What follows is a list of the different kinds of people I’ve noticed over the years at my gym. I’m curious to know if these people frequent other gyms too. Perhaps they only come out to bother me?
It happens every time. I blab on about tampons or Turkish delight or baby corns, ‘you know, they look like little mielies, like little baby corn on the cob thingys’ (gesturing the love child of a box of matches and a minuscule party hat). The store assistant slumps in front of me, unmoving, hair net squashed lazily on their head.
We go out after work with our single friends when we feel slightly needy (even when you girls call it girls’ night, I’m weirdly hoping I’ll find Mr. Right even though I know I won’t—no love story starts with Lil Wayne and strobe lights). We put on tight little black dresses and the most uncomfortable stilettos we could find, all in hopes of getting attention from Mr. Right.
But this isn’t about me, now is it? Let’s get down to the real grit and grime of why I’m here. This is about you and the things we’re going to need to work out if and only if I decided to attend you for the next four years. For starters, none of this ‘no smoking’ crap. We’re big boys now. I think we deserve the right to decide if we do or do not want to slowly kill ourselves.
So my ex is over. At my house. For the first time since the first time after a long time. Only three days after the first time after a long time. We shouldn’t be here really. I’m making tea and telling him about how I have a blog now. He’s calling at me from the lounge. His new job pays less but it’s fewer hours and he’s actually really connecting with the kids.
Fuck unrequited love. The gnawing. The possessive desperation. The ache of unknowing, worsened only by the slow-dying thud of knowing for sure. The over-commercialized but no less real feeling that you will die, you will just DIE.
Roseanna has tried to kill herself thirteen different times. She has made a career out of creative suicide attempts. She is seventeen and smart and stupid. I asked for a pencil she says and the idiot doctors gave it to me, so I erased all the skin on my wrist. I rubbed it raw until I bled. She is not allowed to use pencils, paperclips, tweezers, plastic forks and knives, but she is permitted access to spoons.
I don’t think the movie is that complicated. People dream in the movie and sometimes they dream within dreams. There are four “levels” of dreaming in the movie.