Steal my identity.

pls?

I’m off to a slow start today, but I tell myself it must be just that. Regardless of when I start, I must—the longer I delay the start, the later the day will go, but it must go. I must go.

I’ve had my phone on ‘do not disturb’ since last night. It was either that, or go off on a man I’ve been seeing, for suggesting I order myself a ‘lil treat from a place I haven’t heard of. All in response to my texting that I was craving a “banana split, hot fudge sundae, or something magical.”

It’s not his fault we are in vastly contrasted states of living. I’d delivered DoorDash orders for 11+ hours yesterday, averaging at ~$12/hr before taxes—he worked at his good job, seemingly for a reasonable amount of time, then had gone home to work on personal projects, and sip on cheap wine.

I voice out semi-coherent texts via Siri throughout my days, to him, and to friends—lamenting the woes of gig work, sending photos of carts containing abnormal amounts of milk, or singular items I can carry with one hand. We all joke about how people are lazy fucks: Who the hell can afford to pay $18 for a single cup of coffee from fucking Dunkin’ Donuts?

The man is not trying to be insensitive, yet I rage internally at the unintentional tone-deafness of the suggestion that I throw approximately 2 hours of working wages right back to the company I’d numbed my feet for that day—not a sweet treat anymore.

I don’t think I’m the girl anyone thinks I am. I wish there was a more coherent way of communicating what I mean by that, but there simply isn’t… at least not when speaking of the notion on such a broad scale.

For I mean, I’m not the ‘hot girl’ you may ogle from inches away, in a dimly lit room, while you fuck me.

I’m not the ‘quirky girl’ who pops up on your phone screen, gesticulating madly, as I recount another piece of ‘lore.’

I’m not the ‘nerdy girl’ who surprises with my inconspicuous, yet vast knowledge of computer hardware.

I’m not the ‘adventurous girl’ packed with unusual survival skills, and an apocalypse go-bag/air mattress combo in her hatchback.

I’m not even the ‘sad girl’ who posts fractionally off-pitch originals, stylistically stuck between everything I hear in my head, limited by the lack of knowledge in my left hand, and melodically the type of scribbles you’d obtain by taking a ballpoint pen to printer paper, closing your eyes, and hoping for the best.

None of this is to say “I’m not like other girls,” I deeply believe that we, as people, are really all the fucking same. In the derogatory sense, and otherwise.

We are all one tragedy away from losing it.

‘It?’

Yes.

Two years ago, today, my mind was caught up on “grand gestures”—an illusion of something I thought to be revelatory at the time: the notion I had stumbled upon an equal in my quest for unconditional love that knew bounds, and ignored them.

“With eyes wide open” I professed to myself, and to the world, and it was true. My eyes were wide, they were open. So open, I was blinded. Bright white lights affixed with films of colored glass, or synthetic polymers—polyester, acrylic, and polycarbonate. They radiated such heat, casted a glimmer upon the skin, painted all my surroundings to a waxy, golden landscape. A dream-like world, one that felt like home, despite my lack of knowledge of what a home is. My house has always been on fire, and I don’t care about your fucking church.

I’ve always hated the holidays, even as a child. As a child, I was spoiled rotten throughout the season—call it love, call it over-compensation. The tree always stacked with boxes underneath, some larger than the frame of my child-sized self. The tree itself stood taller than I could comprehend, always placed next to the grand staircase, tall enough to place the star atop from the first landing of the winding steps, and from the base of which you could see all the way to the third floor—my floor.

As if a princess atop a tower, I spent my childhood hidden away, alone, and spoiled rotten—committing pre-teen credit card fraud, and chatting online with predators.

I had no concept of work. My family was rich, the type of rich that gets to make up things to worry about. Maybe I’d be too now, if I’d listened to a word of advice.

“Never be a borrower, nor a lender.”

“No more than 1,200 calories.”

“Brush your hair.”

“Take care of your teeth.”

“Go to law school.”

“Be reasonable.”

“BRUSH YOUR FUCKING HAIR!!”

By age eighteen, I’d spent more time having my hair professionally detangled than I’d given any thought to my future. Then it was time to get a job. A three-time college dropout, all chances and fresh starts used up, “you’re on your own, kid.” Was I not already?

I never knew how to solve my problems, but I liked solving other people’s. So, customer service it was. Various forms, all met with the same tone and demeanor, “how can I help you today?”—with a smile!

I can find you the perfect fit of denim. I can fold this wall of t-shirts, perfectly to shape on a clipboard, all while I listen to the same four Weezer songs on repeat. I can handle that return for you. I can fix your dead battery. I can erase those pictures of your ex. You can yell at me for your not backing up your own phone, then throw it at my head and call me a “stupid bitch.”

((Ooh-wee-ooh, I look just like Buddy Holly))

It’s my daughter’s birthday in ten days. Christmas is coming. Torn between the $400+ gas bill, the $5,000+ lawyer bill, the $483 car payment, and the basic costs of keeping myself alive, I am trying to find a way to both repeat, and not repeat the histories of my own childhood… for her. Her childhood is nothing like mine, yet the sentiment is the same—where’s mom?

Trying her best, and failing.

Maybe I’m worse than my own mother, at least she failed from across state lines.

I fail from a mile away, five miles away, fifteen miles away—foot on the gas, going in fucking circles.

At least my mother didn’t try to paint illusions of possible families.

My mother kept her distance, keeping me out of the picture, as she stumbled into one momentary resolve after another. I present new lives, futures, guardians, and love—It all collapses to dust as if I chained myself to the front doors of a skyscraper moments before the controlled demolition, and I disappear into the rubble.

Yet, I don’t die.

Why?

Only the good die young, I suppose.

At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I’ve been recieving an influx of communication from my father’s fanbase lately, and as usual, I’ve been ignoring them.

The simultaneous intense connection, protectiveness, albeit confusion which I feel towards a man who only held me for six months, cannot be touched by them. Nothing you have to tell me of my father makes me feel closer to him, I somehow feel I know him better than you possibly could have. Why do you want me to come to Louisana? I don’t play like him, and I think like him. It would be a bad time for all, especially you, with your expectations of the spawn.

Call him “Johnny Slim” one more time and maybe I will show up in Louisiana, you fucking idiot. You think you know him? Well, he fucking hated that nickname—maybe just as much as he hated his own father, “John Senior”—“Papa,” if you actually knew your shit.

I don’t have ‘a family.’ I have a child, and I have some distant relatives none of us remember to check in with. I have a mother, and estranged spouse I’ve vowed to keep blocked. I have a few close friends, and handful of aquaintances who would rather fuck me than watch movies and smoke spliffs. I have $217.61 in my checking account, and $53,915 in debts. My once stellar credit score sits, today, at 476—I’ve gained 5 points, and for what? I have no idea.

I dare you to steal my identity. In fact, I fucking encourage it.

I don’t want it anymore.

I want to hand out my social security number to strangers. Perhaps they can make something of all this which I have never been able. Perhaps they can build a better illusion of a “functioning member of society,” “mother,” “girl,” “woman.”

I feel unprepared for the realities of the creations and manifestations of my own existence, as if I never meant to create any of it, all after doing it with such intent and vigor. That’s what they don’t tell you about “fake it ‘til you make it,” a performance which is both a loop, and one you can take past the point of no return.

There is no such thing as “a normal life,” and certainly not anymore.