Come here. Sit down.
I know, I know -that romance thing is for the monogamists, for the kids of “B” movies and drunk high school proms, for your mom and dad who now hate each other, for some dark-haired hero from your childhood that is not coming. I know, I know- we’re too radical, too smart, too snarky and dismissive, too educated, and too protective.
But you’re about to lose it. You’re about to capitulate what your politics will not forgive.
Three cheers for self-sufficiency: I work three jobs, live and hunger at minimum wage, walk myself home drunk always, wake up to my own alarm, cook what I eat, wash what I wear, write what I need to read, get myself off, refill my CTA card, visit my parents on Sundays, scrub the shower, and shake out my sheets. This tune is as interesting as a bowl of cereal.
Lately, we are in the habit of writing about our poor misshapen bodies- policed and aching and threatened and confused. There is no safety here.
Come here. Sit up. Remove that hand. This time, it’s not about fucking (later, for sure).