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.