notes from june: the apex of no return
Having a crush again is bizarre. I honestly haven’t had many since adulthood, and even less since my life started to exist outside of convention. The pieces of a crush move differently when your life can’t be lidded by a classroom or a water cooler. I was explaining this to a younger friend who’s still in college: “That’s why so many people marry their co-workers.”
When you’re an adult, everyone moves on their own time, keeps their own schedule, and carries their own hang-ups—bowling with the bumpers up for the sake of avoiding scatter or embarrassment. Too many of us are devoted to our straight lines. That’s why words like serendipitous exist—because when your mundane is disrupted by someone, there are no other words to throw at that feeling than ones that imply unexpected intervention.
It’s weird to feel drawn to someone, and it’s weirder when you learn that your premonitions were correct. I think I have a good sense of feeling, but I’ve always been skiddish about romance for the usual reasons. I’m painfully aware that I’m in a whirlwind, but I’m liking getting lost in it.
I’m starting to think that the angel who watches over me is afraid of making me feel claustrophobic, but I really don’t mind. I like feeling her breath on the back of my neck as she does her work.
It’s weird waking up in a new bed, and hearing new window sounds that are like yours— but not quite. And it’s weird looking at someone’s toothbrush, even holding it up to an overhead light when doors are closed, and wondering if there’s an old Marie Claire quiz that could help you better understand the meaning behind the separation of the bristles.
It’s an odd privilege.
And of course, I’m wondering if I deserve this or if I’m being responsible enough, and of course, I’m trying to talk myself out of thinking like that. If anything, this happening is teaching me how to let go of that mechanic, which is something I’ve needed for a while. I can’t tell if I feel really young or if I’m finally acting my age. Either way, it’s all overdue.
These are my notes from June:
Caught another cold, which left me without a full speaking voice for most of the month, which made me feel annoying when speaking to new people. When I’m hoarse, I always feel like whatever conversation I’m having is equally as painful for whoever is opposite me. We’re both straining together. I could’ve taken better care of myself, but I couldn’t be bothered to miss out on a chance to go dance to an awful DJ or roll around until the early morning. It was a tough bargain to strike with myself, so much of my conversational joy day-to-day relies on my ability to mimic something or someone, but sometimes you have to make necessary sacrifices for different types of fun.
Every boner is a bit of a compass.
I think a lot of younger people, especially in the internet age, make choices subconsciously for the sake of their lore. I think I’m going to start to call this behavior ‘lore-farming’. I see it everywhere: bad choices for the sake of a story or some type of thinly veiled texture. I’m sure I’m guilty of it in one way or another, but it feels odd to leave this notion unnamed.
I don’t have sex in a place that isn’t a bed often. I tend to struggle with spontaneity, and it’s sometimes tough for me to even crack the door open to the possibility of taking my pants off anywhere that I have to use the more socially aware part of my brain. It feels good to surrender to pleasure in a misplaced moment, especially in a space that would usually fill me with so many thoughts. I like going blank but not fully, I like that the only thoughts I have in the moment that aren’t directly related to body parts or physical feelings have to do with whatever direction gravity is pulling my underwear, and if it’s vaginally okay for the underside my panties to rub up against a wall, or land on a carpet.
My phone case was described to me by an acquaintance as “pornographic yet sexless.”
I will never say no to going to a diner.
I don’t like that Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are such public holidays now. I’m sour about it. My relationship with both of my parents has been on the mend, but it’s nowhere near a place where I could wholeheartedly post a public photo of either of them to social media with a caption attached about how much they mean to me. I don’t know how much they mean to me, and most days I’m not even sure if I like them at all. I feel a little lonely when met with these little reminders that I wasn’t loved correctly, and even worse, when I’m able to be realistic and remember what I sacrificed for both of them in the name of treading carefully. But, I caught myself saying something new over dinner with friends the other night, “The family I have will be together, tight, even if it’s just me, a man, and a dog.” My lack of family sometimes makes me dream of togetherness, but given my history, I probably don’t know the first thing about that.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fun, mostly about how I’ve compromised it in the past without knowing. It’s so weird how we build prisons for ourselves and don’t realize we’re in them until we’re out. Maybe I’m conflating fun with freedom, but I feel like they shouldn’t be too far from each other. It’s jarring realizing that what you knew as ‘fun’ a year ago is so wrong and so far away from what you actually need as a person. I feel like I’m catching up on lost time, but something is thrilling about that. There’s something about the act of making up for missed opportunities that seems to lead me further down a hole, and instead of shying away, all I want to do is go further.
I want to be the best, but only for my friends.
Getting familiar with another person’s smell might be my favorite part of beginning something intimate. On my clothing, or in my hair. I’ll delay showers for a couple hours extra because becoming clean means leaving behind the one thing I want, and can’t replicate alone. I’ve always loved other people’s smells, especially if my relationship with someone has a romantic lean. I love how the wires get crossed so quickly— like how I couldn’t even try to describe their smell if I was asked, because it’s too human, and I’m too smitten to assign words to something so faint and beautiful.
