the plot: it was marianismo
It was a night we won’t remember.
I’m enjoying the full-body ache of a hangover,
my body’s cues a ledger of errors and overconfidence.
I’m thinking in short, painful sentences.
I really don’t drink that much anymore,
all evidence to the contrary.
It’s not a time to open the curtains
It’s not a time to look in a mirror but I can’t resist.
Vanity is a ruthless, self-reading prosecutor.
The sink light ignites into cruel interrogation.
My eyes are rouged so red the white parts are pink
and my skin looks like an old parchment map.
I feel a very specific kind of horror, but self-care
is on airplane mode—I can’t look around for moisturizer
‘cause if I turn my head or lean-over—you never know.
My scalp hurts, and I’m so so so so thirsty
but experience says - to stay that way - because
A) I deserve to suffer and, B) if I satisfy that thirst,
I’ll just get re-drunk and in double-trouble.
Experience is a piss-poor chaperone.
The plot.
Peter and I went out with three of his old Yalie roommates
who are in town for the week. They were fellow doctoral students
back in the day. (Old school ties make excellent nooses.)
It was a solvent reunion (floating in alcohol).
Peter’s physicist ‘bruhs’ are bound for Geneva
where the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is.
The Swiss shut it down, last June
and it’s their chance to see what’s new.
Anyway, I was ‘one of the boys’ last night (an itchy costume),
matching them shot for shot—even though I’m familiar
with the Widmark equation—which states that a 99-lb
woman can’t keep up with 180 pound alcoholics
- it’s simple math.
It was a mog-ish physical gamble— girl macho—marianismo?
Mistakes sound better when named in Spanish.
Cross-examined, in the present tense of consequence, paint me
aswirl with rich, bravado regret and honest pain.
Peter’s friends are smart, really, really smart, but like TV tropes,
they're somewhat socially awkward. They don't have girlfriends,
and I wanted to impress them, show them why Peter chose me.
Did it work? I don’t know, but if so, it’s paid approval,
with receipts written in nausea and achiness.
I realize that shower’s running when I hear Peter humming,
like he hasn’t a care in the world.
Life just isn’t fair.
.
.
A song for this:
I Like Me Better by Lauv
new friends by flowerovlove
Nameless, Faceless by Courtney Barnett
.
.
youtu.be/BcqxLCWn-CE
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