Body

This is my body, which will be given up for you.

This is my body but none of it is my choice. Except maybe the nude paint on my face to cover the freckles or the black gloopy tar on my eyelashes. I also trim my hairs, shave the appropriate parts, and tweeze my eyebrows, but my jurisdiction stops there.

Had it been my choice I would’ve gotten shiny, bouncy curls that catch the light and your eye. Speaking of eye, I would’ve gotten much better eyesight (these contact lenses are wearing down my corneas). My hips would’ve been slimmer and more boy-like. My teeth wouldn’t have so many craters and I would generally be more symmetrical and rationally pleasing.

My left breast is larger than my right. I favor my right eyebrow though, because its arch comes more naturally than the left’s. I have a circular scar on my right knee and a small jagged line on my left foot. I was blessed with three birthmarks- two on my torso, near each hip and one on my right leg near my ankle. I was also blessed with three ureters- that’s one too many and results in frequent urgency to urinate.

If it were up to me, I would be homosexual and all the other lesbians would ask, why? They would be like Jews unable to understand why a convert would want to take on their hardships and struggle. I’d tell them that they feel better, and if it were up to me, they actually would.

My second toe is longer than my big toe (on both feet) which is a condition called Morton’s syndrome. My feet look just like my father’s. My eyes though, I got from my mother. I’m enchantingly exotic because of her. Confusing because of her.

He said, will you give yourself to me? It was funny because I thought I already had. What he meant was, will you give your body to me? Even though it felt like a sacrifice, I did. I saw his body and his hairiness and the weird bump on his shoulder and the scar on thigh and all I could think about the whole time was combinations and permutations. If there are 26 imperfections on his body and 41 on mine, how many different combinations can be made taking 4 imperfections at a time (with no replacement)? Do you think that’s what our parents did? Do you think my body is arbitrary?

For Jess

If I’m so lucky, why do I feel like I’m in a war camp, just trying to hold on? I’m rationing what I have left and let me tell you, it isn’t much. The days are getting long and the nights are even longer and yet, there’s never enough time.

The cat strikes nine and I’m panicking. Why is it the cat with the attitude, the one I’m allergic to, gets so many chances but the loyal dog died last year? That should tell me more than it does but everything is out of my hands. I’m running out of time.

Let’s talk about implications, pedagogy, banal questions and you. In fact, I’m so interested in you we should scratch the rest and only talk about you. Tell me about how you met your fiancé and what you’re studying now and of course, your goals. What is it that you hope to do with your life? Tell me more about your dissertation and your opinion on feminist neoliberalism and that time you and your friends went to that protest. I’m fascinated.

As for my life, I hope to love it. I’ll dance with it and seduce it and never force it to do anything it’s not ready for. I look in the mirror and my body gives me a flat, disinterested look because I haven’t started yet. I’m still pushing it along. I’ve learned nothing except maybe basic geometry.

I remember something: my mother told me to “fix my face.” I was offended and I said so and she said that I need to appreciate my youth and make the most of it because one day I’ll miss it. Because it isn’t unlimited. Because I’m almost out of time. Don't worry though, this doesn't apply to you.

Just keep striving for more, never give up. Once you achieve a dream, make a new one. That way, you’ll never be happy with what you have. You can just keep on wanting more. If you stop, you probably aren’t going very far with your life. Just keep that in mind.

Interview with Alyssa Patterson

Interview with Alyssa Patterson

Fifteen minutes after our scheduled meeting time, Alyssa Patterson hurried into the cozy corner of the LA coffee shop where I was waiting for her. Although it was raining outside, she looked stunning as ever wearing a red vintage raincoat and Fendi rainboots. We talked for a little over an hour, time in which she managed to tell me absolutely nothing. It seems that there is a lot to learn about her mysterious life beyond the tabloids and rumors.

So, tell me about your new book, Muse. It’s gotten very mixed reviews. Do you have any idea why?

A: Probably because it isn’t very good. (laughing). It’s a story that most people don’t want to read. I was being completely honest when I wrote it, sometimes so much that it was painful. I think it makes people uncomfortable sometimes to read about what they know is true but that they wish wasn’t. Especially regarding relationships.

The book was published as fiction, but there are rumors that it’s actually autobiographical. Is that true?

A: I already told you, I was being completely honest. That’s all I’m allowed to say.

You seem very guarded.

A: Well, I have to be. When something as personal as Muse is available for anyone to read, the little that’s left out has to be kept.

What exactly do you mean by kept?

