It is what it is... and it's your past.

• "C'est la vie says the old folks, which goes to show you can never tell." -Chuck Berry and numerous other musicians that covered this song which was written while Mr. Berry was in prison for intent to commit a sex crime...

  This was said to me several days ago, followed by some ramblings about how he wouldn't be dwelling on things that are upsetting and thinking about the past.

  But I say this...

  That's because old folks are idiots. They're near death and merely trying to believe anything that will make them feel better about not doing all the things they wanted to.
  The past is really all we've got. The present the next second becomes the past and the future is always so unknown. I'm not sure I understand the idea of not thinking about the past.

  My sociopathic ex used to say this, "Bailey stop dwelling on the past because it doesn't define me. Let's just get in bed and we can both be in love again tonight." And he only said this because his past did define him and he knew it... and because he wanted to sleep with me which usually made me even more delusional...

  The past does define us god dammit, every one of us. Because that's all you've got to show.

  I don't believe someone isn't snorting massive amounts of cocaine in the path of ski runs off a Park City, Utah mountain trail map until their nose is clean... until "good behavior" becomes the past. I don't believe a husband isn't going to cheat on his wife again when he's mumbling that out of the side of his mouth because the rest is busy making out with his secretary... until loyal, selfless behavior becomes the norm.

  It's something like this key phrase I picked up from my father: Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

  I'm not saying a specific past has to define us, but it will until we change our more recent past.

  Now most people know I'm not perfect... Honestly my past defined me pretty well in high school when practically no one was allowed to hang out with me because I got so drunk during off-campus lunch I vomited in 7th period sociology and I spent every night watching my mother watch me sneak out. I was a hellion, and I feel bad for the people that cared about me that were praying my life wouldn't be short and sour.

  But hey, I was a teenager... I got it all out. And now, well shit, I think I've proven myself pretty stable (loosely) and doing my best to make a positive impact on the world. But that took some time... Mostly college, when I was working my tuckus off to make the most out of that abysmally lazy journalism program when all the high school prudes were out getting fucked and skipping business classes so they could some day slog through life as some kind of manager at a soul-sucking corporation.

  In no way does this mean I have any idea what I want though, not a fucking clue. I'm passionate and raise my voice during intense philosophical debates on the regular, because I'm angry about the injustices that plague society based on a closed mind. That much I know is me.

  Sometimes I'd like to go back and make better choices; sometimes it feels like I've wasted a lot of time. But I wouldn't be this human being if it wasn't for my past. And I'm happy my past continues to define me.
  I spoke with the CEO of a payments startup today. He told me he's all been adventurous, even reckless, and that's really what it takes to start a business, to create something innovative, because you're likely to fail. But failure doesn't bother him... Some might call that negligent; I call that logical. Why should failure get us down? It's merely the small necessary step before success.
  Haven't you read any inspirational quotes recently?

  
  

  And in case you'd rather hear it from a genius and raving lunatic, here Mr. Hunter Thompson sums up what we should be striving for: 
  "The answer — and, in a sense, the tragedy of life — is that we seek to understand the goal and not the man. We set up a goal which demands of us certain things: and we do these things. We adjust to the demands of a concept which CANNOT be valid. When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman. Why? Because your perspective has changed. It's not the fireman who has changed, but you."
  

  For more of this ingenious wavelength check out one of my favorite blogs-BrainPickings

When the worst introduces you to the best

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My indecision

I thrive when I'm alone.

But it fucking hurts when I'm alone.

And I have to choose...

I have to either say, "Hey pad of paper, I'm gonna take a break. See I have someone now that licks my pussy and pulls me back into the sheets every time I try and give you some attention, forcing me to giggle and push my forehead into his chest when Gerald Butler tells Katherine Heigl, 'Yet again, I just told you I am in love with you and you are standing here giving me a vocabulary lesson.'"

Or, "Hey gorgeous man that wants to buy me expensive meals for a bit of lip action, see I have this notepad that's my very best friend, who's always there for me when I'm crying and yelling and vomiting expletives. It's the only one I tell the whole god damn truth to, and I don't mean to keep secrets from you, but I don't know I have secrets until it's blank stare catches my eye. So you're gonna have to go..."

That's it.

