“You haven’t heard of The Uncanny Valley? It’s that scientific theory that says that the closer you get to simulating something human that isn’t actually real, that the more people tend to get turned off by it. It’s like those hipster parties that you go to and everyone’s going crazy, the girls are dancing really hard, the boys are yelling and it’s packed and you look around and you can tell that something’s really off. You can just feel it. That’s when you realize that it’s just empty. It’s just humans simulating the human experience of a great party for the sake of photographers and video cameras, but it’s actually completely devoid of any soul.”
You are watching your mind run away from you. You don’t want to go out or put your contacts in or put your make-up on. You want to be away from people. There’s acid in your mouth and food is undesirable. You don’t want to be lured into someone else’s dramas and away from yours, because you prefer it here. You don’t want to hear how it’ll pass, or how you don’t deserve this because rationalizing the pain doesn’t make it go away. All the flowery words… the turn of phrases… and the logical conclusions… none of it can spare you from the shitty feelings you must endure when your time has come. Thoughts have stopped making sense, but you still have them and you still believe in them even though you know they’re wrong. Knowing that the pain won’t last forever doesn’t stop it from feeling like it will. Your inside world is the enemy and you almost want to die. You’re shaking your head now because you remember that Nirvana’s last recorded song was for the Beavis and Butthead movie soundtrack and it was called “I Hate Myself And I Want To Die”, but no one saw it as a cry for help. All you want is to go into a deep sleep until it’s spring again, but instead you have to go out tonight. This anguish is a fabrication of your mind but you can’t turn it off. Your limitless creativity is at work against you right now. You’ve constucted scenarios so deep, so “Danielle Steele-lian” that somehow they’ve become logically plausible. You feel like you’re walking around in a Bonnie Tyler video and then you realize that it’s only the decor at the Hudson Hotel during fashion week. No, Warhol and Basquiat won’t be walking around the corner any time now. All of these Keith Herring enlargements, the Madonna mural and the Interview magazine wallpaper will be gone next week and so will the pain. An hour later, you love him. An hour later you wonder why you’re “in this”. An hour later you don’t care either way because you’re just gonna “do you“. You’re above all this stuff because you’re a woman now. See… you already feel better. You go to the after-party and you flirt and you drink and you celebrate your newfound aloofness. You’re only checking your phone because your girl is supposed to be meeting you soon. No one mentions anything about the past few days when they see you because they’d rather deal with this version of you, even if your happiness only comes in tiny morsels during the loud music or when something chemical is in your blood. You are deep inside the endless nameless and you have no regrets. It is in this moment of bliss that your phone suddenly vibrates in your pocket. Not like a “text message buzz” but like “someone is calling you buzz”. You rush to a more quiet location while you are taking it out. As you move through the people you realize that you’re drunk and that it’s 3 am. The number is blocked but you answer it anyways. You can’t hear a thing that he’s saying. Hold on, hold on, you say and you finally get to the girls bathroom. Hello, hello… and your mouth is open as you listen to an automated message from T-Mobile advising you to pay your bill to avoid disruption of your service. If you would like to make a payment press three. To hear your choices again press the pound key.
(written after consulting a lunar chart)
You can be free now, girl
But I can’t kiss you even if you are breathtaking… and even if you do listen to the same music as I do… and even if we are both skinny and tall… and even if your name would sound like a movie star’s if we ever were to get married one day. I can’t kiss you and do the “pull-back-halfway-through-in-fake-confusion” move, sweeping that shit under the rug like nothing happened, and think that I won’t feel an overwhelming sense of betrayal to the promises that I’ve made to myself. I can’t possibly cheat with you knowing that it means that I would probably cheat on you one day and then nothing would mean anything to me anymore. I can’t kiss you even if Valeriae is probably flirting with Thomas or one of his friends right now, and even if she probably brought her girlfriend along to use as truthful padding when she tells me the story of her night later on. I can’t kiss you even if sometimes with her it feels like that book by Nabokov. You’re probably not even over Dave anyways. You just want to make him jealous, don’t you? This intense conversation we’re having right now isn’t really us “connecting”, or us being “star-crossed” on a magical night, it’s just you and I dulling our senses to make it easier to rationalize the sex we’d like to go through with later on. But when I wake up “R-Kelly-Trapped-In-The-Closet-(Part I)” style, after 2 hours of sleep, to the ultraviolet rays of cancerous light from your I-MAC sceen, feeling like shit with the redbull jitters, well, I won’t remember any of this “conversation”. I’ll just walk to your bathroom and wash my hands and look at you sleeping on your bed, looking way too skinny to be healthy, and I’ll let myself out and finally read that text message from Valeriae and it will say that she didn’t go out after all, and that she misses me and to call her when I get in.
(written while the technician was fixing the abs machine at the gym)