Hunger Hurts
It wasn’t about the desire for thinness or the need to feel the pop and snap of a collarbone — it was the fear of being desired for her curves. Having anything on her body that could be grabbed freaked Chloe out. It was an invitation for an attack, to be violated so openly and crudely without even the slightest of hesitation. Every time someone handed her food, they stared back at her to make sure she was at least eating some of it. Chloe’s eating habits were strange. It was the colors. She couldn’t eat things that were a certain color or that looked a certain way. She was tired of feeling like she was crazy. Something in her head didn’t balance — she wasn’t dead, but she didn’t feel alive either — and she was afraid of doing the wrong thing. She only ate to take up (some) space and give herself assurance that she couldn’t erase her own existence, that she actually had some weight here. I’m going to eat this orange. I’m going to eat this orange. The thought unleashed in her head, spinning round and round until her eyes became wet and blurry. It was exhausting. Hunger hurts and it was easier for Chloe to crawl inside her bone-cage and isolate herself from the chaos and confusion. People screamed at her, but they couldn’t make her eyes work the way theirs’ did. Still, she was tired and couldn’t manage anymore. She stood in the front of the refrigerator for twenty minutes, her eyes plastered on the drawer full of oranges. She shifted her weight onto her right leg and sighed heavily. She couldn’t pick the right one to eat.
When she was home alone, Chloe still felt the nervousness in her belly expanding every time she heard a noise in her bedroom. She walked over to her closet and shoved her hand in the middle, thrusting it from side to side to make sure nobody was inside. Her fingers lingered in the air momentarily, trying to grasp hold of something that wasn’t there. She hated this feeling; it was like being consumed in a black wave that left her feeling unsafe in her own skin. For a moment, the light behind her fell brightly onto her moving hands and she stared at them, her eyes widening in surprise as she turned them over and back, feeling as if they had been replaced with those of a stranger. There were scratches all the way up to her shoulders. Some red lines were light and short, and others were thicker and melded into dark patches where she had dug in the deepest. Chloe sighed. I will be better, I will be better. I will not hate myself. Behind the line of hangers and clothes, the off-white wall was covered in splits and scars from when she had stabbed it repeatedly with her brother’s old jackknife. She did this whenever she became angry because, really, it was easier than stabbing someone. One night, after crying uncontrollably, she kneeled down, placing her hands on the cracked wooden molding and carved a single word: strong.
Unchanging
Over our bodies the clouds
move in shifting packs.
Unlike us, they
have no reflections,
no complications
that rise up like embellished
scars. They are all ripe
and all blue;
unlike us, who
exude dead boredom
and remain trapped
in this old cave.
Best part of my 3 day vacation was Sunday afternoon when I ran into Young the Giant’s lead singer, Sameer. Umm, to be honest, I never thought he was that attractive and then I met him and man is he beautiful in person (this picture is a disservice to his loveliness!). Also, I made him get out of the hot tub to take this picture and he was so nice and so warm and I almost died. My words to him exactly: “I really, really like you, but not in a weird way.” He smiled at me and gave me a hug. I swear I almost passed out. Also, NOBODY even recognized him and I was like WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
- Washed Out - New Theory
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
New Theory - Washed Out
I love this song so much. Also, it’s okay that more people began listening to Washed Out after Portlandia. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve been listening to him since 2009 like me or if you just began to a week ago. Music is music. It’s also okay if you have the urge to repeatedly punch Fred Armisen in the face. I do too. It’s only natural.
I drove for an insane amount of period today, and almost got into 3 accidents. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sometimes, I just pump up my music so loud and I get all crazy; and I forget that there are other people around me who are staring at me like I’m a psycho b/c I’m basically about to run them over cuz I’m dancing and mouthing the lyrics. I don’t know how I’ve never gotten a ticket. The first day I got my license, I drove into a fence.
Yeah, you should definitely think about that before you get into a car with me.
Every time I check my credit card bill, I die a little bit inside.
The Missing Half
Sitting in this chair and being surrounded by people in black, I feel sick. They are staring at me, their eyes lingering at the empty space next to me, searching for the other half of me that doesn’t exist anymore. They are waiting for me to say something, to cross on over to the podium and finally speak about her death. My hands are shaking and I don’t want to do this, but I get up and walk as if I am braver than I am. People shift in their seats, their tongues fall silent. Sunlight passes through the stained glass windows of the church and falls down in broken angles. I close my eyes. My ears are burning; they feel like a buried tunnel, pushing all noise and life outward until only the lingering stillness of darkness remains. I stand like this for a few minutes, until the distant murmurs of strangers begins to rise higher.
Finally, I open my eyes and see their faces — they are blurred shapes floating towards me, suddenly troubling the quiet inside my head.
“My sister, Lucy, was…” the words fall flat into the air, and my hands tremble from shame and guilt. I begin again, but still nothing comes out.
I can’t speak. The words remain trapped inside my throat, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get them out. My eyes shift across the sea of faces, and I search for my mother’s familiar eyes. She is sitting towards the corner of the front row, but her head is down. She won’t look up towards me, or respond with her maternal tongue. I can feel the panic rising. People continue to shift and murmur, but still I remain silent.
