Come on Bartender...

I miss the feeling of having all of my strings cut off; the feeling of free falling into the interminable void, wearing nothing but my heart on my imaginary sleeve. My heart and my guts.

I love getting ready to go out. Picking clothes like an actress picks her character. Painting myself another face, to the utter annoyance of Shakespeare. Tossing my valuables into a tiny designer bag. And then finally deciding on the perfect pair of shoes – my lifelong weapon of choice.

But the whole process is only oh so meaningful if I’m getting ready to go out by myself. When I’m deliberately tossing myself into the unknown for the pure sadomasochistic pleasure of it. I like it. I truly do, with my heart, body and soul. I like the idea of stepping out of my comfort zone, my home, and into a world that has no idea who I am. I can be anyone. I can lie. I can cheat. I can pretend. I can steal. I can be reckless. I can do whatever the hell I please.

But the thing is, I don’t want to. I never want to. I always and forever end up choosing the simplest (and, by experience, the stupidest) option: being me.

Just as I love the feeling of free falling, I absolutely live for the feeling of ripping away my outer shells and exposing my unreserved weaknesses to a world I know will eat me alive.

There were many unforgettable moments in my life.

That first time I went to a concert by myself (and ended up meeting a friend for life, not to mention the whole guitar-pick incident).

That time in Paradise City when I was completely honest about my likes and dislikes in terms of love.

That time in my car, driving over to meet her, the girl whose name I will never be able to say unaccompanied by a sigh.

That other time in my car, driving over to the Impersonation of Rock and Roll’s birthday.

That time in my dining room, alone with my Dad and an already empty bottle of wine, spilling my guts about… what else? My likes and dislikes in terms of love.

Huh. My life does tend to rotate around love. I guess I get why I always end up getting fucked over. I like free falling and I like doing it with my deepest, darkest secrets out in the open. With the real me branded all over my face. With my entire existence printed on my business card. And I do it all in the name of love. With childlike innocence and simplicity, but with my entire heart attached.

And then I change my mind and the whole situation spins around. Spins around as fast as it takes for me to fall over. For me to be tossed out and back into my comfort zone, my home. Back in front of the mirror, choosing my clothes and my make-up and my shoes as my lifelong weapons of choice.

Fuck. Regina Spektor, just pour me another one already.



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