A: I mean kept for myself, because I’ve given the rest away.

Moving on to your personal life, is it true you’re dating Hugh Jackman?

A: (Laughs). No, definitely not. Hugh’s a good friend of mine and he’s been helpful in the editing process. He’s very supportive.

Supportive of?

A: What kind of question is that? He’s supportive of my writing career. It’s very useful to have such a big celebrity helping to publicize.

Ever since your affair with Prince Harry, you’ve become quite the celebrity yourself. Was that not enough publicity?

A: Well no, apparently not because my book hardly sold when that all happened. Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.

Is it true that you wrote about your sexual encounters with the young prince in your book?

A: Did you not read it? Aren’t you supposed to read it before you interview me?

                                                                                                            

Continued on Page 76.

Wolverine

            When I was nine years old I fell in love with Wolverine. It was 2000 and my mother, sister and I were on vacation in Las Vegas. We had driven in an old silver Saturn and after spending a few days in Vegas, we took a tour bus to see the Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon.

            I don’t really recall my thoughts about the Hoover Dam or Grand Canyon, but I remember seeing X-Men at a movie theater in the Circus Circus Hotel. We weren’t staying there, it was too expensive, but it was the only kid-friendly attraction that also offered gambling. My mom left us in the kid-friendly part and was gone for the night. My sister and I explored the Circus Circus, too afraid of the outside world to even think about leaving the hotel. It was loads of fun for at least a few hours, but after the giddiness of being parent-less wore off, we were hungry. We wandered around looking for something to eat and that’s when we found the theater.

            Back then, I was still in the stage of doing everything my sister told me to. She wanted to see X-Men, so we went. That’s when it happened. I was obsessed within the first few minutes. Wolverine, or Logan as I fantasized I would call him, was so unlike the male leads in all the horrible movies my nine-year-old self was accustomed to. He was too much for my pre-pubescent mind to handle. He was also the first bad-ass I had ever encountered. Just imagine, being led into the world of rebelliousness and sex appeal by Wolverine himself. It shifted my small world, and I knew even then that Logan was what I wanted. No, what I needed. Anyone else simply wouldn’t do.

            Over the years, X2, X-Men: The Last Stand, X-Men Origins: Wolverine and X-Men: Fist Class have come out and I’ve found myself in love with Logan, or Wolverine as he seems to prefer to be known by, with each one. The more masculine, brooding and overdone he is, the more I have to have him. It proved to be an actual problem. In 7^th grade, I dated a big, buff 8^th grader who had a sensitive, emotional side and possibly had anger management issues. He seemed to be as close to Wolverine as I could get, but it wasn’t close enough. He had blonde hair and blue eyes where Logan had brown both. I couldn’t overlook it.

            In high school I dated a couple different guys who arguably had important qualities in common with Wolverine, but of course, they always fell short. I like to think that my current boyfriend is the closest I’ve ever gotten. Of course, he doesn’t have adamantium bones or blades that shoot out of his knuckles. Learning to admit that I’ll never find such perfection has been a slow and painful process. It began with being teased for being so excited about my beloved mutant movies, and grew into me becoming a complete closet Wolverine fan. I keep telling myself I’ll let this obsession go, and yet I find myself trying to convince my boyfriend to be Wolverine for Halloween.

Alyssa

Alyssa. Derived from the flower alyssum. Greek roots a- “not” and lyssum- “insane”.

Alyssa. A lie. Not insane.

According to German origins, Alyssa means truth. I kid you not, truth. A lie means truth. Which is funny, because I’m a liar. Sometimes I find it hard to say even one true thing.

Alyssa. A lie. Saw. I saw a lie. I saw a lie the day a liar was named truth. Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The lie calling itself truth. But what’s so good about the truth?

Tell me something true, tell me something true, they say. I say back to them I’m not insane and they actually believe me. Tell me something else true, they say. They want  something better. So I say you’re pronouncing my name wrong. The truth is, it’s pronounced with “lie” in it. Not Uh-liss-uh, but Uh-LIE-suh. The “lie” is the most important part. This time I actually am telling the truth.

Here is something true: I am not an example of truth or sanity. Maybe it’s because everyone pronounces my name wrong. Maybe if they got it right I’d be able to sleep at night and I could tell the truth. Wait, who am I kidding? I couldn’t tell the truth.

