I’m swaying on the barstool again. I feel like I’m about to fall off as I try to hold it together through the tedium of this raucous conversation. I can’t tell if I’m bored or if this is the most fun I’ve had all week, but I do know that I’m fucking drunk. Like a god damn champion, too, teetering around in these four inch heels, the hem of this dress cradling my ass like a baby that’s about to slip out into the open. I smile, because, fuck it, these gold teeth look great on me, and also because who knows where this lipstick has landed on my face after a few hours of meandering palavering.
I don’t think he cares. Where is he coming from that the pantomime of my high-key pseudo-feminism is so interesting to him? Everything I’m doing right now is disingenuous, but it’s getting me to where I need to be: drunk. Which is all I need in order to get through this night, and the next day, and every day after that.
I’ve been drinking my emotions with the strange men of Oakland for weeks now. Although, actually, it’s been years – since I turned 17 and started drinking with the strange men of Oakland. Some things never change, and there has never been a shortage of men who like to buy me drinks and watch my performance of me, a little bit sloppy and a little bit sultry a couple hours before last call.
It disgusts me, but I do it anyway. The only thing that has changed is that I don’t fuck them anymore. I used to fuck them all, but it turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. Every time I let my guard down and accidentally fuck one of them, it’s just so…disappointing. So I cycle through this little black book of my own boredom. They call it “dating” but I call it “a distraction from my problems” that is actually just a different problem in and of itself. Oh, well.