(Introverts) Strange conversations I’m glad I was forced to have #12

“You always eat healthy, don’t you?”
I look down at a bowl filled with brown rice and mixed vegetables. I contemplate the fact I’m about to dump my entire sodium content level worth of A1 on it when I get back to my desk.  

“Yeah,” I sigh and it comes out wrong, as always. I can feel my fingers twitching. What to say, what to say, to make this conversation go away
“I’ve got my cheat meals, too.”

Cool. Now you don’t look stuck up, this is good. We’re treading lightly, making progress. Let’s end this quickly and on a good note.

I want to tell him the real reason why I eat this way. That I’m a vegan and that it’s really not that hard once you make yourself aware of the repercussions of your own actions on the planet. That I’m trying to be less selfish and hopefully work that towards building relationships because honestly, look at me. I haven’t crawled out of my hole in the wall in weeks.

I want to take him by the shoulders (metaphorically – let’s not make this weird) and say ‘watch this documentary, read this book, put yourself in their shoes, put yourself in your bodies’ shoes’ but I won’t. That wouldn’t be politically correct, would it?

I think back on High School, all the times I tried to connect with someone my age. Millenials don’t like me, they think I’m a little off. They’ve beaten it out of me, the rebellious pieces. Fuck, I used to be such a spitfire. 

“It’s not that hard, I promise. I think you can do it, too.” My eye contact breaks almost instantly. I’m left recalling the thought with a fucking piece of broccoli staring into my soul. 

I start thinking again, always thinking, endlessly. I try to remember his eye color. I can’t. I don’t think I can recall his shirt color either? What does his face look like? Could I remember it in a lineup? Why would I need to know that anyways? God, why are you following the rabbit down the bloody hole again? 

I see this man every single day. And countless others, from this office. Honestly I couldn’t tell you a single physical detail about a one of them if I tried. But I could tell you their little rituals. And this one, he was bound to talk sooner or later. He means well, he means well. He just doesn’t understand. 
 

“Yeah, what can I say? I’m trying but damn that takes some willpower.” He’s not trying, and we both know that. There’s a food truck outside calling his name. 

“That’s all it takes.” I smile.

I spend the rest of the awkward silence wondering why I can’t connect with people and why I can’t stand to see them frown, even at my own expense. I’m not coming to this microwave anymore this is too weird. 

 I look up and he’s got a little grin plastered. Maybe that’s all he needed to hear? Do people not talk like this amongst each other anymore? What’s the point of talking, then?  God, he better not think I’m hitting on him. 

He finally gets the hint and goes to turn around, “Real quick – what kind of cheat meals do you eat, anyways? I feel like I could do it with a couple of those but I’ve got a feeling yours are much different than mine.”

I laugh, it’s only half-genuine but at least a little less cynical than normal.

“Uh,”

I don’t have a lie rehearsed, I wasn’t prepared for this. This is worse than getting your six inch stilletto stuck in the grooves at the boardwalk in South Carolina last summer. How are you going to possibly end this professionally?

 “Wine.”

BIATA

The Girl with the Diamond Eyes

The girl with the diamond eyes came
forth one moonlit evening, lifting
her pale tresses from the murky depths,
abruptly stilling the gasp of the
sea with one swift pull from the
surface. 

Her skin had shone like porecelain in
the moonlight, her blued lips
twisted up at me in a gentle grin.
I was unsure of whether she was living
or long deceased but the gleam of her
eyes in stark nightfall made me wonder
if she was somewhere beautifully in-
between. 

She held a spindly finger to her
lips and placed a dainty palm upon
the edge, I could’ve nearly felt her
touch my thigh, too. 

A fisherman’s boat leaves little room
for error. With one mighty tug from
the sea the bow lurched forward, 
towards its gaping jaws. A startled
scream nearly tore through my throat –
Nearly

I’d expected the sea to engulf me in a
swift, imminent death but alas, it
did not. Within moments the waves
stilled around my stalling shield,
and from my peripheral I heard a
soft splash. 

Where once sat my basket of game
now stood a large chest. Long
since weathered by the mothering
sea and growing her kin from its
edges. 

I tell you this story for one
reason only – I opened it, surely
you know I did. I drifted my fingers
across the edges and took in the
scent of the deepest, unaired depths
of the sea. I swallowed the
mysteries and lapped up the
excess. 

Oh, but the sea, she explored me,
too. Those deep seeded lies hidden
in crevices where only the most
damnable creatures hide.  

We cannot possibly comprehend
what lies beneath every unturned
stone, every unmarked forest or
distant splash in the sea. 
Though the mysteries still live on, 
even if we stop paying any mind to
them.

As for what I saw? Surely the worst
that any human could. I saw the truth
of our existence and I’ll tell you a
little secret –

We do not deserve to be here any
more than we belong here. 

BIATA 

An overdue run-in with the Twins of Happiness | Part 1: Our Emotional Spectrum Series

What some would call a peculiar, slightly nostalgic event wound me up at a picnic table outside of my local park with a duo I hadn’t really spoken with since I was a little girl. Now I can’t say for certain that my recalling of this event would help anyone. I suppose my original purpose for posting it was merely to a spread a message – their message – which seemed to have given me a much different perspective on my adult life and the way in which I deal with it. So perhaps it could help enlighten someone else, and I like to hope that’s a purpose of mine. 

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SYLL: Therapy Session

My therapist says that’s how you ruin a good memory. By overthinking it again and again until the facts begin to morph into something ugly. I, myself, can’t imagine the memory growing much uglier than it already is. But maybe that’s because I think about it a lot.

I don’t tell her that. Instead I just nod and stare drowsily out the window. Dreaming of a time when I can remember what the grass felt like. Or the smell of a summer breeze. I can’t help but notice it, even if they tell me not to. The sun is nearly blinding and I almost wish it didn’t remind me of the lighting in this place.

I have told her this before, I know I have. We’ve had this conversation. But if I ask her I know the answer will be the same. It always is.

‘No we haven’t.’

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