New Yorkers' lives through their apartment windows

And you stop... and you look out the window to the dozens of windows rising before you from the apartment across the street, and you look at those windows closed up with curtains, yours doesn't have curtains because you just moved in and you're all alone so who cares, plus voyeurism is something you've always thought alluring.
But you look out hoping to see someone else looking back, just the shadow but you know they're watching...
And they're alone. And you're alone. And that's what connects you, loneliness that makes you sympathize with a stranger.
And maybe they're smoking, or maybe they're not; and they wish they had a cigarette to inhale; and you wish you had that T-shirt to tear off; and they wish they had the candlelight to mask their flaws; and you wish you had that hair to pull and those dark eyes to fall in love...
And then she walks into the room.
She smiles you're sure of it -- even though it's an imperceptible backlit shape -- and he smiles back, how could he not? And the curtains are pulled across the glass as the lights are turned off as she throws one leg over his waist.
And you swear you see him tip his fingers right before all is lost for the night... Tip his fingers as if acknowledging, 'You might be let down, but the mystery is better than the reality.'

Incoherence from satisfaction

I haven't been reading on the train. All the books, with all the crisp pages and all those perfect black words mean nothing compared to the faces I see everyday, every color, every texture, every emotion sitting there to be looked upon.

I've had this inkling to reach out and touch an arm, to lay my head on his shoulder, to interlock my fingers with hers.

And I know it's for my own comfort, but could it be for theirs also? What would I say? What would they do?

I've started taking pictures of them instead. It's just one small step before I start making everyone feel really uncomfortable.

They might be zombies and assholes, but most, under that overplayed New York facade is someone with a story. And I want to hear the real story, not this "I'm in the best city in the world. What's not to love?" I guess you have to pretend to be positive in an alienated metal cage.

I need sunshine. I need trees. I need adventure.

I need insomnia because I'm unsatisfied. But I'm not unsatisfied here... Everything is here.

Even the miserable excuse at love I fell into is within my reach in the other room, begging for me to show more love than I've ever asked to receive.

I got caught up... But I want nothing to do with it anymore. I want my old self back.

I want someone to get to know, someone to take inspiration from, someone to make stupid future plans with that I'll end up doing by myself.

Let's buy some land in New Mexico with a couple trailers and rent them out to meth addicts, just until I'm ready to make my way out West and take over the business, carrying a gun inside my right boot, wearing dirty jean shorts and a white T-shirt that reads 'trash' backwards so I can really see what I've become in the mirror. I'll move to New Orleans with you so I can join the gypsy circus, waking up most mornings in a shanty with a witch chanting in the kitchen as she lights pieces of my hair on fire and mixes it with goat blood to mix with coffee grinds to cure the hangover and the bruises.

It could never run through this city like I did my own. And that's that.

I know I won't stay here forever... But when I leave I'll feel like I'm leaving prematurely, without the right control of it's allure. But I won't miss it... not like I do Missouri where everything is so familiar.

That's what you miss, the familiarity of a place, of a people. You can stop thinking and just be there.

New York is not a place to be missed, it's a place to be mourned, for beauty remained uncovered.

Over is close

I know I fucked this part up.

The end.










But he fucked up the start.

Even cuts I procured decades ago are still remembered by faint raised skin.

It's exhausting to know the only reason it's failing is because I can't forget. Because I'm human, very morosely human, and "forgive and forget" is just a happy press quote.

I just can't stop seeing them dancing, Molly coursing through their veins, smiling, laughing, wondering if the other is going to make a move.
Flirting.
But so he says, he's never cheated... on me, not physically, at least. Should this be worse? I don't think even the scientists know the answer, but I should research that some. I do know they say we're always thinking things are worse than they really are. Likewise we're always thinking things are better than they really are too.

She's ugly. She really is. Not physically, but here we are again debating that.
I can see it in the way she carries herself... (Look what he's done; I'm being abrasively mean.) the way she says hello, the way she giggles and peers, the way she drinks, like a god-damn awful fish, by the end of the night cackling so everyone has to cringe -- except the flock of staggering foul that follow each other so they can prove the way they are is respectable -- flopping her tits on the bar, her pony-tailed hair askew to one side, trying to get the attention of anyone willing to give it and later claw at her leggings and have terrible sex so she can rep "YOLO" the next day.

He knows it's over. That's why for the first time in 5 months he's laying down before me, calling to me in an abnormal whiny voice to come to bed.

He's been superb the past few days. Maybe I finally have him but I hardly want him... (Remember little flippant girl, this has been a recurring problem in this life full of rejection and freedom.)

I'VE BEEN THERE! I'VE BEEN THERE!

He comes into the clouded kitchen. I don't want him walking through the clouds in the kitchen. I want him to stay in the bedroom... in bed... and think about how "done" became a part of our contingency.

Rejection and freedom

I don't remember how the fight started. And today it doesn't matter besides that it was him who made me this way... and it was one of the last.

