What to Do About Normalcy

I have a mini bottle of Jameson in my room. Currently, I am about two shots in, but I can’t feel anything yet. Whiskey burns on the way down. It compels me to go brush my teeth until they bleed. So I do. I drink whiskey because I want to be a legitimate writer, but the screen on my laptop is too heavy, and it tilts back.

Loneliness might be what kills me. Workdays spent by myself in an office, followed by solo gym sessions, eggs, sauerkraut, and avocado for dinner, and one episode of tv before bed. The episode is usually adult animation, not quite anime, and definitely not cool enough to tell my friends about. Every other ad is for Ozempic or Wegovy, and I might be losing my sanity when it comes to what healthy actually looks like.

On the weekends, I people-watch in coffee shops. I never go to the same location on Saturday and Sunday in case the staff is scheduled to work two days in a row. I dread people knowing that I have nothing better to do than watch smiling friend groups from behind the screen of an old purple laptop.

There is the red-headed, soft-bearded man and his cheery, brunette, glasses-wearing girlfriend on the soft green couch. A college student sips his medium glass of lemonade (once every fifteen minutes) as he sits quietly next to the tall man with his careful setup. Everything is spaced neatly, and he has a separate chair for his backpack.

The writer, with his real-life notebook, drinks his hot coffee in a to-go cup even though he is always here longer than I am. His round glasses and pursed lips indicate a focus and identity that I do not possess as I sit in the corner wearing my cheetah print tube top, eating my Easter-flavored sugar cookie.

Goddamn it, I’m not even talented.

There is no way to explain to my friends; they all think I deserve better, but I am not convinced. I am a Fleabag girl. Grief, lust, and impatience consume me. Falling short of my potential is all I do. I am so fucking messy. To date, I have slept with two married men and an engaged man. I have fucked in the car on several occasions. I fucked two different people in two different hotels. I like to fuck in the kitchen, the living room, whatever. 

I love sex.

But it isn’t what I am looking for right now, at least not exclusively.

I need someone to touch me so I know that I am alive. (I tend to forget on my own).

This is pathetic. Or maybe it’s the whiskey.

I’m looking at a bag of walnuts. It’s half full, and I should go floss my teeth. I didn’t drink water today. Just a big coffee at 4pm, and Kefir at 6pm, and two shots of Jameson at 12:30am. I should go get a glass of water, but I don’t deserve it, and I hate the kitchen.

I am going to sleep in a pile of clean laundry tonight because my feet are numb. Probably because I am dehydrated. It is certain that my tears aren’t helping.

I’m crying so hard that my jaw had to unclick. I want to sob into my pillow and have someone appear to hold me. These sentences feel ugly. The sadness fills my entire body; it spills out and taints the air. I am breathing my sadness, and my room is a mess. I ate microwaved macaroni and cheese tonight because I am so devastatingly sad. I feel like throwing up, and I masturbated four times today because I hate myself, and I can only finish if I am fully clothed or covered in blankets anyway.

I am not beautiful or hot, I am just a girl, and it is exhausting. Sure, I love having depth, but I wish I could be nonchalant. Passing for normal or feeling things a normal amount is not in the cards for me. About three weeks ago, someone asked me if there was something peculiar about me. What a question.

My best answer is that I have been using the same bottle of black nail polish to paint my toenails for almost two years. I have never seen anyone else with black toenails. And two years is a long time, but I need to finish the bottle.

It just stays full.

When it runs out, I don’t know what color to use next. I am indecisive and incomplete. Recently, I have been trying to decide how much I need to change my life to be happy. Does it come down to a new job? A new city? A new state? A new state of mind? God, I wish I knew.

Until then, I will write on whiskey or in coffee shops and pretend that I am normal.

Normal refers to conforming to a standard, pattern, or average; it means typical, regular, or expected.

And honestly, fuck expected. Why would I want to conform or be normal when I can be too much and below average simultaneously? Life would be boring. I would have white toenails and never publish on Substack or do anything interesting. I still need to have an international love affair, and go sky-diving, and write my novel.

My conclusion: life is too short to be normal or have normal-sized emotions.

Yours truly,

Macy