At the Post Office

I’ve had these letters finished and ready to send north for a week. I get to the Post Office- I’m the first in line and the smiley man should be back from his lunch break in ten minutes. I lean over the banister to look down at three floors of people bustling to class, taking a shortcut on the escalators, brushing off the coat of snow they’ve accumulated.

Seven more minutes and I’ll be able to cross something off my To Do list. I lean over the banister and think about how my gum has lost its flavor.

Five more minutes and I will have accomplished at least one thing in the past week. I drape my mitten covered hands over the banister and look down to see a girl who desperately needs a hairbrush, slowly drifting downward, away from me. I want to open my mouth and watch her reaction as the stale gum falls past my lips and plops into that nest of dirty blonde. She would reach to the back of her head and look up, actions that would allow the chewed glob to dig its way deeper into the knots. Her disgusted eyes would meet mine. I would shrug and the distance between us would grow greater and she would disappear on the floor below me. What’s she gonna do? Run up the opposite escalator and yell at the weirdo who just spit gum in her hair? Doubt it.

Is the post man late?

There is a group of cheerleaders at the entrance to the center, among the foot traffic. They are touching each others shiny hair. Some girls look like idiots no matter what distance you are from them. A girl who could not have been less than 300 pounds walks through their pow-wow and steps onto the escalator. Out of breath from her slow, reverberating tread. Guaranteed to never have been a cheerleader, never to be a cheerleader and I wonder if she realized this at the same time I did. She looks up at me, worn mittens, holes showing.

Fuck, it’s Presidents Day. The Post Office is closed.

I go to walk away as a green-haired boy walks up with a package. I tell him my newest revelation as he takes the head phones out of his ears. “This screws up my whole day. I’m supposed to eat lunch with this box? People will look at me weird.” I fail to remind him he has green hair. “You’ll be mysterious. Everyone will wonder what the dude’s got in his box.” We just look at each other and smile and laugh and I don’t think I would mind if he kissed me. There is something oddly romantic about the Post Office. I fall weak to it every time I’m there. Even when the only guy to choose from has fucked up his hair.

When I fall in love again, I hope it’s at the Post Office.

Page 41

I’m proud of you for bringing up our conversation this morning. I didn’t know you were capable of leading a conversation. Though you didn’t have much to say, I nodded in agreement as I stared at the bones of my hips, hugged by the lace of the panties I put on solely for you to see. Took mental note they would look better if the hips wearing them were a bit bonier.

“He gets distracted by pretty girls” I was told in my kitchen, feet sticking to the linoleum that hasn’t been scrubbed since real people lived here.
I see now that is all that happened- I was a shiny object of distraction.
A “pretty girl.”
You liked my face but would rather it didn’t go further.
I liked your face too until I met your mind.
I’m just as guilty as you.
You might be an idiot.
You can’t tell where you’re wrong in believing you should fuck a pretty girl (ASAP!) cause she might end up being the love of your life and making you a father.
You can’t go around fucking pretty girls and then being surprised when you have nothing to say to each other.
You can’t fuck a pretty girl and then take her to the pharmacy to buy her the largest dose of birth control you can find.
Well I guess you can, but it sure as hell shouldn’t be the second date.
You can’t fuck a pretty girl and then turn into this self-conscious, immature little boy who hides and stumbles over his words.
You can’t fuck a pretty girl and then reveal the opposite of who she thought you were.
I guess that one’s my mistake.
You can’t fuck a pretty girl and expect love.
But you can fuck a pretty girl and expect you won’t have much to talk about afterward, because you don’t have much in common afterward, because the party is over afterward.
That pretty girl you fucked might try to help you find your confidence.
That pretty girl you fucked might try to overlook your wrongs, if you wouldn’t keep bringing them up.
That pretty girl you fucked might try to assure you she’ll be there for you.
But when it all comes down to it, you’re alone no matter who you’re fucking.
And that pretty girl you fucked will know she is one among many.

January 18, 2010

Always seems like a good idea until you look at yourself in the mirror and realize how disgusting people are. The things they do, the things they think. It’s as if we are trapped in these molds that help us to achieve our wrong doings and feel the pleasure of skin on skin.
And we’re all sweaty and we do nothing all day, just sitting on our asses getting nothing accomplished and aiding in our decay with choice drink and smoke.


And then I take the walk up the drive with tired eyes for tired smiles.
The mistakes we make do not make us.
We’ll do what we want and pray our bodies forgive us.
Don’t we know another way to live.