I've been out walking

in case you were wondering...

I am a nameless,
faceless,
map of my family
covered in freckles
with a blue smear 
over one eye or the other
---I can never remember which.
All I know is what I 
care to remember
and all I remember is
what I care to know.
I've been labeled emotionally frustrating,
but I don't think that's fair
given the circumstances.
My hair and eyes are
always wild
and I can never remember
what day it is when I
wake up.
I only want to go to 
Chicago to pretend to be 
Ferris Bueller for a day.
Is this getting too personal?
I thought so,
but that won't keep me 
from continuing. 
I have no self-control
when it comes to men,
and I've never learned 
how to whistle.
I think it has something to do with
being bad at learning hands-on skills.
Also, I can only apply mascara
with my mouth slightly open.
Nothing else works.
In addition, I always
spray perfume behind
my neck, so people 
think I naturally smell 
like Bulgari pour femme
and Vaseline Cocoa Butter.
Falsifications. 
My breath smells like 
Miller High Life because 
I've had five beers and
have no recollection of
opening the first one.


Correction: Six beers.


Anyway, I've always
wanted to be a literary genius, have I told you
that? Probably not.


Drinking doesn't make me forget anything. I don't drink to

forget.


Drinking actually makes me remember ridiculously mediocre details about my past;


strange people I've kissed,
what I used to order on my pizza,
the last time I shaved my legs,
etc., etc., etc.




...this is all in case you were wondering.

Going.

I'm going to paint my fingernails green and wear sunglasses in the library. I'm going to be an enigma. I'm going to sell my ipod on ebay and buy a record player instead. I'm going to use a lot of "oohs" and "ahhs" and "dah-lings". I'm going to New York to visit a friend, and when I say "friend", I mean J.D. Salinger's apartment. I'm going to try a liquid fast for three weeks. I'm going to join a bellydancing class next Monday. I'm going to tell the person I'm in love with that I'm not in love with them, check the weather forecast, then chase them down in the pouring rain and admit the truth. I'm going to hope they have a sense of humor about the whole thing. I'm going to stop checking voicemails. I'm going to stop leaving them too. I'm going to stoping exuding the vibe of emotional instability. I'm going to cut my bangs and hide behind my human hair curtain. I'm going to sing loudly with my ragged, shrill voice. I'm going to wear hotpants to my wedding reception. I'm going to see a relationship therapist -maybe she'll know why I'm single. Maybe she'll know that it's because I want to be. I'm going to start a stamp collection. I'm going to start collecting vintage watches, too. I'm going to stop burning bridges before I build them. I'm going to stop committing to people, because no one commits to me. I'm going to sit up straight and pay attention. I'm going to see something I haven't yet. I'm going to turn on my heels a la Holly Golightly, and leave everyone in the wind.


For good.

on particularly gruesome days,
the air tastes like tar,
and the sun stings 
like antiseptic. 
these are the days
that follow the days
I've been in love.

I fall in love with something 
everywhere I go,
scraping after it
until the chase is over
and all that lingers 
are the smells of cold chinese food
and latex.
The previous days are,
the way I tell it,
romantic,
but after a few sleepless nights
the spell is broken 
and I dizzily wander home
---clutching lampposts
at every corner.


I've got to stop doing this.
I should play cat-and-mouse
or---
coyly escape feverish first kisses
and duck embraces
at every turn.



But,
I can't.
I mix and mingle and
am prematurely in love
---for now.