Becky Fisher--Know It All

Becky Fisher opens her eyes and takes off her little eye mask and she goes, what time is it baby, only baby isn’t here anymore, baby is living with that ugly slut, the one with the chin job and the suboxone habit. Becky isn’t angry, Becky likes a big empty bed, one where dreams lived and died. Becky is feeling happy, she takes one happy blue pill every night at 7 and then another when she wakes up at 7. 7 to 7 she calls it. They make her not feel stuff. It’s part of her master plan, the part where by not feeling she can stay on planet earth with all its ants and weird clothing made for special purpose sex. The pill's side effect makes the air smell of butter and makes being quiet almost like sleeping in the arms of someone that loves you but won't say it. Becky takes a blue one without water or any hope in a future. Becky Fisher can get through heartbreak! Becky fisher is All American. She was a cheerleader her big boobs bouncing so far up her chest they called her Torpedos. She remembers them fondly, now she is old and they aren’t big like that, they are small hanging on to her starvation frame for dear life.

Why did Conor lie about his broken cock and tell her that it didn’t look as much like a tomato as like an eggplant? And why did this make Becky actually go the Ralphs even though she doesn’t even shop Ralphs, she is a Whole Paycheck kind of girl to see one. Becky goes to the produce and chooses one out. A giant throbbing Eggplant, not the Japanese one either, but the ugliest fattest one she can find and she goes home and waits for Conor. Did it look like this Conor? Did it happen with the girl on the trapeze, the sex nerd? Is that what you forgot to tell me? Because now here we are. Like this. Me with my perfect pussy hole and my mouth that knows what to do but look at you, yours is BENT. Not right angle bent, but hurty kind of bent a bent that doesn’t make physical sense unless you have a giant pussy hole which I don’t, mine is small. Remember the story about the children’s speculum?

            Becky was not calm. Becky tried to remember the therapy session that made her feel better, the one where Becky got mad and instead of saying the same thing no one could ever help her with Becky just peed in her pants right there. She peed right through those little shorts that she had cut because she was featuring her thighs now that she was far away from her sexually repressed parents. And speaking of being far far away from sexual repression she had taken a female lover, that’s right---trying it on, just to see if she liked fisting better than cocks, only she was built too small so she never ever got to even try. Becky said, I’m a pillow princess and wouldn’t know what to do and plus it grosses me out. If we were both dudes then maybe because I like cock, but you cannot judge what God is not judging. Unless HE is and then we are both fucked anyway and Becky Fisher showed that girl the door and tried not to mention her giant chin hit her in a way that was painful and worse than that was the accent. Who has a gay irish accent anyway?

            Becky Fisher was All American, she had good breeding, a genetic lineage that she could follow to the Hearsts on one side and then there was the white trash bacon side. That was the side that seemed to pick her boyfriends.

            Becky Fisher landlords stole her bike and she called the cops and told them, if you don’t come now, someone will die. I have a knife and everything, but they didn’t come.  Instead a little Mexican named Sergio came. He tries to give Becky her bike back through the door, but she has her period and if he comes any closer she’s going to kill him with the knife. Never mind it’s a paring knife. For apples. Sergio is smiling. That dick shouldn’t be smiling. Becky says, what the fuck? Why were you born you mother fuck. Becky isn’t very smart when she gets mad. Anyway, She says show me the bike you ass-fuck. How dare you? Your children are going to die of eye cancer. Then he steps back from the door, he’s getting the picture that Becky is crazy. Step away you mother fuck. you’re gonna die. WALK AWAY. Becky is lost, screaming, red so that her eye mask to help eye fatigue are falling off ruining the look she had and completely destroying the relaxation the box promised. She puts down the knife and opens the door and brings the bike inside. She goes to her phone to look at the big giant perfect penis her friend sent her. She looks at it like a child would look at a teddy bear and she becomes calm. Who knows calm Like Becky Fisher. Becky Fisher knows what to do, she wrote affirmations that tell her so. Becky Fisher is pretty. Becky Fisher is not embarrassed for liking a big cock. Becky Fisher makes money. Becky Fisher is skinny. Becky Fisher has style and class and then the door rings.

            Becky is like now what, and then she goes to the door and it’s just the UPS guy, he’s got her straightening iron the one she’s been waiting for. The one that Gwenyth Paltrow used when she was pretty before she got old.

PAPA, CACA, DOO DOO, WEE WEE

Today I created something, it's called, "Put this oil on your pussy lipgloss." It's my very first product. I'm hoping it will sell well and that I can share my wealth with those people who have been nice to me and withhold it from the people who have been mean to me in the attempt to make themselves feel better about their own mediocrity, lack of loyalty and cowardice. This story isn't for you ridiculous people. This story is for the rest of you.

