Love Street

by Leah Rachel

  Dear Psycho Next Door:

  I told all my friends about you the moment I met you. Hell, I told cashiers at Target and strangers on the street about you. I told anyone who would listen. Because holy fucking fuck nuggets, I was in love. I remember when you first moved into the apartment next door, I knocked on our shared wall and you knocked back twice. We went out into the hall to “meet our new neighbors,” and less than 40 seconds after, I knew I was completely fucked. I collapsed onto my couch and told my roommate how I swore to God I’d met you before. Another life? A dream? Who knows? Who cares? You had a girlfriend for the first few months, so I patiently waited to cross the line. I should have respected your healing days and not invited you over for two bottles of wine and home-cooked lasagna, but I couldn’t wait a second longer. After we fucked a few times you told me you weren’t ready for another relationship right away. I got angry and knocked on your wall too hard and you freaked out and switched to another apartment two floors down. “What a psycho!” I told everyone. I’m sorry for misrepresenting you to a group of people you will never know. I’m sorry for making you take that shitty downstairs apartment with no balcony. I’m sorry for being a bad neighbor. I never told anyone about my banging on your wall, I never told anyone about my midnight text marathons, and I never told anyone how I accidentally, totally, and completely pushed you away. I never told them that I was, in fact, the psycho next door.

  Image sourced from Unsplash

  We were such good little girls . . . and then we quit our jobs, faked our own deaths, moved to a fuck-it cult in Canada, and lived our best lives.

  Dear Child That Never Was:

  I never thought about having one of you. Ever. Not a boy. Not a girl. Not a baby. And I’m not totally sure why. My hearty hips and tits were definitely made for it. (Except in 2005, when I had a borderline eating disorder due to anxiety attacks, frozen yogurt, and getting compliments from strangers about how good—unwomanly?—I looked.) Hip size and mental state aside, I always felt guilty for not ogling over the contents of passing strollers or letting the swollen-bellied woman at the DMV go in front of me in line. And yada yada, yackety shmackety, I know—what a monster I was. Everyone saw cute little chubby thighs and angel faces, while I saw Caucasian sausage aliens and wrinkly miniature old men. I didn’t have baby fever—I had baby hypothermia. But then something happened. I met someone. And my body completely fucking turned on me.

  I didn’t know if it had to do with my new man’s errrr . . . mature age, but around him my ovaries were snorting cocaine. Dormant for years, my feline innards were READY TO FUCKING PARTY. Let’s just call the awakener of said dormant organs Mr. Man, shall we? Mr. Man was divorced and had two kids already, and until meeting him, I never realized how turned on I got around J.Crew sweaters and “Daddy days.” On days when he could sneak away from the kids we would go on our own childlike dates to match. To the putt-putt course, to the diner for milkshakes, we even went to an old movie theater to watch vintage cartoons! (I know, I just choked on my own puke, too.) Mr. Man could never sleep over because he had to sleep close to his kids. At his own house. Around the block from his ex-wife. (How mature that they were making it work!) I understood his need to be close to his beloved infant spawns. My friends said my sudden baby fever had nothing to do with Mr. Man but rather with my turning 30. That it’s a chemical change that happens during peak fertility years. That it was my feline side emerging. That my tits probably were in on it, too. I told them I am not an animal; I am a woman with her own wants and feelings! I am not an animal; I am a spirit! I am a fucking snowflake spirit!

