but it would have been useless. I was caught, with red letters and scarlet hands.

Nobody's who they say they are. At least not for long.

And now he sat in front of me wanting to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality, facts from fiction. Unfortunately, that ship had sailed weeks ago. Somewhere along the lines I probably messed this man's life up something good. Down the road a while, maybe even tonight, when he looks at his wife he'll see a lie where truth used to be. Eventually he'll have to decide which realm he wants to exist in, and both are going to suck.

He says, "Just tell me your name. Tell me you're real name. Just, please?" And he pauses for a moment. "Tell me who you really are."

I felt bad then, for this guy. It was too easy for me to steal him from his world, and for no reason. "I'm Julia." And this time, when I told him who I was, I wasn't lying.

"Do you come here often?"

It's abrasive in here, the kind of place one goes to when they realize they need another shot, without necessarily remembering when they took their last. It might have been days, weeks ago, but times like this renew that bitter taste of bourbon or whisky on the tongue. It's sick and sweaty and refreshingly dishonest. The sun won't break for another 5 hours and we'll be liars at least until then. Surrounded by steep walls and deep wallets, I don't plan on leaving until I have to. Anywhere I could go at this hour would only lead me to self loathing at the caustic end of a cigarette or the rock bottom of a shit glass bottle. Anyway, both are easily accessible from my current coordinates, and I intend to take full advantage of this. Walking hangovers and camera whores are scattered like spilled sardines under sexual lighting, setting the mood for a fishy fuck fest nobody truly intends on participating in, and I wait for my turn to snap at someone for bumping my beer. This isn't where people go if they want to be distant, but I hold myself to a different standard and I'm here anyway. The air is thick- it has a warm flavor- inhaled and exhaled a time too many by people I'd rather not share the process of respiration with, even less bodily fluids. Empty inqiries and bland attempts at faking futures interupt the first few sips of Boulevard. What a waste. They wade into my bubble with insecurities and egos, scarps demanding reverence in destroying what is and what could be. I'm not interested in pretending I want any of them, but I do it anyway out of habit. Each delivers a charming a alcoholic oratory with classic oaths, testaments to the confidence they have in their own size and faculty. People find love in these dingy holes. They find society here. I only find solitude amidst the voices. An empty room with wandering eyes watching a hand on my ass or a mouth on my neck and boredom in my gaze. I am unaffected.

"Buy me a drink."

They Say Marilyn Monroe Had Multiple Personality Disorder Too

I found​ mysel​f tonig​ht,​ woefu​l and wande​rlust​ betwe​en insan​ity and medit​ation​.​ I didn'​t even know I was gone.​ And it felt like a disap​ointm​ent,​ disco​verin​g I had been witho​ut mysel​f for so long.​ I had not gone anywh​ere,​ seen anyth​ing,​ exper​ience​d a third​ dimen​sion.​ My life story​ hadn'​t expan​ded while​ my soul was on leave​.​ I had just reced​ed into mysel​f,​ quiet​ed by work and news and a lack of self inqui​sitio​n.​ Somew​here betwe​en going​,​ breat​hing,​ think​ing,​ movin​g,​ I caugh​t an inter​nal train​ and heade​d right​, into my lung and noise​lessl​y thriv​ed on my own breat​h,​ witho​ut ever exert​ing a prese​nce.​ So I took a drive​ to catch​ up, remin​isce,​ daydr​eam in the dark night​ about​ antiq​uated​ dream​s.​ We discu​ssed futur​e plans​,​ and past failu​res.​ Yeah,​ the stars​ fell on broad​way after​ the dull moon came out, but we could​ still​ see the cloud​s for the city light​s,​ and we drove​ home along​ side busse​s where​ the sky'​s refle​ction​ playe​d with with solem​n stone​ busts​,​ blink​-​less in the windo​ws.​ I alway​s thoug​ht I saw mysel​f there​.​ Toget​her I liste​ned to the bass of a hundr​ed diffe​rent songs​ and trans​missi​ons shift​ing and my singl​e heart​ beati​ng.​ I pushe​d throu​gh the stree​ts of Camde​n and Rodeo​,​ lined​ with plast​ic limbs​ in flore​scent​ and tweed​ walki​ng on the sidew​alk or stand​ing in the pictu​re windo​ws.​ And pulle​d over into a gas stati​on off Santa​ Monic​a and bough​t cigar​ettes​ and destr​oyed us both again​ with each inhal​e.​

I'm Always A Bitch

It was a re-run. He was older and I was bored and somehow I ended up at his apartment at two in the morning with my cell to my ear, confirming his building number (they all looked the same) and commenting on the disheveled scarecrow mumbling between drags on the sidewalk. I didn’t feel safe there, wherever I was, and it wasn’t entirely due to the company I had been keeping or the dark street I just stumbled up, but danger is a drug and what doesn’t kill you gets you high. It was late enough and we were both drunk, or at least coming down off a heavy whiskey buzz. Neither of us had much to say over the phone, and I knew it wouldn’t change face to face, but if the conversation got stale, and it always did, I could feign exhaustion and curl up next to what’s as good as nobody and try and sleep until morning. It's never easy because they're always horny, but too drunk to get hard enough to be worth a damn so sleep comes only after a struggle to get them to pass out after a few minutes of forced small talk in an attempt justify the situation. This wasn’t the first time I had found myself there and it wouldn’t be the last. Another name, another hand rough on my waist, carefully inched slightly under the edge of my shirt, with me too focused on trying to successfully drink my beer at an angle to pay much attention to the motives of somebody’s fingers on my skin.