What’s so good about the truth, then? Still trying to figure that one out. Truth would be someone called Ruth. She sounds like your great aunt that smells like mothballs and likes gardening. Ruth is an ugly name. Truth is an ugly word. Alyssa though, Alyssa sounds like Queen Elissa or Alyssa Milano. Backwards it says ass, full of shit. Alyssa, a lie, lice, saw, scandal. Much more exciting than Ruth. And everyone loves a big fat lie.

The Angry Girl's Guide to Dating

            Girl, you’ve gotta be smart about this. You’ve got to protect yourself. That’s the most important part. Don’t let down your guard until you’re okay with getting hurt. You’re going to want to let it down before that and you’re going to want to believe that you’ve found the love of your life, but don’t. Refrain. Wait it out. If it really is right, he can wait anyways.

            First of all, do not go into this expecting a husband. In fact, don’t even go into this looking for a boyfriend. Forget that altogether and think about yourself. Real love is loving yourself. Be selfish, you’re too young not to. Be confident and dazzling and fun. Be whatever you want. Just don’t be whatever he wants.

            Once you find him, and believe me, you will. Once you find him, don’t be afraid to let him go. There will be so many more. Honestly. Just get that through your head before getting into anything. He’s replaceable. Once you find him, put up that guard I mentioned. He’s going to tell you all kinds of wonderful things about your pretty eyes, pretty hair, nice dress, nice legs, and beautiful smile. The better the compliments the higher the level of bullshit. Don’t take it with a grain of salt, don’t take it at all. He’ll sweet talk you all night long if you let him. Don’t even waste your time.

            Go for the guy who asks real questions. About your thoughts, dreams, goals, family. I’ll give you a hint; he’s not at that bar. He probably isn’t at that party either. He could be, but probably not. It’ll take time to find him.

            Meanwhile, for the guy you found at the party, do whatever you want as long as you aren’t serious. Go home with him, have sex with him, whatever. If he starts using you, use him right back. Dial his ass up when you need a booty call. And when he asks you to be his girlfriend because he just realized how great you are you better say hell no. If he isn’t calling you back, forget him. Actually, there shouldn’t be any “calling back” because you shouldn’t call him at all. Let him call you. You call him back. You keep him waiting. Let him sweat it out. If he never calls, date his best friend. That’ll get his attention if that’s even what you want.

            That’s what you need to focus on, what you want. If you want a hook-up, fine, go to the bar and bat your eyelashes and sway your hips and find one. If you want true love though, don’t look at all. 

Dead

Dead, Head, Bed, Meds.

Dead. I’ve been feeling dead lately. Not the dead-and-buried-in the-ground kind, but the rock kind. Like I’ve never even been alive. I’m a ghost of a presence. I actually walk through walls. People don’t really notice. I should probably eat something, but I’m not hungry. I might be tired or I might be asleep.

Head. I exist in my head. A lot goes on up there. Being dead can get stressful. Busy, even. I get new ideas everyday but it’s starting to get crowded. There’s no room for expansion. I can see myself, the little version of me that is really all of me crowded in my head. Every moment getting more and more cramped up there and running out of air. There’s no room to breathe. She’s getting frantic.

Bed. I won’t get out of bed. I won’t get out for light or for food or even to pee. I’m staying here. I’ll stay asleep and even when I wake up I’ll just lie in bed and pretend to be asleep. No one can tell the difference, not even me. Life looks better horizontal anyways.

Meds. Meds are supposed to help. They’re supposed to make me feel better, or maybe they’re just supposed to make me feel alive. Meds to soothe, meds to protect, meds to end the pain. Just put her out of her misery. The whole idea is a cure. A cure for the living, a cure to be dead.  

Awakening

                Right as I told him we should be friends, he kissed me. That wonderful, overwhelming, heavy kind of kiss that I personally wouldn’t mind being smothered by. What are you, twelve? Well, no, but I felt like I was twelve. “A grown up woman should never fall so easily.” What are you, a grown up? Clearly not.

                He didn’t tell me he loved me, didn’t get me flowers, and thank God didn’t ask me on a date. What he did tell me was how incredibly attractive he found me, but not using words. Somehow that language was more meaningful to me. So, when I thought about my boyfriend, Bryce (yes, this story gets juicier!) I barely felt guilt.

                Bryce professed his love to me every day and bought me countless bouquets. He talked to me about how many kids he wanted to have and got mad when I didn’t feel like holding hands. He even agreed that we shouldn’t have sex till we’re married. And he actually said until “we’re” married. Because apparently we were getting married. This is the kind of smothering I didn’t want. As an in-between twelve years old and grown-up, I knew it was too much too soon. Not that it mattered. What was happening between my legs hit me a lot harder than anything that was going through my mind.

