Feeling emotionally fragile like a china doll. A broken dusty figurine of a man on the shelf. Boring myself with my analogies. Trying to describe a very New England pain. I'm in a yellow wallpapered bell jar. A story told a thousand times, mostly by privileged white women. Where is the book about me? I'm certainly in no condition to write it.
Watching Justin Timberlake on DVD. The FutureSexLoveShow, I believe it's called. What talent and optimism and soul. Gives me goosebumps. In slacks and white shirt and vest. Grabbing his twentysomething package, the crowd screams. There is such hope in that crotch. Such potential.
Eating Ritz crackers with feta cheese and ham for dinner now. Disgusting. Stomach issues now. Feeling hopeless.
These men on the train home from work. Different versions of Justin at different ages. In their ironed slacks. I can't help but fixate. Every day a new one. They are undoubtedly disturbed by the pained look I must give them. Wrinkling my brow, trying to understand how they got wherever they are. I want to be them. Do they ever want to be me? Certainly they are not interested in the hairstyle. This is an ongoing problem. Who do they want to be? They want money probably and sex. They want to feel safe or make others feel safe. They are hungry.
After the work day is done, I just want to sleep. I refuse the offers coming from no one- going out for a drink after work. "No, Thank You." Just sleep. And when I say sleep I mean go home and hide. And by that I mean watch a Justin Timberlake concert DVD ordered from Netflix.
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