I don’t know if you used to read my old blog, Fuck Feast. I found myself combing through the archives the other day, and, damn – did y’all know I used to do some wild stuff? That shit made me laugh.
Part of the reason I took the blog down (there were a lot of reasons, really) was because the person who starred in the best parts of that blog moved away. He had left the Bay to pursue a monogamous relationship with someone else, and when he left we upgraded our status from “fuck a lot” to “best friends.” Which is weird to think about – I guess I got friend zoned but meh. The sex was great but there was no fairy tale romance on the horizon for us. Best friends? Yeah, I can do best friends. Actually, I can do “best friend” better than I can do “boyfriend.” Have y’all ever seen any of my male best friends? I put those assholes through the ringer. I guess I put my boyfriends through the ringer, too, but I fuck my boyfriends so it feels fair.
Anyways, the former star of my former blog is in rehab right now, and I gotta admit: I miss talking to him on the phone. As I was rereading my vivid narration of our disgusting sex scenes, I started to feel a bit nostalgic.
I remembered that the reason I liked fucking him was because I saw myself in him. We’re both narcissists, and I have an inkling that the feeling is at least a little bit mutual. I could look into his eyes in the heat of the moment and see myself. I fucking love myself, so that was really great. But, I also know that I can be a heinous, ruthless person, so, as much as I like fucking someone who makes me see myself in him – there is no way in hell that I would date someone just like me. That commonality of passion and psychosis is not something that I would ever want to double down on. It sounds horrible.
We’re friends now, which is funny to me because what kind of new hell is this? And, my god, have I grown as a person because that’s actually better to me than what came before? And who the fuck am I these days? (Pro tip: read the previous post. The answer to that question is, “Don’t know, don’t care.)
And then I think, ‘Oh, shit, am I going to be one of those people who talks constantly about their glory days and lives in the past?’ Or am I just afraid to admit that I’m evolving as a person – which is great, because staying the same sounds like a bore. Of course, I am evolving into a more boring person. I fret about the fact that this new blog might be considerably more boring than the old one. Ugh.
Clearly this is something I feel insecure about: being less glamorous or less scintillating than I was in 2015. But I’m also trying to balance that out with being dignified and graceful. I couldn’t keep being that person because that shit damn near killed me. Once was enough for near death experiences.
I’m trying to face a new reality wherein shifting focus actually makes me a better artist, not a weaker one. In my heart of hearts, I know I’m having an identity crisis, but I tend to be a fan of crises in general so at least I get to enjoy this simmering melt down.
The last year and a half the so-called future has been horrific, but I think I’m starting to adjust to this new nightmare reality we all inhabit together. Holy fuck, Oakland sucks and I’m pretty sure America is on fire right now. It hasn’t been a good feeling, and I have to admit that the political climate wholly changed me as an artist and is absolutely warping my world view. Maybe I was naive or perhaps it’s because I was young, but I didn’t know that grand scale world forces could conspire in such a crushing way to fundamentally change who I am as a person for the worse. Tragedy is a killer.
This is why I went back and re-read some of those old posts. The really, really nasty ones. I wanted to remember who I was, but also who all of us used to be. We used to be beautiful. I believe that we still are – it’s just that the lighting has changed. It doesn’t matter how dark this world gets. I could close my eyes for the rest of my life, and that wouldn’t change the fact that you are fucking beautiful.