New Story ( 6/1)

I am writing a novel. There is someone watching me, and they write about me. Not all the time, but enough. Little details of my life come out in sentences. I’d have forgotten them otherwise. Discovering the hardwood floor beneath the carpet in my old house. I can feel missing M. though, I can feel that right now. The cells that are wanting that are in my chest, to decompress. My tear ducts open. Is that what happens when I feel I’m going to cry?

Whether or not I think I’m smart enough to write something worthwhile is besides the point. (Obviously, it’s related to the point enough that I’m writing it down here, though.)

What would the 2009 version of me sitting at my mom’s computer in the laundry room, multitasking doing math homework, talking to C. on the phone, chatting with A. on Facebook, what would that version think of this story? Would that version think this version was smart? 

I wish I could just hang on to one version. I wish things didn’t get so blurry and stuffy, so that whatever desires I have could stay frothy and fresh-squeezed, stop arguing. 

This morning after coffee and Vyvanse, I told B. a story about my family. Speculating about the possibility that my parents or my parents friends’ might have been polyamorous, and I might not have known. Maybe that 2009 version of myself, if looking upon this 2024 version of myself, wouldn’t even notice that I’m polyamorous. 

Maybe, my farts now smell relatively better than my farts did in 2009, so that the 2009 version of myself finds my 2024 farts surprisingly pleasant. Despite the fact that they smell a lot worse than they did in 2022.