Smoke my weed. Pet my dog. Destroy my toilet. Drink my liquor. Hide my homework. Have my fun. Fling my stones. Like my Instagram. Red my blues. Fly my kites. Prime my parties. Right my lefts. Promote my cause. Pad my ego. Rep my vibe. Chip my wood. Be my friend. Light my cig.
Hold my drink.
Light my cig. Fight my fights. Love my parents. Take my naps. Lick my wounds. Salt my steak. Use my jokes. Hurt my feelings. Crave my chocolate. Hate my Mondays. Breathe my oxygen. Stalk my Facebook. Swat my bugs. Find my iPhone. Scold my help. Sip my tea. Kick my cat. Defend my arguments. Dampen my spirits. Smile my smile. Mind my manners.
Call my number.
Mind my manners. Run my business. Lose my girlfriend. Steal my passwords. Delete my emails. Stock my cupboard. Comfort my peers. Piss my pants. Feel my skin. Spite my elders. Board my flights. Throw my fits. Cut my communications.
Scout my property.
Cut my communications. Plot my murder. Distract my dog. Say my name. Bruise my knees. Shoot my gun. Congeal my blood. Wipe my mess. Wash my face. Close my eyelids. Bump my fist. Frisk my corpse. Pocket my ID. Burn my body. Bribe my police.
I don’t like to boast about menial things- momentous things, maybe, but certainly not ordinary things. I went through my fair share of breakups in and around the time I was in college. It had an overwhelming, almost addictive effect on me; one day I’d be lost in innumerable hours of intimate conversation, and the next- well the next would entail a cyclic melancholy I soon became vigorously attached to.
Musical allegiances would change overnight; From Portugal. The Man to Neil Young. From Noori to Tina Sani. My mind reacted almost preemptively, all set for a week of brooding with a hint of revelry as I blasted tunes; decibel counts increased as every track repeated itself, once, twice, and then if I was feeling extra miserable, a third time. I’m sure it must have been torturous for my neighbors, but I never quite heard from them- or rather, heard them- during these stints; I’m sure people plotted my eviction. But I was an island by my own volition, and quite happily so, as contradictory as this may sound. How could I do justice to someone’s effect on me if I did not mourn them?
My choice of literature also three-sixtied. Perhaps I was always attracted to nostalgic accounts of lovers in great cities, but I sure pretended that I wasn’t when things were honky-dory. I’d put the half-read Salingers and Miranda Julys down and pick up thumbed-through Nerudas, Kunderas and Murakamis. They too, it seemed then, were happy to entertain my sudden revolts. It could be that I simply read them because I missed them, but I’d like to think it was something more than that, something innate. For a short while, I’d be the guy on Facebook putting up deep and heavy statuses. I’m sure I was a bore.
I’d become calmer, less like myself, perhaps more like myself- one never knows with these things. I have to say I liked myself a bit more when I was muted. Arrogance, and the desire to appease bled right out of me. For a few days, I became tolerable. I think young love is a beast of its own and it seems socially adequate to appear grim in times of apparent turmoil. Human emotion is relative after all.
Maybe I now long for the day when this distinction between the real me and the true me becomes as binary as it once was- but maybe this is just fine.