Random Musings of a 3:23 a.m. Cripple

Dearest Bedrich,

I’m not actually a cripple. My back just hurts like a bitching motherfucker. Every time I brave the pillow, needles drill into my shoulders like some oil field in Texas. I’ve always been delicate, but piercing pain on Christmas Eve? This has to be Santa’s sick way of telling me I was naughty this year. I won’t deny it {I’m a straight rider}; I was a coal sack of bad decisions these past few months. I’m snapchatting Tim because 1) he’s a fellow insomniac and 2) I know he’ll respond to a sniveling girl like me. I toe the line between “just friends” and using him, but those two states are practically symbiotic…or parasitic, whichever way you see the bread as buttered. The last time our chat bubble was this late was in September. Acid was still fireworking my brain to death, but his slow voice dragged me back from insanity. I’ve exhausted my thoughts about fall 2016, so let’s pen something new. Something unheard of. Something wildly exciting to breathe and live by so Spring 2017 isn’t a depressive spiral. I wasted six minutes creeping Emily before this—what a grand waste of life! Of minutes! I feel like this spring, writing talent is going to bury—and eclipse—the drama of Huffington Post mishaps and crushes who sleep with sluts instead of you. Some wonderful gnaw is eating my insides.  Here are my Spring 2017 resolutions:

  1. You bet my bonnet that I’m going to write for VICE, NME, or another hot-button publication in the next few months. All of these emails to editors, staff writers, and freelancers are blurring together, but the blanket “Hi, my name is _________, and I’m a junior at the University of _____” will pay off. It better. 2016 was a delusion of writing grandeur; I did not accomplish anything medal-worthy or groundbreaking. I chugged along in my graying world of LTA and Huffington Post. A mini break came with The Millions, until the editor rejected my later articles and neglected to email me back. My writing style improved, but what’s the use of a sultry outfit with no one to snog in corners with? Hamilton Morris started writing for VICE when he was a college sophomore; I need, must, be that Jewish John Lennon stuffed with hallucies. I’ve shifted away from fiction completely; my real life is the backbone of every narrative, every sentence. I was too busy “living” this year to make a dent in career moves. At least I have more fodder for the novel.
  2. Less drugs. Less drugs. I have a glorious edible in my freezer now (along with three others). I don’t want to eat it because I know how woozy, incompetent, and sluggish weed makes me. Unlike LSD, it’s not a creative enhancer that unlocks brilliance. It’s a drag on thoughts, an anchor to productivity. I’m already type B enough without the weed; and it takes away time from writing. Molly won’t touch my throat again, nor will hookah. I learned to respect my lungs more, especially when stairs were wheeze festivals and flute practice felt like water polo. Okay. That’s an exaggeration. I won’t cut cigars out 100%, but one every two months is my standard. Every cigar date is like sweet treat, an advent calendar of Cuban smoke. I say “less drugs,” but I still slip LSD and my other illegal shenanigans into conversations with friends. With Sean and Brad, I laughed at a leaf and said “I have a funny story about leaves on acid…” {Fred is my fertility}. Why did I need to bring up September 5th? I didn’t, but it makes my mirror image more badass and confident.
  3. Learn how to bake. Not like wake and bake (I have weed for that), but proper baking with measuring spoons and bags of flour. I used to loathe cooking, but scalding water, the snapping of linguini over heat, and the blisters from mixing cookie dough are calming. I don’t have to think. I read the back of a box and voila: tummy satisfaction. I like baking for Nathan+Co; they’re freshmen year versions of The Assholes, but Nathan’s got talent no one at The Poolside ever possessed. Or maybe the same mistakes are laid out for me to hopscotch over again. Just because Nathan flatters my writing, doesn’t mean I owe him anything (i.e. my sanity, lecture notes, full sugar cranberry juice, etc.)
  4. Find three more interesting people. In my original “Sophomore year” goals list, I had “Become friends with 5 interesting people.” I had three up until November, when I scribbled out Arin and realized he was as shallow and poser as the rest of them. In a campus of 20,000 students, there’s scores of people like Jared+Co–but there’s a fair few outliers like me. Austin and Nathan occupy one and two. Collecting the friendship of three through five needs to be a background priority. One on one conversations—where I discover your “inner tick”—are my favorite. I hate group hangouts because people never care about meaning, only squeezing out clever words so others laugh. Friends who marry genuine talent with laughter are keepers; and loyalty, can’t forget that bitch.
  5. I need to alter a physical feature. I don’t mean slather paint on my eyebrows; I mean be adventurous with my physicality. Get an undercut, dye my hair an eggplant purple, learn how to Dutch braid—anything to separate the stupidity of last semester from this Rite of Spring. My stomach is a little chunkier, so I guess that could count…I want to reach the apex of my attractiveness, so I want to think and look sexy, unexpected. I’m as shallow as the rest of the pretenders, but at least I acknowledge my flaws and then post them online. Along with this physical newness, I need more adventure (not drug induced). I crave another Wacahoota Road, another symbol of the undiscovered and dangerous that’s not associated with Wyatt. My writing is based on my life, but I’m done with “Skins” and entering “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” Okay maybe not yet. This semester was a dragged out adventure, but a more substantive (and creative) waste of time is underway. My photography profiles—starting with Eric—will happen, as well as my writing Empire. I’ll have one of those black and white portraits with cocked eyebrows and matte lips one day. I’ll chop my hair so I’m a Pulp Fiction Uma Thurman without the cocaine. I’ll stop being a whiny bitch and schedule daily musings of 4:30 a.m.

Oh and I won’t make any resolutions on sex. Now, I’m comfortable with never feeling that sexual; writing fills the emptiness of horniness. I’m not asexual, I’ll just open the inn when the right guest camels along.

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I should be exhausted. On the 23rd, I woke up at 7 a.m. to a crying Indian cousin and didn’t nap all day as an over-articulate toddler played with me. If only this pussy back didn’t betray me. My body is a hummingbird, always fluttering, always spasing out to nothings. I bolt up in bed when I have an idea; my thoughts don’t go to bed. I can’t tuck them in nicely, air-blow a kiss, and shut the Winnie the Pooh book. They are always there, blackening my eye bags and flirting with insomnia. Stupid whores. The baby will be moaning in a few and the bathroom light will flick. And I’m be a miserable grouch for Christmas Eve. What a Joy to the World am I.

Sincerely,

B. Hoota

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