START:  When I was a kid, my neighbor's father said I was a bad apple. My neighbor's name was Michael Soma--for the life of me I can't remember his father's name and for the sake of things it doesn't matter. Michael Soma hung out with me and my friend Tom Maher. We were always together as kids. Michael's father said I was bad because I was the one that told about a snake that didn't exist---which I only said because me and Michael and Tom were ALONE and didn't want to be bothered by adult people or other kids that we thought were dumb. Our cave was our cave and we were being quiet and telling our dangerous secrets of the Witch Coven that existed in Lakeside and how on most nights I could feel a demon trying to steal my soul directly out of my chest. We had been trying to figure out what to do about the demon. I had been up all night praying. My mother bought me worry dolls who I whispered the problem of the demon to, and they were supposed to handle things in the night. But, they didn't. The demon stayed digging into my chest--trying to steal my soul.

If you ask many kids at the lake---I was not the only one having night terrors, demons and witchery happening to me. Most of the kids start their stories by saying--i know you are going to think I'm crazy, but I swear this thing really happened. All of us spoke like that. Those friends at the lake had secrets that were loaded with the supernatural. I believed in God, but also that a devil worshipping cult near by could hurt us. We were all superstitious--not just me---and if you didn't believe an arrowhead could kill you, we didn't want you around. Michael had a whole collection of them but we didn't talk about what that meant.

Michael's father said I was bad because Tom chucked a rock at me and I chucked one back and his rock didn't do anything, but my rock chipped his front tooth. Michael's father said I was bad because were were playing catapult off a bed wherein Tom and Michael would sit on my feet and I'd be laying down with my knees bent and fly them across the room and of all the times we took turns it was Tom that broke his arm when I sent him flying. Lisa Douglass is a bad apple. That should go without saying. I wasn't actually the one that talked about sex and how to spy on our parents and then report back, but I was blamed for it. And even though when we were older I was the one who mashed the coke into my floor just to see if anyone would take the dare to eat it directly off the tile and no one would--I still shared with everybody. I knew what friendship was.

But, Michael--the son of the dad who called me a bad apple-- used to pee on his own dog. His dog's name was Pudgy--he was a doberman pincer. Michael would chase him saying PAPA, CACA, DOO DOO, WEE WEE and then unzip his fly pee on Pudgy. He did this a lot. After Michael died, I saw him once in a dream. He was wearing eyeliner, speaking to a baby cat. Telling it what he wanted. "I want love. I want kindness. I want obedience." The baby cat ignored him and just licked his face over and over as to make the rest of the dream people uncomfortable. I tried to speak to Michael but he held up his hand and said, "Not now, Lisa. My dad said I can't talk to you anymore."

Before Michael died and years after I moved away from the lake and was living with my sister (or had she moved out?) off DeSoto, Michael came to visit me. He came with Tom Maher. They were there. I was on drugs, in bad shape and didn't know what day it was. They drank wine coolers with me or whatever I had back then. Maybe Bacardi 151. They lay on a bed, that for some reason was in the middle of the living room. We laughed like we had always laughed, making fun of ourselves and people we knew. We fell asleep in each other's arms, dreaming of somewhere safe.

Michael died from a shotgun his girlfriend/wife fired at him during a domestic dispute. I think they were high. His ashes are marked with a cross at the top of Sugarloaf---the mountain that overlooks Malibou Lake. I miss him a lot. He was always my friend.

Dear Caroline

Dear Caroline,

I don't know if you can hear me, now that you are dead, but on the thought that I might not know everything there is to know, I am going to take the chance that maybe you can hear me. Your friend Michael wrote to me today and said, "you don't know me, please call me, it's about CT. it's serious." It took me a moment to realize CT was you. CT equals Caroline Thompson in a way that I couldn't quite understand. So, I called the dude. The dude said you were dead. I listened and didn't know what to do. I called to coroner to be sure. I felt bad. I felt really really really bad. Worse than I've ever felt. Then I remembered Romeow. Where was he? Your cute cat. You loved that cat. Was he in the apartment? Did we have to go break in and save him? I didn't know, so I called the coroner back and kept calling back until someone answered. At some point in the early morning I realized that the coroner might have said they had a Caroline Liz Thompson, and on your blog it was Caroline Ruth Thompson. So, I called back, to see if they were wrong or if I was wrong or what. I asked about Romeow. Where was he? Could I save him or keep him and the whole time with all these phones going I knew your parents and your brother didn't know yet. I had already called Matt, your recent ex boyfriend. So recent that he had called me Saturday going I haven't heard from Caroline, do you think she's okay. I was like, yeah, we spoke she seemed cool. You said you were sad that you may have hurt him, but were really excited and happy. In fact, we spoke at 2 AM on Thursday morning and all you talked about was going to this poetry conference and grad school and about shopping with me at Betsey Johnson. (I had told you I put a dress on hold and was too sick to go pick her up..dresses are shes.). You told me you'd buy me the dress, to forget about the sale---the 50 percent off the 50 percent off sale--you'd cover me. You had it handled. I told you I was broke and you told me you'd pay if I agreed to come to the Chicago Poetry conference. We could room together you said.

