Even Though I Don't Miss You (4 page)

There is something about you that makes me want to have a bad day on purpose so I will have something to write about in my diary.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I'm keeping a diary now.

You would say, "That is so stupid, you're being irrational, don't do that," with your glass raised halfway to your mouth.

It's possible that I am hearing something different than what you think that you are saying. It's possible, in a world where it isn't possible to confirm that we are seeing the same colors in the same way as one another, it is possible that certain breakdowns in communication are possible. It's possible, for example, that you are experiencing the air density differently than I am. It's possible that you are experiencing the word 'commitment' differently than I am. How could it surprise me, given how layered and complex the world is, and how our personal experiences interfere with our perception?

There is something about you that makes me want to cry into the phone and possibly yell, and then use what you say to try to calm me down against you at another time, or gossip about it later behind your back.

You lied on top of my back and I said, "What do you want?" and you didn't say anything and I said, "Answer me."

You said, "I don't know. I'm just doing this."

I felt bad for you. What I want and what I want are usually two different things.

My hands hurt from how much I've typed about you in my life. Perhaps the muscles in my hands wouldn't be so strong if I hadn't had to type all these things about you. It makes one wonder, doesn't it? Doesn't it make one wonder? Doesn't it just fill you with wonder? Or doesn't it?

I wonder how improbable is it that I should be drinking whiskey and feeling sorry for myself (in an obviously original way) tonight?

How many millions of years of evolution did it take (I'm yelling this part! I'm angry!) for humanity to arrive at a point where I might aimlessly type symbols into a machine that I can't begin to understand, hoping to find clarity while feeling definitively drunk?

The ability to connect unrelated moments and feelings and concoct elaborate stories about their meaning is one of my favorite evolutionary adaptations.

I said, "Real life is not like the movies."

You said, "I'm so tired, Chelsea. Just give me a fugue."

I feel overwhelmed by the burden of context. The bigger picture is an illusion, something we"ve made up about the meaning of the bits and pieces that we want to understand. There is no great romance, there is only a series of unremarkable moments, made significant by connecting each moment to select other moments that enhance the bigger picture that you want to see in the first place.

I put my makeup on wrong today and didn't fix it.

I'm not emotionally advanced enough to talk about what I'd like my feelings to be without giving away what my actual feelings are, or to problem-solve without making myself unattractive. Although I don't know why I care. Everyone thinks I'm really great even though that's an unattractive thing to say and even though I tend to say it a lot. Well, that's not exactly what I'm saying. That's what I'm saying I would say if I was saying something I would never say.

Most people can't recognize their own future when presented with a selection of possibilities, which is probably a symptom of perpetual distraction and a shallow understanding of the term goal.

Attaining goals
doesn't really count as a goal because it's basically the equivalent of a t-shirt that says FASHION, but that t-shirt idea is actually something I'm trying to sell on my website so I guess this is an advertisement for that.

You said, "It looks like you've been crying."

I said, "Great."

You said, "What? I meant that in a good way."

You said, "Chelsea, you would like this, my brother is marrying this woman whose sister is marrying my other brother."

I said, "Thank you, I do like that."

I'm trying to stay optimistic but every ten seconds I have to try to remember that I like myself.

You said, "Chelsea, do you remember Greg? He lived on — what's that fucking village? On the hill? And made glass bongs?"

I said, "Yeah. I think if I could be anyone in the world I would be Greg. Or his girlfriend."

I thought I should write a love song about you, since you're not here. I'm not going to contemplate the reasons that you're not here. Anyways love songs are always written in solitude.

I wanted it to be a French song but I only know two French words and have no background in music and one of the words is croissant.

It goes:

When you came over, you told me I was depressed, told me I was lazy, stored some frozen meals in my freezer, and passed out on my bed.

I felt like you had somehow accessed my erotic imagination.

You forgot to take your shoes off before you got in my bed.

I wanted you to hold me tightly, and you did, so thank you.

I don't have control over who I love but you seem to not want my love but I'm okay with that. Like my little lamp knows I love it even though I won't buy it a new bulb. Love is a strange thing.

I am told that love is not real. I am told that it would not even exist but for five or ten synapses inside the human skull, synapses which rarely receive credit for such monumental forces of human contribution. The person who tells me these things is someone I don't care for, obviously.

I freely and openly believe that our relationship had little or nothing to do with synapses!

What do I have to do to convince people I don't believe in synapses!

I would think of our relationship as one long uncomfortable silence, but I seem to keep talking.

I guess I just keep talking. I keep expecting to hear something. Are these words finally going to be the words that indicate what is meaningful? Or if I just keep talking, maybe someone will eventually interrupt me and say something. If this is what I'm supposed to be writing about, then good, I feel better.

I'm trying not to think of your text message inbox as my personal diary.

I'm looking to make a connection tonight.

A love connection. With just a friend.

I mean, I'm looking for someone new, a friend, someone special but not a special friend, but someone who will be in love with me.

If anyone feels like they could be in love with me then I think we should just be friends.

The main thing wrong with the world is that each person has to continue to be herself long long long long long long long long after it's become completely unbearable.

I'm having shrimp cocktail, or I was when I thought of writing that. Shrimp cocktail must be someone's idea of seafood. I miss you!

The main problem is that if you read this, maybe you will relate to it, and if you relate to it, that means that you too are trying to gain insight into your own confusing and ultimately meaningless existence, which means you are not thinking about me, but only yourself, and that's not really my goal.

I've always hated myself. That wasn't so hard to say.

I wish the world were different. I wish shrimp cocktail were different.

I'm trying to learn. Maybe I'll change.

The last time I really changed was when I got a bad haircut, the only thing that really changed was that I started telling people I was a girl.

This is my love song for you. It's called
I Spent Fifty Hours Making This Even Though I Don't Miss You.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Thank you, thank you, thank you to: Ian Amberson, Elizabeth Ellen, Aaron Burch, Alese Osborn, Mike Young, Lauren Cohen, Hannah Finnie, Josh Pancer, Laurel Gunnarson, Sarah Warren, Paul Henri, and Mom. And also big thank yous to: Riley Michael Parker, Gabby Bess, Ben Bush, Abigail Young, and Prathna Lor for publishing and/or working with me on this material previously.

A
BOUT
T
HE
A
UTHOR

Chelsea Martin is an author and illustrator living in Oakland, CA. www.jerkethics.com