Cause of Death: Fright
“When I die of heart failure the next time you frighten me like that, you can put that on my gravestone —‘I didn’t mean to startle her”
― Patricia Briggs, Masques
Give me just enough information so that I can lie convincingly.
THEORIES ABOUT THE UNIVERSE
I am trying to see things in perspective.
My dog wants a bite of my peanut butter
chocolate chip bagel. I know she cannot
have this, because chocolate makes dogs
very sick. My dog does not understand this.
She pouts and wraps herself around my leg
like a scarf and purrs and tries to convince me
to give her just a tiny bit. When I do not give in,
she eventually gives up and lays in the corner,
under the piano, drooping and sad. I hope the
universe has my best interest in mind like I have
my dogs. When I want something with my whole
being, and the universe withholds it from me,
I hope the universe thinks to herself: “Silly girl.
She thinks this is what she wants, but she
does not understand how it will hurt.”
What’s the difference?” I asked him. “Between the love of your life, and your soulmate?”
“One is a choice, and one is not.
There are two types of waiting. There’s the the waiting you do for something you know is coming, sooner or later—like waiting for the 6:28 train, or the school bus, or a party where a certain handsome boy might be. And then there’s the waiting for something you don’t know is coming. You don’t even know what it is exactly, but you’re hoping for it. You’re imagining it and living your life for it. That’s the kind of waiting that makes a fist in your heart.
I’ll marry a man who knows how I take my tea, coffee, and alcohol
And knows when to make which.
Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine. So is Odessa. London is a teenager, an urchin, and in this hasn’t changed since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman.
Phobias are common in our society. The most common being that of clowns or spiders. Eight legged, multi-eyed, with tiny hairs and the ability to pop out of seemingly nowhere, especially in the shower. Painted chalk white faces with wide blue smiles and squeaky noses. These inspire fear in children that follow them onto adulthood. These phobias are often mocked, considered stereotyped. Accepted. But what of the fear of men? Of women? The testosterone and masculine driven rage of a man whose large meaty hands close into bruise causing fists. The hormonal insanity that raises voices into high pitched insulting shrieks. The same gentle hands that held you close, lips that touched yours, had worked in tandem to make you come gloriously undone, dismantled you. Not just broken hearts, but broken bones. Bruised skin to go with bruised spirts. A heart’s uneven beats as it lies shattered.
I read so I can live more than one life in more than one place.
It’s hard not to hate. People, things, institutions. When they break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed, hate is the only feeling that makes sense.
Extremes become average over time. What wasn’t normal becomes normal with constant exposure. Tolerances get higher. The standard changes.
You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, and it’s like a goddamn tragedy, because you look at him and see the stars, and he looks at you and sees the sun. And you both think the other is just looking at the ground.