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Lemons told me, lying in the grass, not to worry; that he could see me, sometimes when I turned around and walked away—that he’d catch a glimpse of my future self, and he said that I probably would be, when my restless sexuality settled down, a grand sort of woman.
—The Alphabetical Diaries, Sheila Heti

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I told her to stop reading her boyfriend’s diary. If you go fishing, you’re likely to reel in a big brown boot or a fish with teeth. Something ancient and terrible. Babysitting with a friend, fourteen, she taught me how to snoop. Pills in the bathroom and lube in the bedside table. Horrified glee. They can’t possibly be having sex, we thought. They probably weren’t. Divorced, now, and that friend is married.

I went fishing recently and came back with exactly what I didn’t want. Now it’s thrashing around in a bucket in my room. Ravenous, I can’t let it starve but don’t want to feed it. A photo of a photo, which I screenshot and later delete. If we made it happen / I’m sure what we would do / We’d run outside and fuck someone / To show it didn’t mean a thing.1 Knowledge is a burden. We won’t learn. Never meet a bartender without a countertop to separate you.

Hannah and I are giggling at the punk show. We look like Victorian ghosts, all fur and silk in a sea of beanies and skinny jeans. We mosh with Arizonans and point our middle fingers to the sky with refreshingly simple anger. I step on a man’s foot and he says sorry. Outside, with our hands stuffed in our pockets, Hannah reads us an Earth Day prayer. The bassline thumps behind us. I’ve been praying for the same things for years. Perhaps it’s time to talk to God about other things.

When will it get easier? I ask on the phone. Everything back then felt impossible and now / Everything feels impossible.2 I cry myself to sleep. Sometimes it’s important to wallow. Doubt is the only constant. My mom reminds me that life is not always like this. I text Evana a paradox: the only way to avoid rejection is to never put yourself out there and the only way to avoid loneliness is to find inner peace.

Walking down Malcolm X, a backpack-clad teenager compliments my perfume, asking if it’s Glossier. I tell her it’s actually a French fragrance, and the name translates to G spot. Okay… Well it smells nice, she says, speed-walking away from me. At times, I regret my aimless candor.

At the Harley Davidson Museum cafe, I beat Roman at ten consecutive poker hands. I barely know the rules and am dealt a Quad. I’ve never appreciated my luck. I live such a charmed life; one day, I’ll be killed once and for all.

I’ve been inside for the better part of a month. Autumn was a gynecological nightmare. My doctor asked if anyone ever told me my IUD strings were long. I barely had the chance to reply no before she told me it was in the wrong place and had to be removed. At the next appointment, they cut something out of me. I was awake, only slightly sedated by diazepam. I joke with friends. My labiaplasty. My coochiectomy. Punishment for my deviancy. But, really there wasn’t much to laugh about. Stitches and abstinence. My first ultrasound—a perfect uterus, the technician assured me. I said that’s nice to know, since you can never be sure until you look. Bizarre but benign, which I suppose should be a comfort. Dans ta voiture / Prendre du Valium avec toi / Mon dieu! / Et maintenant je mort / Dis adieu.3 As soon as I’m well enough to walk, I catch a cold. My boyfriend gets sicker. Montana tells me that some people have an infection kink. Bug-chasers, they’re called. Now, I die. Say goodbye.

Never a night owl, I’ve been testing the limits of my wakefulness. Staying up late is, ultimately, allowed. I stay out until 2:00; once home, I try to pry my eyes open for an episode of television. I figure this will keep me from dreaming, but the scenes play nevertheless. I visit the same haunts. The abandoned hotel, the broken elevator, the bar, the ice cream shop. I never find who I’m looking for. Not much going on here anyhow. I wish it were likely that I would see you around.4 I used to think that it’s good to fantasize freely. Now, I consider the limits.

I’m preparing for escape. Nobody knows I’m selfish.5 I’m writing more than I have in a year, and holding it close. I’m throwing my precious sentences in the washing machine, testing if they’re better scrambled. I wrote a ludicrous short story which I will use to apply to grad school. So much unfinished business. THAT’S THE WAY--IT SHOULD HAVE BEGUN! BUT IT’S HOPELESS!

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