Listened to ‘Popstar’ by Drake and DJ Khaled more than anyone probably ever should. I remember watching the music video a while ago and really enjoying the heavy Justin Bieber feature (x), but felt dissonance from the song because I was detached from my confidence and didn’t have enough people in my life to refer to as ‘bitches’ collectively.
I don’t like it when simple makeup tricks are described as ‘optical illusions’ because it implies that magic needs to be performed in order for you to look pretty.
Getting called out for doing something wrong is always kind of scary, but it’s a lot less scary than continuing to be awful with no real idea that you’re doing anything wrong. I try to take critique of myself seriously, even though it does hurt when I realize I’ve failed in some areas. Parts of me want to be completely perfect at all angles, but I know that is impossible, but it’s important to rise to the occasion and try when asked.
I hope I can be lucky without a sacrifice, but I’m yet to see that be true.
Spotted some black Repetto ballet flats at my friend Sophia’s front door while exiting. I mentioned off-handedly that I was planning on buying the same exact ones and wanted to ask her if a swag overlap would be uncomfortable, but before I was done explaining myself, the shoes were in my hands, wrapped in a plastic bodega bag. She insisted that I take them, and I thought about refusing, but expensive shoes from a dear friend are expensive shoes from a dear friend, and I’m a poor girl. Thank you, Sophia.
Told a nurse at urgent care that I suspected my tongue was hurting from too much kissing. She told me to enjoy the pain because I’ll miss it when I’m her age, and that only made me think that I never want to be a part of a life where I’m not committed to kissing violently forever.
When I think about an olive, I need to eat an olive. Lately, I’ve been bartering with bartenders whenever I’m out. I see a bunch of green olives trapped in a plastic container behind the bar, and suddenly I’m advocating for my needs: “I’ll give you 2 dollars for ONE”. I’m enjoying them so much lately that I’m getting worried that I’m about to hit the apex of no return. This happened with POM Wonderful pomegranate juice in 2014; now, even the smell of it gives me that awful rotten feeling that is akin to what happens when you smell durian or raw meat on a hot day. If I were subscribing to my older ideology, I would stop eating them immediately, but these times call for hardcore pleasure. I’ve made many drunk runs to the 24-hour grocery near me just to scoop up a handful of whatever’s in the olive bar before going to bed.
Very embarrassing when you have to admit to someone that Blond was an influential piece of art for you.
Two perverts live inside of us. Little Pervert and Big Pervert. Little Pervert is “don’t worry if not,” incarnate, applying caution and safe logic as an effort to disarm your desire. When Little Pervert possesses you, you send a shy text or you don’t text at all, but Big Pervert is made of the stuff that our social world is currently deprived of. Big Pervert is more robust and forward. Big Pervert asks for a number. Big Pervert says someone looks good to their face. Big Pervert acts, Little Pervert wants to keep you in an armchair. When Big Pervert possesses you, you're able to get your answers much quicker than Little Pervert’s fear could ever allow. Little Pervert loves limbo. Big Pervert introduces you to reality.
I think I’m used to attention online more than the regular person, but it’s been an intentional minute since I’ve had a brush with virality, so it took some adjusting this month. 5 months ago, on a particularly angry morning, I agreed to go on Subway Takes. Since it was filmed such a long time ago, I thought maybe they would never post it, but I got a text from Kareem in the middle of June and braced myself for whatever was about to come hurling at me. I cannot speak to the integrity of the video or the soundness of my take. I’ve refused to watch it as I’ve gone down this route so many times before, and the last thing I want to do is pick apart my facial expressions or vocal inflections. The reaction was mixed, and so was mine. I don’t get on my soapbox that often anymore about the internet’s reactions to funnier women, but I found it odd that so many people were unable to detect that I was being a little playful. Par for the course.
This month ends in my room. Hot. I refused to turn the AC on as a ploy to get me to finish my work a little quicker. When I’m done writing, I’ll turn it on, take a shower, and then go to bed. There is an empty bowl full of ravioli remnants on the floor next to me, and a bunch of stray papers I should probably organize before my reading tomorrow. I also spilled soy sauce on my sheets earlier while eating sushi, which is something I guess I’ll have to explain to the other person who’s been sleeping in my bed. “That’s not period blood or poop—sorry it looks ugly”. Right now, I’m listening to ‘Silly Love Songs’ (x) and thinking about the part of the song where Paul confronts the listener, questioning if there is a proper way to convey his feelings about someone. I guess that's a similar sentiment to what I’ve been trying to figure out while writing this month’s post: how do I tell my readers about my crush without revealing too much while simultaneously remaining true? All of this is uncharted waters for me, and I feel like I’m overexposing myself a tad, but I think I must.
xoxo
Mackenzie <3 <3
You’re the coolest cat! Yes, it’s Gramps 👋
I new the shoes were meant for you. All the kisses all the olives… abundance is flowing