onlysweetpea
Bluelighter
sing…sing…sing…
“Oh, yes, it was a whirlwind, sweet romance was on your side
If you wanna dance on my face, you must tell me why ya' lied…”
I guess I did a lil face dancing myself last night. I also found myself drunk walking the wrong way down Mission St. away from my neighborhood. The Mission. There’s always crushed produce in the streets. Bright ones, the brightest oranges, the greenest peppers, the reddest tomatos. There’s always a dive bar open. There’s always this feeling of reality that’s not present in other SF neighborhoods. How many times have I walked down 24th St. at some ungodly hour, questioning the color of the sky, the time of day, the meaning of “¡El tocino libre el domingo mañana!”?
The color, the life, the water in the streets…that’s…not…water.
The bars.
Let’s face it. This girl drinks and she actually drinks pretty well alone or with complete strangers. I found myself at the Latin American Club on 22nd St. first. Then at The Attic on 24th. Both were new finds for me. Both were dark, reds and blacks. Both were genuine, making no excuses for their weathered old buildings. Both are now going on my list of places to wallow. I want to sit on a barstool forever. ”How dry I am…how wet I’ll be…” Yeah, you wanna stand a few feet away from me. Seriously.
I don’t know if I want to get into any details of the actual face dancing that took place on 26th St. That was the sober part of the night. This morning I just can’t seem to find the story in it all. I can’t seem to piece together something nice and pretty to present to all of you about how G. and I unraveled in public. How I pushed and pushed and pushed the button, his button, you know, that red one, and the whole thing came a tumbling down in front of 10 Mexican construction workers waiting for the bus who watched with awe as I flailed my arms and openly cried and pushed and pushed and pushed the button saying every mean spirited, heartless thing I could come up with.
You’d be a horrible father.
You don’t know the meaning of the word love.
”You’ve lied and you’ve lied and you’ve lied and you expect there to be something left, but there IS fucking nothing,” I wailed. “ I was so sure. You fucking made me believe and that’s the fucking worst crime of all. “
There’s nothing worse than watching someone become undone before your very eyes. I felt ugly for it all, for having to say the things I needed to say, for deciding I wasn’t going to BE the bigger person this time around. He stood there completely silent. He had started to cry, but not a moan, not a word, not a sigh escaped. I could instantly see the dysfunctional little boy he must have been, his inability to relate to people, to open his mouth when it was imperative to save himself. He had so much to say for himself, I’m sure. I could see it in his face, twisted and distorted beyond recognition as he held it back, all of it. The tears flowed, his nose ran, his chest shook.
That was it.
And…yeah. That was it.
It seems so easy for us “normal” folk. If this was a movie you were watching, you’d be sitting there, clenching your fists, curling you toes wanting to shake someone and scream, ”SAY SOMETHING TO HER!!!” Like all of this could be fixed if he just opened his mouth and said something and the answer seemed to be so easy.
I left him standing there on the corner, a half a block from his house and I made my way towards the bar. I felt the overwhelming pull to turn around, but I knew I was smarter than Lot's wife, the salt lick. That’s what you get for watching the trainwreck.
I kept walking.
Somewhere on Valencia I stopped and leaned against someone’s house and told myself I wasn’t allowed to go to the bar and drink if I didn’t stop crying. I was talking to myself, loud and in public. I now know what it feels like to be one of the thousands of homeless in SF. The looks I got alone from the Mission hipsters who passed me on the street as I tried to catch a regular breathing pattern and ease the hiccupping sob.
”Okay, okay, okay, okay…” I said taking a deep breath in. ”I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…”
When I managed to control my breathing, I walked into the Latin American Club, ordered a beer, pulled up a stool and began the slow disintegration.
I made it home okay. I sang all the way like a 3 year old in some group sing-a-long.
”Imagination is a powerful deceiver, when you try to believe her just a little too much…"
This morning. I’m at work, the last place I want to be and my head can’t stop singing and ringing and ping ping pinging me to break things.