My eyes slowly drift towards the open casket and for the first time I look at her. The casket is mahogany and inside it Lucy lies patiently, her hair brushed through and her lips the perfect shade of pink. Inside her right palm is a small picture of the Virgin Mary — she is gazing upwards into a light she has not yet reached.
Staring at Lucy, her body so stiff and cold, feels unreal. We have the same eyes, the same nose, the same lips. Except her whiteness, that valuable porcelain, doesn’t match the tanned glow of my skin. She was my twin. My other half. The better half.
I could never entirely piece together what had happened that night. The images of Lucy remain scattered in my memories, as I struggle to properly piece them together. I don’t want to remember her that way: lying on her side, her left had twisted in the wrong direction, and her soft lips split into a heinous, gaping “O.”
These people, they keep staring at me, waiting for something to finally come out of my mouth. I know that nothing will. I hold my breath but I know that I cannot undo myself here. Outside, the sun is shining even brighter now — its bursting yellow-orange hue spreading across the sky like a flaming match. I cringe from the paralyzing heat, which sticks between my fingers like melted glue. Nearby the engine of a beat up truck roars to life, and finally, amidst this unconquerable pain, I find my voice.
“My sister, Lucy, was the bravest person I knew. She was everything that I wish I could be.”
Notes to self:
1) Breathe and resist the urge to jam my car into the person in front of me even if they are driving below the speed limit.
2) Buy new bedsheets, Essie’s “Pretty Edgy” nail polish, lip balm, and Bossypants. Also, stop compulsive shopping. It’s unhealthy. Instead, convince mom to buy everything for me.
3) Avoid going to Market and Powell during the weekends since they are usually clustered with tourists this time of the year. Why can’t these people move faster? I’m like please just stand there and take over the entire sidewalk. I have no where to go while you blind me with your camera’s flash.
4) Learn how to make a Baked Alaska.
5) Finish reading Freedom. It’s been lying on my side table for two months. Jonathan Franzen would not be happy with my laziness.
6) Swim tons and continue with dance classes.
Misery at Dinner Time
Anne’s face, now as calm as a mannered sea, looked on indifferently as she pulled into the parking lot of a Safeway. She parked by the front and then quickly slipped out with Ramona in hand. Inside, they moved listlessly through the aisles of food, not knowing what to pick. Anne stopped pushing the cart at the frozen food section. Instantly, Ramona’s face cringed in recognition of what was inside the cold, packaged boxes. She remembered the pasty taste of the tuna noodle casserole they had the previous night. It had taken her fifteen minutes to brush out the aftertaste. Anne looked down at her daughter and saw her pained expression.
“I guess that’s a no for the spinach and mushroom lasagna?”
Ramona’s shook her vigorously from side to side. “I’m hungry, so definitely not,” she said with wide eyes.
“Well that doesn’t leave us with many options. I could cook something, but we both know how that’ll turn out.” Ramona nodded her head in agreement and smiled at her mother. “I guess we could get take out, but I don’t really fell like it,” said Anne. “I don’t know what to do. This is so hard.” She looked around in confusion, unable to make a decision. Women swerved past her, their carts fully stocked with bags of fresh fruits, soda bottles, milk, and junk food. Anne looked down at hers. It was completely empty. “Are you sure you don’t want the lasagna?” she said to her daughter. “I mean it’s not that bad. Maybe we should just give it a try.” She reached in and grabbed a box, unaware of Ramona’s horrified glare.
At home, Anne mindlessly skimmed through the directions on the back of the box, and then shoved the open tray into the oven. She stood in the kitchen for a while, her hands, shapeless as flung gloves, pressed against the cool of the granite counters. Before walking out of the kitchen, she reached out and turned off the light. Their bodies gently tucked into the couch, both mother and daughter stared at the TV. Anne flipped through the channels, until Ramona asked her to stop. They watched reruns of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody on the Disney Channel, until their heavy eyelids gave into sleep. They lay in peace, fragile and undisturbed, until smoke rose out from the oven. The deafening, cryof the fire alarm thrust them out of their dreams. Anne quickly fumbled to the kitchen, her face contorted into a panicked expression. She yanked open the windows and the oven door, trying to let out the blooming black smoke. Taking a magazine from the counter, she swung it close to the fire alarm, trying to quiet its bursting screams. It roared relentlessly, until finally, out of sheer frustration, Anne smacked her hand against it and, pulled the top off with both hands. She reached in for the battery and threw it across the kitchen.
Slowly, her body shrunk to the floor like a double ended knot. The fear of drowning, the fear of being that alone rose up again, and she tried to make deals with God, as if she could buy her way out of it. The tears strung out of her eyes — they were the constant reaction to the misery that had left her caged in like an unwilling nun. That fall when Jake had died, the sky had been the same ominous grey. He had left them behind unintentionally — it was a mistake too difficult to comprehend.
Anne lifted herself up and saw Ramona staring at her with widened eyes. She walked over to her daughter and clutched her into her arms. Slowly, the responsibilities of motherhood weighed in, and Anne remembered that Ramona was still hungry. She threw out the burnt lasagna dish, and scanned the kitchen to see what else was there. Ten minutes later, they sat side by side eating Cocoa Puffs.
Going to see my friend’s band in a little bit. Finally put on some makeup and got out of my sweats. My mother would be proud that I brushed my hair. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m not that gross, you guys.