  Mr. Man treated me well and made me feel safe, protected, adventurous, and mature. My hips screamed for him at the end of my long waitressing shifts, and every time he came on my stomach, I couldn’t help but frown at all the missed opportunities dripping and dying down my midriff, as Mr. Man swiped my skin dry with a nearby baby wipe. I figured a baby was JUST what I needed to turn my life around. It would require me to care about something more than myself and force me to stop smoking and drinking for nine whole months! A baby would make my mother happy, and a baby would give me something to plug all my unsung dreams into. Believing in myself had been hard lately, and the thought of believing in someone else instead felt like a goddamn relief. I wasn’t taking birth control pills because they made me crazy, and I didn’t have an IUD anymore because, no matter if it was all in my head, I SWEAR I COULD ALWAYS FEEL IT. (Fuck “The Princess and the Pea”—I was the princess and the IUD.) So there I was, little future baby, fertile as fuck and ready to procreate! I didn’t tell this to Mr. Man yet, of course. He was finally breathing after his first divorce, and we’d only been dating for four months. But I thought about it all the time. I hoped he dribbled before he shot, but this man was a straight shooter from the 3-point line. No fouls. No traveling. No mistakes.

  At least that’s what I thought.

  I was on a plane to San Francisco when I spit out my lukewarm Jack and Coke and stared out my window like Mrs. McCallister in Home Alone. I was pregnant. I knew it.

  When I landed at SFO, I immediately turned on my phone to find five missed calls from an unknown number and one voicemail. This was probably Mr. Man calling me from his work line to tell me he “just knew it,” too. If I could feel it, he could feel it, right? I mean, this was some spiritual shit!

  But me and my maybe +1 sank when we heard the voicemail. It wasn’t from Mr. Man; it was from Mr. Man’s wife. She was kind and quick and was just letting me know that she existed. Her husband was a liar and this wasn’t the first time it had happened, and from one woman to another—“just be smarter than me and run.”

  I took a cab to the nearest CVS and swallowed a 40-dollar Tic Tac, chased down by a Diet Peach Snapple.

  I’m not sure if you were ever really there or what you may have looked like, if you looked like anything at all. I don’t know if you were a boy or a girl or just a blob of cells dealing with binary gender issues before making the first important choice of your life.

  I didn’t swallow the Tic Tac because of the revelation about Mr. Man. I swallowed the Tic Tac because of the revelation about me.

  I couldn’t be your mommy yet. Not because you wouldn’t have had an honest father but because you wouldn’t have had an honest mother. I wanted you not because I wanted to love and take care of you. I wanted you because I was sick of loving and taking care of me.

  So thank you, baby / cell structure / glob that never was. You will be again someday, I think. Probably later rather than sooner, and maybe raised by me and a friend, but you will be here when I am really ready. When my mind catches up with my body.

  When my spirit catches up with my animal.

  Dear Disney Villains:

  Jafar, Captain Hook, Scar, fuck you all. You charming, cheating, lying, riveting assholes who I’d always rather fuck than the good guy. You ruined me at five years old and you ruined me at 30. You captivating, evil, exciting little shits. I will always love you more than the prince.

  Surround yourself with people who feel like starry nights and crispy fries.

  THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND

  I knew things were going to get weird when he showed up at my door carrying a six-pack of Red Bull Sugarfree and a ____________ [NOUN]. I mean, I had always been into ____________ [GENDER, PLURAL] who were a little ____________ [ADJECTIVE], but this was intense, even for me. Hell, I guess that’s what you get for letting the tiny, old owner of ____________________ [BUSINESS] set you up on blind dates. This was suitor number 3. The first date was with a polyamorous Italian prince with four ____________ [ANIMAL, PLURAL]. He had a huge ____________ [NOUN], so I went out with him again, but on date number 3 he tried to get me to have sex with him and his ____________ [NOUN]. I loved the idea of polyamory, but it’s hard enough for me to like one person, let alone ______ [NUMBER] or ______ [NUMBER]! Anyway, blind date number 2 was with a dude named ____________________ [NAME OF AN EX]. But I guess you couldn’t REALLY technically call
it blind, because I had met him before! Okay, dated him before. Okay, fucked him before. He was totally cool until he started yelling out “____________ [KITCHEN APPLIANCE]!” every time he came. Anyhow, for our not-blind blind date three years later, we went to eat at ____________________ [NAME OF RESTAURANT]. He was rude to the waiter, told me a story about his “art” and new interest in becoming a ____________________ [FAKE PROFESSION], and didn’t want to order any dessert. PASS. Fool me once, joke’s on you. Fool me twice, joke’s on me. Byyyyyyye, boy.

