in april of 2013 I had a sex number conversation with one of my guy friends over mugs of beer and steak sandwiches. at the time he was 25 and had slept with over 80 girls. I asked if he knew all their names and he laughed and asked does “girl at bar” count? I realized that though my own sexual escapades may have made me “girl at bar” in the eyes of my various sexual partners, I never wanted to not be able to remember the name of the guys I have had sex with. so I started a list. then it turned into two lists - one just listing the names of the various dudes one after the other, the other listing the number of times and order of said various dudes because, you know, once I find my favorites I like to recycle them.
the other day I was updating my list and realized that I’ve had sex with a lot less people this year than I had by this point last year. I wonder why that is? I have sex to make up for whatever emotional deficiency I am dealing with at the time, and right now I just feel so exhausted, so emotionless, that I don’t even have the energy to use sex to mask my emotions or lack thereof.
I’m seeing a physician tomorrow because I’ve lost 10 pounds in the past ten days. I’m exhausted and my hair is falling out. I have no sexual desire. I am the epitome of lethargy. I think all of these things are related - some sort of hormonal disorder I think. if that is the issue, when I get it fixed, what will happen to my sexual drive? is this something that happens as you grow older - it comes in waves? whats happened?
I spent the fourth at home in dc. my friends and I were in the middle of a conversation and kelsey referred to me as the “crazy one” - we expect you to have sex, we expect you to do lines of coke off a dresser, we expect you to smack the guy who approaches you at a bar etc etc. I just don’t think crazy is the right word. my stories make me crazy? why does liking sex and drugs and sticking up for myself make me crazy, and not just simply human?
what’s with the label? why do I always feel so sick? what is wrong with me?
this isn’t anything besides a list of things I need to do / read / see but I can’t find a clean sheet of paper to write on so here we go:
Is it possible to be over it all by 23? Blogging, going out to the coolest places, going to all the shows, the art galleries, reading contemporary literature, memorizing Howl, writing poetry, performing said poetry, eating clean, working out, only drinking good drinks, blah blah blah. I feel like everyone is trying to do these things but I’ve done them and I don’t have the energy anymore besides liking what I like for no reason besides the fucking fact that I like them.
It’s weird. I feel like if someone were to meet me now they would have no idea of the shit I’ve done, of what I am capable of. And why? What has stunted me the past two years? My stress reducers used to be creative and now I don’t know what they are- alcohol? Sex? Am I stunted? Or am I finally learning to just be myself and like things because I want to like them, and not feel the need to justify said things?
I feel like my life in virginia and my life wherever else I am living (Michigan, Athens, London, Boston) will never converge. I am two different people and I always yearn for the other. Of course, because of course. I want Boston, I want Michigan, I want the crooked narrow streets of hidden London, I want the New York subway, I want to drink coffee and walk along the canals in Amsterdam, I want Alex, I want Katie, I want Cat, I want all of these things and I don’t know how to get them.
The other day I went to our dive wearing a tye-dye shirt, jeans, and a Marc Jacobs jacket I wore throughout the UK four years ago. I was being given the usual spiel by a drunken [married] man (er, manchild) who graduated from my high-school in 2003 “you’re gorgeous. you’re so sexy. your breasts are like little pillows I want to sleep on. you are so smart. love me love me love me" and because I am trying this thing called "being nice" in the hopes that it turns guys away because the whole "sarcastic aggressive" thing was just getting me laid (them laid?) too much (lol. too much- is that possible?), I let him give me (unasked) advice on my life while my hands balled into my pockets and I scrapped my knuckle against a piece of rock. I had completely forgotten it was there, but like all good stolen memorabilia, I remembered the hardened ash and pumice from the caldera at the Phlegraean Fields in Italy that I picked up while visiting my uncle in Naples. So, yes Mr HHS Class of 2003, please give me your stupid advice and mistake my smiling eyes for naiveté but do you have a fucking piece of the Solfatara crater in your pants pocket? PROBABLY FUCKING NOT. I do not need your advice.
…or anyone’s actually because I’ve spent a lot of fucking time on my own and have turned out pretty okay for the most part, and really, what the fuck could you tell me that I haven’t figured out myself already? Sure, some interesting info about planning a wedding and some tidbits about mortgages and also maybe how to cheat on your spouse but I’ll learn all that shit in due time and everything that comes out of your mouth is just words, empty fucking words.
I guess that’s the whole point of this. People keep telling me what to do in order to be “something” without stopping to think that maybe my “something” has already happened, and yeah I’m fucking confused as shit about where my life is headed, but I like myself and the way I am and how I do things, but people keep speaking, instead of listening, keep trying to shape me into “something” but I am no longer malleable, I am done.
However, I did have an extraordinary amount of fervor once, and I don’t know where it went. So:
11. Find fervor, even if its just a little
Perhaps that will help the confusion go away.