I wonder if I'll look back a month or two after my clothes are escaping the crowded space they used to live for less congestion on the other side and different men who'd be sexier if they didn't speak find a home in my bed, and think about this moment...

sitting in the dark, neurons zipping around my head, knocking into my skull, on the verge of exploding in a gooey mess out the left side matting my hair as if I had held a gun to the right side and pulled the trigger. I kept hearing the Avett Brothers swoon, "If you're loved by someone, you'll never reject it."

But they're wrong. Sometimes this love must be denied.

Whether it's for my sanity or... well I guess it's just my sanity.

He had just told me he loved me and wanted to be good to me and was sorry and hurt and messed up and changed.

I asked him to be left alone for a minute. He appeased.

I grabbed my phone, slid my finger across the screen, tapped the vintage-looking camera icon -- all without much thought -- and felt sick with regret.

There was the word.

"Free."

Silhouetted birds flying above it.

I didn't double tap. I didn't like it.

And it was the hardest decision I've had to make to date. Because I love...

And I don't believe in signs but...

Underestimation

I never enjoyed the beach. I'm more of a mountain girl.
But I met you on the beach and fell in love.
Never again will I underestimate the power of physical attraction.

I never liked the unaware and inattentive. I am more of an intellectual.
But you listened intently and told me you loved me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of lies.

I've never been into a prep. I am more of a black eyeliner and blood from self-inflicted wounds kinda girl.
But you said you loved my heartache while you were fucking me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of pain.

I never liked Spanish men. I am more of a Caucasian lover.
But I looked into those big brown eyes and told you I loved you over fried plantains.
Never again will I underestimate the power of change.

I have never been fond of jealousy. I am more an open-minded, loose-lipped kinda girl.
But you told me they didn't love me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of loneliness.

I never believed in the devil. I put more stake in science.
But you promised love and showed me hate.
Never again will I underestimate the power of evil.

This story will start with the end.

I know this boy... with a terrible story. A boy that the women that care for him end up never speaking to him again. I'm sure, I'm positive they want to -- every time he texts them and tells them, "I'm ready to settle down. I'm sorry. I can't live without you," -- but they don't.
I heard it all from his point of view and all the "friends" he's tricked.
But this time I heard it from the woman. She's beautiful and aspiring and all around wonderful... I think. But by the end you may believe me biased.
She gave everything to this boy, her love, her body, her money, her emotions, her polygamous way, she really gave it all, and he fucked her... literally. He fucked her well which is one reason it was so hard for her to forget him.
But metaphorically he ruined her. It's so strange what other people give you as a parting gift. See I knew this gentleman, he was 43 when I started dating him -- people thought I had daddy issues but I've written about this before -- and it didn't last long but I drove to Iowa every weekend to live with him in a mansion with an art gallery underneath. I never paid for anything and he took pictures of me   hula-hooping like I was beautiful enough to be immortalized in photo. Back to it didn't last long... He left me with a CD case full of great music. The Dutchess and the Duke -- one of my favorites -- I now give to everyone else.
I gave it to this woman, who gave Reservoir Park to this boy. Now this boy will have a little piece of Scott with him forever, whether he wants to or not.

OTHER PEOPLE HAVE HAD THE PLEASURE OF FUCKING ME, YOU ABUSIVE CUNT.

And that's the beginning of this biography of the woman. It might take me days, months, maybe years to finish this story, so settle in readers.

I guess we start with the woman. She's high maintenance as any fine piece of ass that's a little bit different. But actually she's not... only when her black-lined green eyes start twitching when the line between reality and fiction starts to Blur. When she doesn't know who to trust, she's the most needy bitch on the block. But I would never fault her. It makes sense to be unimaginably insane if crazy lays in bed with you every night.

It's 12:07 Saturday morning. He signed the papers a week ago. They didn't get it notarized and she's scared she won't win but she's watched enough Judge Judy to know lady judges don't give a shit about men scum. She's probably a lesbian and she'll always side with the plaintiff.
She's been drinking clear rum and orange juice since he left. I wouldn't recommend this mixture to anyone.
And now that her roommate is in the other room moaning and smacking that tight, young, African American ass, she's feeling rather horny, which only brings anger these days. Because she could be fucking her MMA instructor who was on the verge of stiffness as they wrestled around, her giggling at the awkwardness of sitting on a man's pelvic region getting ready to  twist sideways, throw her leg over his head and put his forearm in her crotch for an arm bar.
He could easily tap out on her ass and then flip her over for the take down... of her sweats. She's raunchy now... maybe the boy was right. She is a whore, but being a whore isn't illegal, thank god.
She's got this new sexual appetite after reading Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby, Jr. If you've never read it, and get off on repulsion, I'd recommend it.
She loves him though. Isn't that tragic? The best women fall in love with haughty low-lifes, ones that only make this kind of woman more reckless and out of touch with tongue,attachment and fabrication.