  Image sourced from Pixabay

  Sometimes . . . the only thing that can get me to run two miles is listening to a contradicting podcast where my ex-boyfriend is interviewed and sounds like an idiot.

  I wish I was full of donuts instead of anxiety.

  Okay, so back to ____________ [TEMPERATURE ADJECTIVE] Red Bull guy. I thought maybe he would be lucky blind date number 3, so I tried to keep an open mind as he stood there looking ____________ [ADJECTIVE] as shit in his ____________________ [LAME CLOTHING BRAND] jacket. I pulled out some ____________ [BEVERAGE] and we both started to loosen up after our ______ [ORDINAL NUMBER] drink. He asked me how many people I had slept with, and I told him the truth: ______ [NUMBER]. He said he had only slept with ______ [NUMBER], and for some reason I found that concerning. And HERE is when the date got REALLY interesting.

  “____________ [VERB]!” he suddenly exclaimed. Shit! How embarrassing. A MOUSE.

  I had called the plumber last week, because I guess I thought that plumbers were exterminators. Anyway, the plumber was ____________ [ADJECTIVE] enough and stayed to fix my shower drain instead.

  “Do you take baths or showers more?” the plumber ____________ [ADVERB] asked.

  “Showers,” I said.

  “Funny, you look more like a bath girl.”

  “What the ____________ [BAD WORD] is that supposed to mean?” I asked, offended.

  “That you’re a girl who likes to treat herself,” the plumber said, and he pulled the ____________ [NOUN] out of the drain.

  * * *

  THINGS WONDERFUL:

  Talk of God, alien sex, recurring dreams

  Strawberries

  Big dogs

  Sex at dawn

  Fries with mayonnaise

  Cheap sunglasses

  * * *

  * * *

  THINGS TERRIBLE:

  Talk of weather, how time flies, the housing market

  Kale Caesars

  Dress codes

  Tapas

  Catching up

  * * *

  “Oh, I like to treat myself, huh? Why don’t you just come out and call me fat?”

  Confused, the plumber quickly packed his things and left. I rolled my eyes as I saw the slogan on his pickup truck: “____________________________________________________________ [SLOGAN].” What an asshole. He never got rid of the mouse, and also he called me fat. Treat myself! Pshh!

  Oh, so back to Red Bull guy and the rodent in my apartment. I played it off like it was my pet, ____________ [LITTLE GIRL’S NAME], who I had lost weeks before, and I even mustered up some tears to prove my lie. Red Bull guy bought it and scooped up the little mouse in an empty coffee can. When he asked me where its ____________ [NOUN] was, I said I had thrown it out. So Red Bull guy took out a sauce pot from my cupboard and gently dropped the mousy in.

  “____________________ [EXCLAMATION]!” he screamed. “It bit me!”

  I quickly covered the pot with a glass lid, took another shot of ____________ [BEVERAGE], and rushed to get a towel. While the mouse tapped on the lid of the pot, I wrapped Red Bull guy’s bleeding finger in my face towel.

  “It’s never bitten anyone before!” I said.

  “Forget it.” He stood up, grabbed a copy of ________________________________________ [EMBARRASSING MOVIE YOU LIKE] sitting on my coffee table, and suggested we just watch a movie.

  We never saw each other again after that ____________ [ADJECTIVE] night, but two weeks later he called to tell me he had rabies.

  “But we didn’t even ____________ [VERB]!” I exclaimed. “All we did was kiss!”

  “From your fucking mouse, dipshit. It’s not an STD.”

  “Are you going to be okay? Is there a cure? Can’t you just take some ____________________ [MENTAL-HEALTH MEDICATION]?”

  “I’m going to be fine. I just wanted you to know your pet is toxic. Goodbye.”