I remember I felt kind of sick last night when I rang his doorbell, and I thought it might be the alcohol but in all actuality it was probably one of those gut feelings; the kind that warn you this isn’t the ideal situation, which isn’t really news to anybody, but your body feels obligated to tell you anyway. It tells you he’s probably not the kind of mistake you’re going to be better for making. There is nothing to be learned from these situations and building character wasn’t the goal of the evening, but sometimes it feels good to fuck up something beautiful. And he was.


It was something outside, but I was under the influence of four hours at a shitty bar so it was hard to tell what. Maybe cold, maybe humid, maybe temperate. I wasn’t dressed for whatever it was and felt clammy underneath the layers I was wearing but I kept my sweater on for fear of making the wrong impression of what this night could mean for either of us. Disrobing could be read as some sort of vague come on; one I wasn’t quite ready to refute. The world was still hazy, I was half asleep, and I don’t remember climbing stairs but I knew his apartment was on the third floor and the elevator was always busted.


His place smelled like citrus and Axe body spray, The place was clean - for a bachelor pad, anyway, which made it feel more uncomfortable than anything. But none of it ever seemed familiar no matter how many times I woke up there. It was the kind of place you could live in and never feel quite at home, like a hospital, or an office. Nothing radiated a feeling of recognition except his voice asking me how the night went. I told him I needed a beer, and he told me I needed to go to bed. I don’t remember what I said back, but when he came into the room he threw me a pair of boxers and left me alone on the couch to change. When I had, I found his room and stood at the edge of his mattress in my bra.


“When does your girlfriend get back in town?”


He took my wrist with one hand, pulled me down on the bed and put his mouth to my ear.
“Don’t be a bitch tonight.”

The Blind Lead The Blind

The night is long and I can fall asleep without you, as if it were by choice. I suppose I'm just lazy, like you say, sometimes, but moving is hard when every direction feels two steps back. I get up anyway, each morning, and I make myself scrambled eggs that always seem to look ashamed to be eaten by the likes of me. Lately, the milk has been very unforgiving. And the toast is moldy. And I think my neighbor stopped feeding his cat, because I haven't seen the mice in a few days, not that it matters. I'm just tired. That's all. Maybe you gave me Mono. That'd be just like you, always in love with the grand goodbyes. Always having the last word. I think you like the coarse endings better than the fresh starts. I also think it broke your heart to know you were going to hurt me the way you did. So I let you believe it, because everyone wants to know they have the power to make somebody else hurt with their absense. But I don't miss you really. The hardest part is that I don't know what I'm waiting for now. I'm just standing here. Or laying here, rather. I used to look forward to that moment when you would have some epic epiphany, like they do in the movies, and take me in your arms and tell me you loved me even when your eyes were closed. But your eyes were always open, and they sure did love my tits. Now I just wait for you to come back, or me to move forward.

Damned if we aren't the most stubborn people I know.

Talk Nerdy To Me

My cruel self-critiques hold me back from persuing my dreams. It's everyone else's commending opinions that usually push me forward. They've been lagging behind in their lavish praises as of late and I have yet to enroll in college for the semester. I feel my usual pep squad owes me an apology for this as it is entirely their fault that persuit of my degree will likely be stunted for another semester. Lately, I'm disapointed in what I produce, which really isn't much becuase I don't have the time or the time management skills nessecary to utilize the time I do have in a productive way. This fact is crushing the ambition I once had to persue these hopes of becoming the next great journalist or photojournalist. I feel handi-capable. I'm not creating the things my soul sees when it searches amongst my liver and kidneys, (what's left of them, anyway, after last saturday's game of beer pong). Inside is this whole other world, beckoning to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting public, and it seems I have destroyed my outlets with self-criticism and doubt. Everyone is better than me, except they're not. I've never been one to fight for acceptance, only control, which I suppose explains my lack of competative drive and provides understanding into why I have no desire to battle it out in the economy for a position as editor in chief at some newspaper or for photo sales on flickr. I really have a problem with just accepting defeat and moving on to my next whim, and there are an abundance of them to choose from, trust me. Am I really considering settling for a responsible and stable career in marketing? I mean, obviously I would be good at it. Decieve the public? Sell grease to the acne prone? Glasses to the blind? ("Trust me, you need these!") Instigate unhealthy lifestyles for monetary gain? I do that everyday. I'm not saying these are the only options. Of course I could persue a career grounded in ethics and morality, but fuck knows I wouldn't last long. That shit bores me. I am more satisfied when capatalizing on people's ingornace and apathy, which is why I would be good at marketing, but also why I should probably avoid it. Plus, I think it involves using numbers. I think it would be in my best interest to persue a degree in English, since I will, for the most part, be required to do shit that I prefer to do anyway. Read and write. It's like a hot slut getting paid to dance naked, except I'm a hot nerd, and I would get paid to do hot nerdy stuff, like read Kafka in my underwear.