in your endo

Scrubs has been a big part of the last 24 hours. Last night, once alone, I watched two discs of it from the kitchen, where I was sitting on the counter with my feet soaking in the sink, next to a butcher knife that I forgot to put away. I was trying not to fall on it. I gave myself a pedicure, skipping the nail polish part. I’m letting them breathe.
I’ve cried a little almost everyday for a week and a half, nothing specific to speak of. I can’t pinpoint it: sadness, melancholy, joy, gratitude. Life is overwhelming these days, and this time I cannot blame hormones.
And a thought continued from a comment earlier:

Relationships are absurd. The lust, the love, the irrational loneliness when they are away. But, when I come to the realization, when I have to see them for who they really are and acknowledge that they are not my creation, I start to lose interest. Then the grotesque always comes later. The body next to me—I imagine it digesting food, gurgling, big feet and strange smells. Could it be true that I’m not physically attracted to other people, just myself and the character (of my creation) that I’ve imposed on the body that is next to me? I mean, I love them, I lust them, but once that wears off and he is no longer my creation, I lose some of that. I hope that my relationships are childish and immature and that this mentality will change.


2 thoughts on “in your endo

  1. syllepsis

    hey! i’m reading a book right now that you would like. aimee bender’s the girl in the flammable skirt. they’re short stories. the first one is about a girl whose boyfriend devolves a million years a week, finally he’s a salamander she lets loose in the ocean because she can’t stand the thought of having him as an amoeba in her apartment.

    a great line from the second story (which is about a woman trying out men for a relationship on the subway): “My dress is slithering all over the orange plastic seat, sounding like a holiday.” And “The window is open and I’m thinking about where I should aim my scream just in case.” And “My father was a millionaire, I want to tell him. You can’t just tie up a millionaire’s daughter and not fuck her. You can’t just tie her up while she’s naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch television! Who do you think you are?”

    i’ve only read the first two stories, so there you go. get it.


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