“Do you feel the same sense of defeat? Have you realized all the things you’ll never be?” ~Against Me

I gave each book a solid 20 pages to grab me. The first was arrogantly written; Superfluous as Ayn Rand spending 20 pages on the description of a room. Awkward characters exchanging awkward dialogue. As Dorothy Parker once said, “It is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with full force.” On to the second book, written by another one of my favorite people, Jenny McCarthy. Unfortunately her charm and wit was not reflected in print. NOt a coherent book but a smattering of random thoughts and “Oh, hey, lemme tell you about this one time…” Even an entire chapter dedicated to un-funny anecdotes about how heavy her period is. I didn’t so much as crack a smile the first 20 pages. The typeset was enormous; insultingly so. My IQ leaked slowly out of my eyes as I scanned the pages. Twenty pages, full stop. Enough.

I lie in the dark and my mind wanders to a full pair of lips as my hand wanders down to my thighs. I”m as thankful for my vibrator as I am tired of it. I want the real thing. I want Hottie McHottie. I want that tall, muscled, beautiful man with the tousled hair and mischievous green eyes. And he is beautiful. I go out of my way not to look at him. He would absently flatten his hair then muss it up only to flatten it again. I opened my mouth and said something about his “douche-y Euro-trash hair”. He genuinely looked hurt and I wanted to blurt out, “What that really translates to is ‘I want to ride your dick all night’.”Later he emailed me and I took the opportunity to apologize. And offered to give him a haircut. (which translates to “…and ride your dick all night.”)

My self-confidence is directly proportional to my weight. The higher the weight, the lower my self-confidence. I am 20 pounds away from seducing anyone and 30 pounds away from being an unstoppable force of wantonness. Or maybe I’m like my dog chasing a squirrel: woudn’t know what to do with it if I caught it. I was beautiful for a minute. Only a minute. So brief that by the time I realized I was beautiful, the moment had passed. I feel cheated. Now I google things like “fillers”, ‘chin lift’, and “fertility preservation”. I’m convinced my lips are receding faster than a shoreline in a hurricane. My biggest fear is becoming my mother. Not what she was but what she is now.Can we really fight genetics?

As Jenny McCarthy would say, “Why worry about answers to questions you can’t POSSIBLY know?” (Yes, I picked the book back up).

Now, Mr. McHottie, where were we…?

 

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Bombed and Bummed.

Afghanistan is a bad place to run out of anti-depressants. But it’s a full moon so I light a candle, sprinkle a mix of “P&P” (Positivity and Protection) over the flame and worry away at a thick piece of Jet. And repeat to myself, “I’m okay. I don’t really need medication” like thinking it will make it true.

Just like thinking thin helped me drop 10 pounds.

And believing, I mean REALLY believing that G-d would answer my prayer, that my father would wake from his coma.

But more days than not since then, I wake with the firm belief that G-d doesn’t exist at all. But that thought is as frightening as the infinite, vacuum of space: it’s dark, eternal, bottomless hopelessness. Eventually I dutifully return to reciting my prayers even as I eye the sky suspiciously.

But there’s nothing like a war-zone to put your life into perspective, for better or worse. Sure, I’ll come home, blissfully thankful to be reunited with my bed, my pets, palm trees, hot showers and cold sangria, but it doesn’t entirely alleviate that nagging doubt in the back of my mind that something isn’t right.

This is not a suicide note. This is more of a “Hey mom, if I happen to die today, I’m okay with that” note.  I’ve been ready to die for the last two decades. Not that I would ever take my own life but if G-d or the Taliban decided to take me out of the game today, I wouldn’t bitch. My affairs are in order. I’m insured. And I’m alone.

Sure, I love my mother and my family would be sad but they would get on without me. But what is there to keep me here? A husband and children, if I had them.

I don’t want to die (or live) like Dorothy Parker: alone and unhappy.

Even if Ruth wasn’t her husband’s first choice, she at least got laid and had kids.

I’m not so much alone as I am lonely. There are certain emotional and physical needs that just cannot be met by parents, siblings, friends, pets, and hobbies.

And I never worried about NOT having these things because I assumed it would ‘just happen’ eventually. Now I’m researching harvesting and freezing my eggs and fretting at the low odds of pregnancy from such procedures.

Maybe I just want kids so that I have someone to wipe my ass when I’m 90.

Maybe I just want a husband because I’m tired of my vibrator.

Okay, I’m DEFINITELY tired of my vibrator. It has been a long time since anything other than a tampon was up there. Just call me a Sexual Camel.

I am loved but I am lonely.

I will not leave a legacy, biological or otherwise.

It may have been General McChrystal who said that everyone’s military career ends in failure. On some sad level, that nearly makes me feel better. I don’t necessarily enjoy someone elses’ unhappiness and misfortune but I do take comfort in not feeling like the sole member of the Losers Club.

On other levels though, I’ve lived someone else’s dream. Scratched someone else’s itch. Although I’m certain I could have been successful given the opportunities, I will never win an Oscar, and Academy Award, a Nobel Prize, or a Grammy. Those things would have been nice but I never expected them. Never pursued them. I was and AM the Responsible One.

All I expected was a normal life: Married, couple of kids, a steady career…a comfortable, middle-class suburbia housewife who writes award-winning porn under an alias while the kids are napping. What everyone else has and takes for granted. I don’t have that. And I choke up to think about it.

My mother understands. She says, “This is not the life I would have picked for you.”

I’ve lived enough. I’ve hurt enough.

So if those Taliban fucks land a bomb right on top of me tonight, all I hope for is a quick death.

I think G-d at least owes me that.