Yesterday, my brother kept talking about pursuing one’s passions. And then of course he asked me what’s my passion. My mind came up with not a single thing, nil, zilch, none. Yes, I have a lot of things I like to do but I can’t seem to find what is it really that I want, what is it that keeps me alive and burning. I read books. I want to write too. I do this almost everyday but I wonder if I’m good at it, I wonder if this is really my forte. It’s just hard sometimes especially when someone asks me questions like this and I always end up saying, "I don’t know, I’m still trying to find out myself."
To Beatrice— My love flew like a butterfly
Until death swooped down like a bat
As the poet Emma Montana McElroy said:
"That’s the end of that."
Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys bring a knapsack to work. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life in a duffel bag and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival. Boys don’t know how to adjust their conversation when they’re talking to their friends or to your parents.
Until I was thirty, I only dated boys, as far as I can tell. I’ll tell you why. Men scared the shit out of me.
Men know what they want. Men make concrete plans. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men tip generously. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men go to the dentist. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you… Men know what they want and they don’t let you in on their inner monologue, and that is scary.