We talked about our date. The night we went to Beyond Baroque to see poets read their work. You wore your cashmere hat and your lace up knee highs, your cashmere jacket. We shivered outside because the Beyond Baroque people had set up chairs outside. We were bored. It was supposed to be cool, but it bored us. You showed me a photo and told me you were sending it to Matt. You looked pretty, I can't remember what else about the photo---oh yeah--your ass. You sent a photo featuring your world class ass and we laughed to the point of crying. Then, you told me we should go watch him and see him do the comedy. But--before all of this, you and I had our date. Our date at Marmalade or whatever the hell that deli is called near Palmetto---that guy stalked us. He was wearing a white man hat. I can't describe him. Weaselly, like a pinched bunny face. I don't know. He walked in circles around us eating us with his eyes. You told me about your family and I started in on telling you my weird dating scenarios and weird sex fantasies. Then, White Hat man comes over and brings us a chocolate souffle and starts talking about himself. We stare up at him and don't care about him and his stupid story of his wife leaving him and NOW HE WAS BROKEN and did one of us want to pick up the pieces of the broken White Hat man? I made him tell me which one of us he wanted. Just say it, I said. He wrote his dumb name on a napkin---had to get up and walk all over the place to find a pen and we just sat there going, will this man ever leave us alone? Then he came back and set it in the middle of the two of us and then shamefully went away. IT TOOK FOREVER. That White HAT man ruined our date, but only for awhile. Then Beyond Baroque, then laughing till we peed. Then, we went to see Matt--in Hollywood. Matt performed--it was funny, but now you're dead and I'm real fucking sad. Matt became your boyfriend that night. You two became inseparable--it made me happy because I love both of you. There's more, but it mostly was about how talented you were and I'm not in the mood to do it more today. This isn't the end of you. I remember you. How could I ever forget, it's just that. WHAT THE FUCK? I love you and I miss you, that's all. It's rare that I meet a girl that's smart and charismatic and doesn't hate my fucking guts while pretending to be my friend. You were my real friend and i'm sick and sad that you are gone. Remember your Louis Vuitton bracelet? I saw it the day I went to meet your parents and Romeow was there and there was a moment he got out and your dad was overwhelmed in the car and we weren't supposed to tell because it would just have made him stressed. I grabbed Romeow and carried him back through the door and decided I'm getting a cat. So, me and your mom and you brother Jeff made our first secret. I'm getting one just like Romeow. I'm even putting the photo of us up, from when we were freezing. You look cute and I look shitty, but as vain as I am---this is for you. I love you.

Lisa

It's Christmas--Time to Feel Shitty

Dear Christmas,
As a fan of you even though you don't really give us as much as you promised from all the advertisements and the sly looks from parents, teachers, friends and wherein we always end up penniless and scrambling to pay rent because we don't want to look stingy and we know we aren't stingy, but WE HAVE NO MONEY THIS YEAR OR ANY YEAR---but still don't get what we really want---we'd like to ask for a raincheck. Can we put off this year until some time in the unforeseeable future years from now when we will be out of school and out of debt with better jobs and a happy cat at our feet---and not barely scraping by? We don't want to be rude because we know you are all chocolate santa-y, furry costumes over fat bellies and we are not supposed to be weirded out that we eat santa, so we don't ever speak about it. We just bite off his head and then ignore the part where we eat his chocolatey insides. Tongues inside eyes rolled back. Are we really not supposed to be afraid if an intruder in our homes FAT and dressed like santa with red and white rascally patches up and down his arms and on his bloated from drinking too much Santa juice on his face (without the gift we have been praying to the lord Jesus for)? WE, as a nation are creeped out and hate those weird squeaking toys that get caught in a child's hair as much as you do. We are not ignorant! We just want to eat our toffee silently on our couches and check out for a while in a sugary coma all our own. We don't want to go to consumer heaven wherein we are applauded for our taste and lack of taste and whispered about as in we are too good to be true or in turns so stuck up that we are the only one on planet earth with such audacity to buy such a perfectly silverlake cool gift that means nothing and does nothing. We don't want to wear sparkly dresses or glittery makeup and pretend not to be sad. This year, Christmas, we'd like to give you the give of honesty. You suck and have always sucked except for that one year where there was an ACTUAL BIKE in our living room. That year where our disappointment was not palpable to our poor trying hard but too poor to do anything about it in the RIGHT way families. Had they just said they were poor, we would have understood--but they were trying to be rich in thought if not in action. So, Christmas, we'd like to break up with you. You don't do it for us in any of the ways we need it from you. You don't ask us out, you don't come over when we tell you to, you are a tease who promises sparkly happiness that never manifests. We are done. You were never as good as we imagined you to be and that makes everyone feel sad and shitty when they have nowhere and no one. What of the homeless---they don't get to go anywhere or the right present either. They are lonely--and Christmas makes them lonelier. So, Christmas, Goodbye and good-luck. As always, we will try to stay away from you because you are bad for us, but you will invade our every waking moment, just like you do every year. We are your whores with our skirts up and no fight in us left. You suck and we all think so. The end.
Signed,
Your Bitches

The Hidden

I am a plastic Mexican Jesus on a dashboard

a cold hard mold with seams where

doubts grow

I am imbued with the faith of a child

with a father who works for nothing

and sits on the couch with sex eyes

I am the daughter Carmen

with swollen lips and see-through dresses

who stays away after school

so she won’t have to play that game

I am the thin plastic frame that 

sits on your bathroom sill

watching what you do when no one is 

around

But I am not whatever you are

and that’s the main thing