Down In Me

I don’t care.

No, really, I don’t. Stuff happens and it just flows over me and rolls away gracefully, like water off a swan’s back (shush, it’s my writing and I’ll mangle sayings as I see fit). Most of the time I just can’t fathom getting my knickers in a bunch over the trifles of daily life. Naturally, everyone has limits. Even someone as obnoxiously carefree as I am. You’ll very rarely come up against those well-camouflaged lines, though. If you should happen to, by chance, I have only one word of advice: run.

I have a kind friend.

No, really, I do. I have sent him an email that says: I don’t mean to embarrass you, but you really are wonderfully kind-hearted. Everyone I know is hurt and scared (kindness towards others being out of reach at best, when you’re hurt and scared) and you were hurt and scared, maybe you still are, hurt and scared, but it’s like your insides were made to withstand terrible things. I try to be kind (I’m a good person), but it’s true that trying and being are different things. While it sounds simple, being as kind and generous as you is almost unnatural, and again, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but my immediate response to your kindness is (utterly involuntary) sexual arousal. I’m not sure what that says about me. Something kind, I hope.

I have beauty marks.

No, really, it’s true. Well okay, maybe it’s only half true. You see, I have three small, latte-coloured spots on my chest which an old lover called my ‘Bermuda Triangle’. I also have one on my shoulder. Sometimes I catch sight of this one out of the corner of my eye and for a half a second I think it’s a bug. It used to soothe me to remember that it is a beauty mark because, as the name implies, it must mean I’m beautiful.

Then I decided to research beauty marks on Wikipedia (as you do) and had the misfortune of learning that only facial moles can be called beauty marks and that my beauty marks are just plain old moles.

I am going to edit that stupid article.

I have decided to love you.

No, really, I have. I have decided to love you and no one - least of all myself - can stop me. Your only duty now is to make yourself completely available to me between the hours of twenty-four and seven, Monday through Monday for deep emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical connection. That’s not much to ask in return for love, is it? According to everyone from The Beatles to His Holiness The Dalai Lama, love is paramount. You should consider yourself lucky and if you were religious you might even say you’re blessed.

I am quite comical.

No, really, it’s true. I am not great at relating anecdotes, though. I am more of a witty-one-liner-once-in-a-while kind of gal. But when it comes, it blinds you with comic fury and before you can grab your sides, you’re convulsing in an embarrassing fit of giggles and guffaws. My sense of humour isn’t run-of-the-mill. On the contrary, it has on occasion been considered offensive and distasteful. I often deliver my best lines to stunned silences and chirping crickets. There’s just no accounting for subjectivity.

I’m a good writer.

No, really, I am. I can spell and use a spell-checker and construct a hefty sentence. I use words like ‘hefty’ in place of meaningful adjectives and you never notice. This is mostly because I am very lazy. I just can’t think long enough to produce a story with characters and situations that would fill all the pages of a novel. I definitely can’t see myself writing non-fiction. I mean, that would require hours of boring research. No, I have a talent for spraying words onto the screen and making them stick. I should stick to that, right?

I have a lovely bosom.

No, really, I do. Sometimes when I’m sitting alone thinking, I like to scrunch up really tightly, pull my knees to my chest and nuzzle my nose, mouth and chin between my breasts. I mean, presumably masturbation is entirely normal, right? So why shouldn’t one profess self-love in other ways? Is self-love like the love between lovers or is it meant to be more like familial love? Whatever. Who can resist soft, sweet-smelling, cozy, breathless moments? And why does someone else have to be there to witness them? I know. I’m telling you about it now, but that’s hardly the same.

I have a nice ass.

No, really, I do. I don’t go to the gym. I think it results from being so uptight all the time. Your body remembers the position after a while and years later you can’t remember what came first. Did stress cause the firm glutes and tight sphincter, or the other way around? Either way, if the result is an ass as nice as mine, I’m not worried. Worrying leads to forehead wrinkles and nobody wants that. They come into view before your ass does, after all.