“Oh, yes, it was a whirlwind, sweet romance was on your side
If you wanna dance on my face, you must tell me why ya' lied…”
I guess I did a lil face dancing myself last night. I also found myself drunk walking the wrong way down Mission St. away from my neighborhood. The Mission. There’s always crushed produce in the streets. Bright ones, the brightest oranges, the greenest peppers, the reddest tomatos. There’s always a dive bar open. There’s always this feeling of reality that’s not present in other SF neighborhoods. How many times have I walked down 24th St. at some ungodly hour, questioning the color of the sky, the time of day, the meaning of “¡El tocino libre el domingo mañana!”?
The color, the life, the water in the streets…that’s…not…water.
The bars.
Let’s face it. This girl drinks and she actually drinks pretty well alone or with complete strangers. I found myself at the Latin American Club on 22nd St. first. Then at The Attic on 24th. Both were new finds for me. Both were dark, reds and blacks. Both were genuine, making no excuses for their weathered old buildings. Both are now going on my list of places to wallow. I want to sit on a barstool forever. ”How dry I am…how wet I’ll be…” Yeah, you wanna stand a few feet away from me. Seriously.
I don’t know if I want to get into any details of the actual face dancing that took place on 26th St. That was the sober part of the night. This morning I just can’t seem to find the story in it all. I can’t seem to piece together something nice and pretty to present to all of you about how G. and I unraveled in public. How I pushed and pushed and pushed the button, his button, you know, that red one, and the whole thing came a tumbling down in front of 10 Mexican construction workers waiting for the bus who watched with awe as I flailed my arms and openly cried and pushed and pushed and pushed the button saying every mean spirited, heartless thing I could come up with.
You’d be a horrible father.
You don’t know the meaning of the word love.
”You’ve lied and you’ve lied and you’ve lied and you expect there to be something left, but there IS fucking nothing,” I wailed. “ I was so sure. You fucking made me believe and that’s the fucking worst crime of all. “
There’s nothing worse than watching someone become undone before your very eyes. I felt ugly for it all, for having to say the things I needed to say, for deciding I wasn’t going to BE the bigger person this time around. He stood there completely silent. He had started to cry, but not a moan, not a word, not a sigh escaped. I could instantly see the dysfunctional little boy he must have been, his inability to relate to people, to open his mouth when it was imperative to save himself. He had so much to say for himself, I’m sure. I could see it in his face, twisted and distorted beyond recognition as he held it back, all of it. The tears flowed, his nose ran, his chest shook.
That was it.
And…yeah. That was it.
It seems so easy for us “normal” folk. If this was a movie you were watching, you’d be sitting there, clenching your fists, curling you toes wanting to shake someone and scream, ”SAY SOMETHING TO HER!!!” Like all of this could be fixed if he just opened his mouth and said something and the answer seemed to be so easy.
I left him standing there on the corner, a half a block from his house and I made my way towards the bar. I felt the overwhelming pull to turn around, but I knew I was smarter than Lot's wife, the salt lick. That’s what you get for watching the trainwreck.
I kept walking.
Somewhere on Valencia I stopped and leaned against someone’s house and told myself I wasn’t allowed to go to the bar and drink if I didn’t stop crying. I was talking to myself, loud and in public. I now know what it feels like to be one of the thousands of homeless in SF. The looks I got alone from the Mission hipsters who passed me on the street as I tried to catch a regular breathing pattern and ease the hiccupping sob.
”Okay, okay, okay, okay…” I said taking a deep breath in. ”I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…”
When I managed to control my breathing, I walked into the Latin American Club, ordered a beer, pulled up a stool and began the slow disintegration.
I made it home okay. I sang all the way like a 3 year old in some group sing-a-long.
”Imagination is a powerful deceiver, when you try to believe her just a little too much…"
This morning. I’m at work, the last place I want to be and my head can’t stop singing and ringing and ping ping pinging me to break things.
