Here are ten things I suck at, in case you were wondering.
drawing the right number of breasts on goddesses
Seems the more the better, really. Too much is not enough!
not answering rhetorical questions
I think probably every question is a real question, like jokes are often real commentary. I answer it then realize with the embarrassing silence that I wasn’t supposed to answer it.
Or I answer it through text and never hear a response. Oops, answered a rhetorical question again.
reading the books I buy
Reading books feels like a huge commitment. Zines are way lower pressure! I’ll think a book is a great idea. But do I actually read it. Rarely!
giving people presents the right amount
Too many presents, never presents, birthday presents not on birthdays. Buying someone a present and chickening out–thinking they might not like it, so never giving it to them. Or keeping it for myself, because I’m afraid of the intensity of giving it to them, or I get used to having it around.
Too many zines–yeah, a lifetime supply of zines probably. Sorry about that. Please feel free to leave them on the counter in the laundromat, at the library, in a free box, or at a bus stop. Or give them to a friend.
I find eggs disgusting. Sometimes I can eat them. Lately I can’t eat them at all, which is sad because I have so few sources of protein.
Ideally, learning more can help, about anything. But eggs I can’t think about too much. Sorry, hens.
I hold my breath sometimes, maybe a bad habit from threading a needle. Sometimes I take a few deep breaths and enjoy oxygenating myself intentionally.
My mom was nuts about my breathing, constantly criticizing me for not breathing enough. “You’re breathing too shallow,” she’d say.
“Stop paying attention to my breathing,” I’d say, or want to say.
“Take some deep breaths with me.”
“Marie! Come on! Just breathe with me!”
Oh, Mama. If only we could do that now.
mailing my mail
Some things go out right away–some things sit on my desk, getting lost and found over and over. It turns into a big deal, and I feel weird about it.
I have this zine I’ve been wanting to mail my bestie for months! I wrote a note to go with it, in the envelope, then weeks later, another note…
Yet the envelope is not sealed, and it’s somewhere on my desk again. I brought it on the trip, to send for reals, and something’s holding me back.
Maybe today’s the day. Or I’ll get distracted by five other things, and another day will pass without me sending it.
cleaning my desk
Whoa nelly–my desk is experiencing an extreme state, at all times. There’s a place for my laptop, for the water I’m drinking, for the spirit dish I put my pills in. The north-east corner has a little altar set up, unplanned. The rest is covered with papers, mostly.
A friend came and cleaned my desk months ago, removing everything and sorting it into piles. That helped a lot, but it went back to super messy almost right away. I feel kind of doomed, in this regard.
Different piles have different meanings. I’ll resolve to do a little bit per day, but not follow through. I’ll go on a spree and enjoy finding old things. Stationery, zines, art supplies, letters unreplied to, postcards, stickers, half-finished projects, art, crystals, poems, dust.
It’s rich with possibility, but when so much is buried under other stuff, I only see mess.
Not enough talking, so people are uncomfortable, think I’m stupid, or are uninterested in me. Too much talking, so I overwhelm people.
Saying the wrong thing hurtfully or just awkwardly is my norm. Saying “fuck” when I’m not supposed to. Telling my own secrets at the wrong time. Telling another’s secret on accident, messing up pronouns, or blowing someone’s cover.
Overjoking, being too hedgey, over-thanking, under or over-apologizing. Talking is ridiculous.
Same with laughing–I laugh at the wrong thing, often, and don’t laugh when I’m supposed to. It’s like a laughing disability.
Like this one, yeah.