  As I hung up the phone I looked at the little mouse in the pot and said a prayer: “____________________________________________________________ [PRAYER].” A few minutes later I gave it its last piece of ____________ [ADJECTIVE] Gouda and set it free outside.

  That little old shop owner never sets me up on blind dates anymore. And last time I went into her restaurant with a guy I actually met on my own and liked, she stared straight through me with her little ____________ [COUNTRY ADJECTIVE] accent and told the server, “We no serve that girl with rabies.”

  Thanks a lot, ____________ [ADJECTIVE] world. Thanks a lot.

  Iris was a thrill-seeker with eyes as blue as the sea. But you know what they say about girls named after flowers . . .

  * * *

  ON DIETS: Diets are for sad girls who get neutral manicures and don’t contest parking tickets. Follow these simple rules and you will be happy and forever free: Drink only water and wine. If you binge eat one night, eat sushi the next. Always take cake when it’s offered. And remember that artificial sweeteners kill small animals.

  * * *

  ON DRUGS: Never buy your own. Also, don’t do cocaine when you’re feeling unsure of your career choice. Always do ecstasy in the presence of bonsai trees and music. Get high while bathing once or twice. And under no circumstances ever do any form of psychedelic on a cruise ship.

  * * *

  ON SEX: Fuck on the first date if you want to, wait until the tenth if you so prefer. Throw away the rules, make your own, and then break those, too. Do it in daylight and try it in a park. And if you’re not really looking like a possessed person with contorted eyes who’s just lost feeling in the left side of their body, THEN STOP FAKING IT.

  * * *

  * * *

  ON DATING: Do it when it’s fun. Stop it when it’s not. Always drink two glasses of wine before your first date and show up in a sweat-soaked maxi dress just to find out if he’s really a keeper. He should love you all ways. And plus, you can only go uphill from there!

  * * *

  ON MONEY: You have to spend money to make money. Don’t care about it and it will care about you. And no matter how rich you get, don’t think you’ll ever shake the poor off you. Because all the money in the world won’t be able to stop you from secretly feeling like Tai from Clueless or getting a massive rush of dopamine straight to the heart when you hear that there’s a buffet or open bar.

  * * *

  ON BOOBS: You remember taping them down with giant-wound-size Band-Aids, suffocating them with double sports bras, and always wearing baggy T-shirts when you slept over at your friend-with-the-sort-of-creepy-dad’s house. When you were 16 a man barked at you from a pickup truck (like really, like a dog) and circled around the block again, this time with a friend. When you got that first job at 22 everyone said the only reason you got hired was because the boss just wanted to fuck you, and when you went to buy new grown-up clothes for said job, nothing ever fit quite right. Years passed, you grew up and grew out, and fell in and out of love, and fucked and got fucked, and met a man who loved your ninnies and your mind, and you realized you are sort of pretty, even beautiful, and that your boobs are your power and yours alone and they don’t say anything you don’t want them to say, and that you cannot control what people hear, but you are a goddess and these are your magic girl pillows and you’re going to start showing them off because you’re done feeling ashamed of the very things that make you a woman.

  * * *

  * * *

  ON LOVE: It’s like God or chronic pain. You don’t believe in it until you feel it. You know
you’re in love when you think even their ears are cute. When settling down no longer seems lame, it sort of feels more like moving into a socially acceptable heroin den with your best friend and your favorite vibrator all in one.

  * * *

  Image sourced from Unsplash

  * * *

  STEP 1: Accidentally fall in love.

  * * *

  STEP 2: Try to convince yourself it isn’t real.

  * * *

  STEP 3: Brush up against them and almost get electrocuted.

  * * *

  STEP 4: Debate your options.

  * * *

  STEP 5: Realize your options are there are no options.

  * * *

  STEP 6: Say how you feel in some weird subliminal way and over-analyze the dilation of their pupils.

  * * *

  STEP 7: Notice that their pupils are fucking huge and order three more beers.

  * * *

  STEP 8: Completely lose it, offer your heart on a platter, and throw your dignity at the wall like a fucking dart.

  * * *