                I knew no boundaries. I forgot everything about who I was or wanted to be. I probably forgot my name. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling or why and it didn’t faze me in the least. My instincts took over, logic out the window. We were primal and so immature.

                 I lied. We did more than just kiss. Neither of us said a single word and we didn’t need to because we had a new language. One that Bryce never knew. Afterwards, I felt like I had just snapped out of a daze. The best and worst part about it was that even after he left and I started getting ready to go out to lunch with Bryce, I couldn’t bring myself to form even an inkling of regret.

                I didn’t bother telling Bryce at lunch. We went to my favorite Chinese restaurant and I didn’t feel like ruining what was turning out to be a great day. When Bryce and I finally did break up, I pretended it was for different reasons. Something about going away to college and needing to have freedom. In a very small way, that much was true. I no longer liked the idea of love that was presented in so many actions and words. I wanted it to be real, physical and raw.  I needed the freedom to feel. 

Alcohol

The thing about alcohol is that when I’m drinking it, all I want to do is keep drinking it. As soon as I stop and I’m on the slow and often foggy road to sobriety, all I want is to get there faster and never drink again. 

Think about it. Every time I drink, I come to this fork in my life. Which direction will I take? More often than not, I take the more careful way. I like the safe path and the feeling of control. The thought of giving in to that deeper, darker side scares me. It’s hypnotizing at first but once I get to that fine-tuned moment when I see two different ways emerge, it’s clear to me which is the smarter way. But is it the better way?                    

I’ve recently begun to ponder all of the things that haven’t happened to me. I’ve never kissed a girl, never woken up next to a stranger, never blacked out, never even shot gunned a beer. Am I missing out? Sometimes I imagine what it could be like if I just let go. If I made all the wrong decisions and made all the best mistakes. If, in that blurry, in-between point, I gave in to the seductive desire to completely lose myself.

               

I might dance with all the boys or sing in front of an audience. I might take off my clothes and lay down. I might forget to come home, or forget where home is. If, just once, I could actually allow myself to be a part of the worry-free, dirty, glittering mass of drunks instead of just an observer, I might feel free. But then I have to ask myself, would I like that girl? I think I would.   

San Diego

San Diego, Ca.

Full of history and Mexicans. This is a city for the indecisive and bipolar. It’s the city that clings to me, like the one that got away. The Shores call to me, claiming what is theirs. The sun shines for me, the very weather tries to please me. In San Diego, you can have whatever you want.

The skaters understand this. So do the surfers, and the potheads, and their girlfriends. These kids all hang out around the beach or in each other’s backyards or sometimes mine and talk about nothing at all because nothing matters when you live this close to the ocean. Don’t get me wrong, these are not paradise beaches. They’re “rugged” according to a travel book I once read, choppy and even dangerous to those that aren’t accustomed. The rocky cliffs threaten death and the sea caves are as alluring as sirens. Stingrays and whites aside, the water is cold all the time.

The water is always damn cold, but it’s not about comfort here. Just let go. Become one with the water, with nature, with yourself. The Pacific wakes you up, slaps you around and demands your full attention. Once you belong to it, you’ll never forget. It’ll cling to you and you’ll remember at the most inopportune moments. But it’s that kind of relationship you secretly like.

All of guys that mow the lawns, and the one who owns Robertos, and his cousin who owns Alejandros, and his friend that owns Don Lucios, all of those guys are hilarious. Who knows if they’re legal or not? Who cares when you live this close to the ocean?

You smoke, swim, eat burritos, and sleep. That’s all there is to teenage life in my hometown. But who cares? When you’re in San Diego, who really cares?

Sexy

                I needed some extra money over the summer, so I got a job at Victoria’s Secret. You know, because I love interacting with people so much. Before you even start working, you have to go through lingerie boot camp hell, which is their version of training. I don’t remember a lot from those days, it’s all dark in my mind, but I know that afterwards I was able to touch a bra and name the color, size, padding amount, material, collection, and “bra technology” of the bra. Hallelujah.

                So I come in for my first day of work and they stick me at the Pink panties table, folding panties all day. This lady comes in with her daughter that looks like she’s 8 and asks, “Do you have children’s sizes here?” Is that a joke? I’d like to tell this woman that no, we don’t have fucking children’s sizes here this is a fucking lingerie store and you are a horrible mother but instead I say, “No, only women’s sizes.” She looks genuinely disappointed and proceeds to hold up the booty shorts in size XXS up to her daughter. Poor thing.

