Girl Talk

(from the perspective of the writer and his conversations with women; he placed himself in their shoes; may contain offensive language)

A girl can only get her heart broken so many times before it becomes rubble. I propose to be this eloquent cool, but not too cool, hot but not too hot, sassy but not bitchy, sporty but not a tomboy, alcohol friendly but not a lush, sexy but not slutty kind of girl… and you know where it has gotten me? Absolutely nowhere. Guys are stupid. I try and try to adapt to their needs. Not my needs, theirs, and guess what? Shit. They don’t care. They fuck me and they leave me. I blow them and they leave me. I try the most freakish shit. Once I had a candlestick up my ass. I hated it but I smiled and faked the pleasure as every millimeter of wax entered the back door. It’s bullshit.

I am driving home after Mike gave me the talk in which he explains that he has no idea what he’s doing and that he isn’t right for me. That what we had was fun and only fun, nothing was ever going to be serious, and he even “babed” me. Ew. Who does that? Mike does and the many Mikes everywhere. Fuck him and fuck every piece of shit I opened my legs to, bent over for, and sucked off. I am through with boys. I know for a damn fact that I am meant to be alone. Clearly, I suck. Because if I didn’t suck, well, I wouldn’t be driving home sobbing, yelling and pissed the fuck off.

I enter the freeway. It’s two in the morning and it is raining. I put on my blinker and I merge to the left. Tic, tic, I turn and make sure there is no car. I continue merging. I get on the second to the left lane, the closest to the fast lane. I feel like I have been living my life on it for too long. I am worn out. My make-up is smeared and runny. I can’t stop crying. I hate myself for crying. Why am I crying?! I fucking hate him. I hate myself. Who do I hate more, myself or him for making me feel this way? Is this all my fault? Have I brought this on myself? Why does my life suck? Why do I suck so fucking much? All I do is work. I did what my parents told me — respect myself, go to college, get a career, be beautiful, love myself. I have failed three out of five. I don’t think I am beautiful and I definitely don’t love myself nor respect myself. The car behind me shines its highlights on me. Ugh. I hear my tires on the road bumps so I correct them. There, I am going straight. The cough medicine I drank has not taken effect yet. I continue driving.

It’s raining even harder now. My windshield wipers are going as fast as they possibly can and I can’t see anything in front of me. My right headlight has gone out and it is difficult to see. By this time, I am squinting. I get anxious. When I get anxious I bite the skin around my fingernails. It’s a disgusting habit that I have. I bite until I tear off all the skin. I bleed but I continue biting. It hurts until it doesn’t. I’ve done this since I was a kid. My parents tried everything possible. Once, they rubbed my fingers with habanero peppers. Although it was spicy, I cried through the spice and the stinging. Yeah, it’s bad. I’m biting my left pinky. I taste the iron, the taste of flesh, skin and blood coat my tongue. I bite and chew and bite more off. My eyes begin to close. The cough medicine is finally making me drowsy. I begin to swerve. I am making a figure S around my lane. I see white light through my rearview mirror and ahead of me there’s nothing but drops of rain ramming my windshield causing smears of dimmed red lights and accented ones even further from me. The tires are on the bumps again. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

In a strike, my head goes back and hits the car seat. I awake from my millisecond of a nap. Nothing happened. Thank God. I attempt to straighten my course. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. I firmly grasp the steering wheel and check the time—two twenty says the digital clock. I just want to go home. I just… a semi-truck dashes to my right. Vroom. Holy shit. I need to be attentive. Come on girl, get it together, you got this, just make it home. “Siri, take me home.” My iPhone responds and I’m only a few miles away from home. I blast the air conditioning, put on my 90s’ R&B playlist, and it quickly takes me to automatic mode. I cruise through the freeway. Although drowsy and nodding away, I am coherent and cognitive of my surroundings. “Exit right”, my phone commands. I turn to my right and merge. The car behind me honks. “Shit!” Fuck, fuck, fuck, that was close. Come on, come on, we are almost home. Let’s make it home. I check again, blinker, merge, success. I exit Walnut Ave. I am almost home.

Less than half a mile to go. I imagine the comfort of my bed, my goose feather pillows, my cool linen sheets, the ultra-soft Egyptian cotton blankets waiting for me to crawl in them and burrow myself to sleep. My phone rings. It’s him. Don’t answer. I answer, “Hello?”. “Hey, babe. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came upon me. I’m confused and I take it out on you and you don’t deserve that. Can we try again?” Before I can create a thought, a response, saliva to respond with, my heart takes over and speaks for me. “Yes,”…shit. No. That’s not what I wanted to say. Not at all. Why can’t I say no? “I knew you were a keeper. Come back to me. My bed is cold without you. It drives me crazy that your scent is here but you are not. Come back.” I hang up. I put my car in park. I am feet away from my house. My bed. My big comfy bed. My bedsheets. Myself. I sigh, I stare into the mirror. I clean myself up. I reapply my make-up. With every stroke of the brush, I reinvent myself. I’m going for strong and assured this time. I reach into my purse and pull my deep red lipstick. I stare at my fingers. The rigid teeth marks, the closed and reopened wounds depict the infinite times I maniacally chewed through every decision. I turn and see my house. I reach for the ignition, step on the brake, I yawn, then start the car and put it in drive.

By Derrek G


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