Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: “Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed.” “OH NO!” the President exclaims. “That’s terrible!” His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks, “How many is a brazillion?”
The bottom of the world fell out beneath me when I saw you on the street. My lungs dissipated, my breath sinking out of view. I was in the wrong company to stop, with the wrong people to demand they leave me behind. I’m wide awake, wishing the lights were out, but knowing that it wouldn’t help at all. Sheer certainty makes your name a holy thing, hard in my mouth like stones on a pale horse. In between the click of my teeth against yours, there used to be rare moments of brevity. Now there is a vacuum. I am in no safe hands, there is no warming me. I told Michael the truth, that every night I wake up crying. Court was held on the front porch, a open floor on which to pour my wounded emotions. You looked away and wouldn’t speak. Instead there was a comment about speech, about thought, and then a turning around and away. I feel like I’m a symbol for every woman who stood in the street and cried out, “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.“
I carried a sword with me to the car. Black and silver, same as my hat. Same as my jacket and pants and eyes. The strap of my bag bit into my shoulder and I winced, hitting my knee when I leaned down to drop it into the back seat. The father sat in front of me, in the drivers seat, and reminded his daughter that her ex-boyfriend is now an age where he can be legally tried as an adult for rape. I saw where his direction of conversation was going five minutes before she did, and so I put a fist to my mouth, smothering bitter laughter and looked solidly out the window where she could not see my face. I wanted to believe in something beautiful again, so I tried to remember standing on the beach in California, but all I got was the memory of feeling incredibly unattractive on the white sand of Santa Monica.
Tomorrow is the Nine Inch Nails concert. I have a floor ticket, currently in the hands of Christopher. I feel like I should be excited, but I can’t seem to muster any enthusiasm. My hips are going to swing, it’s obvious, but there’s no spark yet. When I get there, I’ve been told, it will be inescapable, and I believe them, but that still leaves me wondering what it is that’s currently wrong with me. I am still glad to meet new people, but how burned out can a human be without losing basic functions?
Vote a 10 for me.
if only because Topless Jhayne would make a great name for something.
Then download this.