I can call you by your name now, and we will wear reds
In the words of my most elegant best friend…Can I complain for a minute?! (and when she says this, yes, it includes an ! and a ? within the statement)
I don’t want to see more about weddings. I hate it so much at times I could scream or cry or destroy a building with both and a good colour of spray paint [ oh lavender and gold please]. My brain knows it doesn’t matter and sometimes my heart tells me it is not fair. All of my closest friends from high school have wives. All whom are so perfect and goddamn gorgeous and somehow judge me and wish I had never even sold their now-husbands X and coke and acid and my useless, cheap friendship. I pretend to be sorry that I wasted college with and English and Art major and know who Lacan and oh what the F U A U what [Faucoult!!!] are, and win stupid trivia contests in bars that talk about Laura Palmer and her body wrapped in plastic. I get drunk and see their rings and want one because by nature I covetcovetcovetcovet. My best friend has the most elegant ring.
But I don’t want the admission of anniversaries and acquiescence from people that don’t matter, I’ll never wear a stupid white [cream, dove, beige, whatevs] dress, because I admit my love of dresses, jewelry, and parties with food and libations, like any good girl. I just want someone to look at her and I, and then realize, that for three years longer than ANY of anyone… we have dated, we have fucked, broke up, we have argued and punched and clawed and used sex and actual FUCKING words as weapons, as guards, as barter, bargain and love.
I see her and occasionally I wish I saw someone different. Then I see the other person, I pretend. But then later that week, I grab her hand, kiss her heel, her mouth and her bones, and realize that what I know is typical, normal and whatthefuckeverness.
I finally got lucky.
She made me what I knew
