There’s a reason I’ve been MIA.
A few weeks ago I was sitting at my computer, composing a blogpost. I wasn’t Supposed To Be writing a blogpost. I was Supposed To Be immersing myself in a doorstop anthology and mulling over the work of someone great and dead. But this blogpost was going to be a good one. The kind of blogpost that, after I tweeted its arrival, my friends would surely retweet it. Some of these friends knit, some have history degrees: so you know the retweeting would come from people of excellent sense and esteem. The blogpost would be relevant, unique, and for once I’d be doing my little part to support and defend the Constitution, as I once swore to do.
It was going to feature a tweet of Noël’s. I even asked permission to use it. I was going to say how, in roller derby, the jam stops and everyone takes a knee when someone gets hurt. I was going to say that, during all that was going on in Ferguson, I was tweeting about cupcakes, and how me tweeting about cupcakes during that time felt odd. It felt like all of Twitterverse had taken a knee and I was still blithely skating around the track, giving no apparent fucks. Then I was going to muse about our responsibilities as citizens and how that overlaps with social media… until you texted me asking for a selfie, and it was all over.
I hadn’t realized that you were flirting with me until then; this milkshake seldom bring boys of your caliber to the yard, you see. So I reacted as would be expected of me. My brain fucking exploded. I abandoned everything, put on my skates, and bolted. It’s a nervous impulse, really. Like in Friends when Joey puts The Shining in the freezer when the book gets too scary for him. I didn’t know what to do, so I left the fucking house with wheels strapped to my feet. Spoiler alert: this isn’t the first time I’ve done this when you’ve texted me because I DON’T FUCKING KNOW HOW TO HANDLE MYSELF WHEN TALL HOT MEN PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
Thus, I was sprinting – I mean sprinting – down the dark suburban streets. Away! Away from my would’ve-been-perfect blogpost! Away from my neglected homework and my messier-than-all-ungodly-hell bedroom! Away from my cell phone (oops)! And since I always street skate at night, I’m not unfamiliar with the phenomenon of tripping over otherwise miniscule and avoidable potholes and pebbles, but I really wasn’t prepared for the sharp metallic clang of my skate striking this particular unseen obstacle in the pitch dark. Nor was I expecting to fly through the fucking air, taking the Lord’s name in vain* as I sailed through the air and plummeted into a heap on the pavement …without much consequence. (That’s why I wear ALL the protective gear. High impact knee guards, wut?!)
A little (more like a lottle) stunned, I breathed, “What the fuck?” only to abruptly realize that I hadn’t said anything at all and the “What the fuck?” had been spoken by a separate but identical voice to my own. It took me a few more seconds to fully process before responding, definitely, this time, my own voice from my own mouth: “Stephanie?!”
My twin sister. The nun. She wasn’t even supposed to be in the area, as she lives in a tent in my bestie’s backyard in Mount Shasta.
“What are you doing here, Stephanie?” I said.
“I’m taking a break.”
“A break from what?”
“From walking in this metal chastity corset. It’s awfully heavy.”
“In the middle of the road?”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
She’s said and done weirder, attempted arsonist that she is.
That being said, it didn’t surprise me that Stephanie had been en route to her ex-girlfriend’s house. Stephanie had planned to “nonchalantly” stroll about until “accidentally” running into the much-admired ex. She would make a point to show off the chastity corset, demonstrating the depth of her commitment to her holy orders. “Chicks dig it when you take your shit seriously,” Stephanie explained. “Once she sees that I’m not screwing up my life, she’ll hella take me back, right?”
There are times when I wish I wasn’t related to my sister. But I never wish that I was completely ignorant of her existence. It’s nice to have someone to point to and say, “There’s somebody that does it worse than I do.”
Despite this, I don’t want to see my sister get in any legal trouble, in this case by means of possibly accruing a restraining order, so I lured her away from her original task with the promise of alcohol. I would have bought her a 40 and dumped her at the Amtrak station, but it was too late to catch The One Train That Goes From Here To Dunsmuir. So we ended up at the local gay bar, got sufficiently sloshed, and went home where she slept on my floor. This meant that I didn’t sleep at all, seeing as there’s only room for one person on the floor and the mattress is preoccupied with laundry baskets and roller-skate-size shoeboxes choc full of miscellany that probably have no purpose but haven’t yet been sorted through. I kept myself awake compiling inventories of pink objects and in the morning Stephanie came to school with me. She chain-smoked American Spirit Menthols outside the Humanities building and I got called out for falling asleep in class. It’s as embarrassing as it sounds.
Because alcohol is a depressant, sleep deprivation is a bitch, and I therefore wanted a hug from my best friend, I accompanied Stephanie when she left on that night’s train. We fell asleep in the lounge car where the conductors don’t wake you up when your stop comes along. Therefore, we missed Dunsmuir and were found out and kicked off at Eugene. Stephanie was optimistic about correcting this error via hitchhiking, but we did so in the wrong direction. Now we’re staying at the White Eagle in Portland, and I’m sure once the White Eagle realizes we have insufficient funds to pay our increasing bar tab and lodging fees, we’ll be staying in jail. After little deliberation, Stephanie has concluded that her chastity corset must be worth something and is willing to part with it. If she does manage to sell it, I doubt the sum will cover what we owe, but my blood alcohol level is high enough to negate any will to argue with her.
So, here I sit. On a barstool in a far-enough-away state. Away from most all spheres of responsibilities, in academia, social media, or otherwise. I am not explosive. My arms tingle and refuse to raise themselves to chuck anything that overwhelms me into the freezer. My head is both quiet like suburban nighttime but loud like live music and the sound of my speeding skate against my sister’s strange way of perceiving the world. Away from Where I’m Supposed To Be: that place where staying up all night for the purposes of completing schoolwork is congratulated – yes, good. Good on you. Good on you for whimpering when all you want is a good bang.
We’re all dying, cute boy. It’s all clockwork and propulsion toward our very ends.
…
I’m starting to wonder if alcoholism runs in my family and no one’s cared to tell me about it.
Speaking of, um, clockwork(?), Stephanie borrowed the bartender’s library card so that she could go down to the nearest branch of the Multnomah County Library and check her Facebook. Please forgive me, as this information is coming from my sister and I’m sure she’d doctored a few of the details, but I hear someone threatened to stab you with a knitting needle at a roller derby bout? I know people who knit to be people of excellent sense… so why would they want to stab you? Is there something you’re not telling me? Does that sound too much like victim-blaming?
I now leave you with the Decemberists performing a song about a place in San Francisco. Because that’s how you prove you’re exactly where you say you are.
* Not saying I’m proud of this, btw, I AM a nice Protestant girl. Goddammit.