                Later that week, an older looking woman comes up to me asking for a push up bra in size 40DD. Another joke, perhaps?  I don’t know if its worse that Victoria’s Secret actually carries it or that I found this woman the very last one in stock. Apparently DD isn’t big enough for a lot of women. Or men, I should say.

                I thought I was seeing the worst of Victoria’s Secret customers because I was new and wasn’t used to it yet, but they seemed to get more and more ridiculous as the summer progressed. I had a few old ladies (and I mean old) asking me for thongs. I had a woman asking me for a XXL G-string. There was the occasional bride looking for something kinky to wear on her wedding night. There were plenty of pubescent girls buying zebra-print 30AA push-up bras. You know, so they could be pushed up to 30A.

                The worst part about it all is that Victoria’s Secret, as a company, tells itself that it is making women feel more beautiful. I’m actually supposed to buy that shit. Do you think Barbara over there is going to feel beautiful when she shows her foot-long G-string to her husband? Will grandma feel beautiful when she’s pulling the cookies out of the oven and her hot pink thong pops out of her granny-jeans for all of the grandkids to see? Maybe I’m off, but something tells me no.

                These women aren’t buying these satin, lacy, shiny, sequined, floral, see-through, crotch-less, what-have-you products for themselves, and they do not make anyone feel more beautiful. Working at a lingerie store made me see the very worst, most self-conscious women trying their very hardest. There’s nothing wrong with a confident woman wanting to feel sexier for herself, and I wouldn’t have a problem with Victoria’s Secret if even one fourth of the customers fit that description. I saw in these women what I hate very most in myself: trying too hard for other people. Trying to be something I’m not. Trying to convince someone to stay with me. Trying to convince myself that I’m not going to do any better. Convincing myself that I’m not really good enough, and buying push-up bras and underwear with built-in wedgies (because that is really sexy) to overcompensate. Looking at myself in the mirror wearing said items and not recognizing myself.

                I wish there was a way I could make every woman understand their full value and potential. I wish I could make them understand that G-strings don’t flatter anyone. Most of all, I wish that they all knew how similar they are to each other. Everyone feels so alone and ashamed, but we’re all exactly alike. I know now that I don’t need lace anything to feel good about myself. I stopped working at Victoria’s Secret because it made me feel guilty. Plus I hated folding those tacky-ass panties. And I hate calling them panties. Every now and then I notice the bullshit I bought at Victoria’s Secret sitting in my underwear drawer and while I can’t bring myself to throw it away, I haven’t put it on since I quit.

Why I Write

I write because I can’t stand most people.

When I was young (no particular age, for this was a frequent recurrence throughout my childhood) I often found myself in trouble for getting into fights. Of course, the word “fight” implies a sort of equal action taken on both sides, which was not the case at all. Rather, I would torment other kids. Put simply, I was a bully. I seemed to have the stunning ability to make other kids cry with my words. Quite the superpower, if you ask me.

Eventually, my mom got fed up with calls from teachers and parents. I remember her threatening to homeschool me if I didn’t stop, which actually sounded more awful than just being nice to kids at school. I couldn’t bully my mom, after all. Fortunately, I didn’t really have to be nice. I just had to pretend. My mom told me to start writing down all the bad things about people instead of saying them out loud. This changed my life.

I didn’t get in trouble for what I wrote and I didn’t make anyone cry. I could laugh to myself about all of the awful things I had to say. I could keep lists of different people that annoyed me, and make up funny stories using them as characters. I write because it’s the right thing to do! I write in order to be an acceptable person in society.

Even now, I seem to see the worst in people. I’m not pessimistic exactly, just critical and cynical. I can’t interact with a single person without trying to learn their flaws. I can see right through people to the point that everyone is a character. I’m introverted and hermit-like, and it is no surprise why. I find myself analyzing a person and trying to memorize certain characteristics about them so I can use it for material later. The wonderful part about all this negativity is that it never fails. Everyone has flaws, and I happen to be very interested in them.

At age 20, I haven’t changed from myself at age 5 or age 10 or age 15. I’m a double major in Sociology and English Writing, which means I can study the bad things about people and then write it all down, only now I get rewarded with good grades. I love sociology because I can intellectually discuss how stupid people are. I love to write because it allows me to say all the things I can’t say out loud. Writing gets rid of the social norms that guide everyday interactions with people. I write because it frees me.