Esquire Theme by Matthew Buchanan
Social icons by Tim van Damme

27

Aug

"Maybe this world is another planets hell." —-Aldous Huxley—-

The day of the Horror Theme Beach party came.   Last year’s theme was a Pajama Party.  Figures, my first year was Come Ugly, Stay Late.  We were going as Sugar Skull Girls  (Mexican candy or cookies for the Day of the Dead.)  A skull painted in bright colors mouth appearing stitched.  Not my best look.  However, the black and white skeleton mini-corset dress, hot pink lace bottoms, fishnets and platform Mary-Jane shoes added a bit of life to my dead persona.   My sister Cosetta is able to do anything.  She coordinated the theme, outfits, designed and applied the elaborate makeup.  My tiny apartment was transformed to backstage at a show on Broadway. 

 I had not heard from MC for a few days.   I knew he would be at the party.  Even still there would be thousands of other people the odds of not bumping into him were on my side.     

 At the event, we got a lot of compliments and people wanted to have their photo’s taken with the dead hooker cookies.  I was having a great night.  Hawk-eye…the owner with the intense gaze stopped me when he realized who I was.  I could not hear him the music was too loud.  He grabbed me by the shoulders firmly, as was his method of operation, seductively pressing his talons in my flesh and yelled in my ear, “What a great job they did on you! You look amazing.  It will be crazy like this till at least 5 in the morning. I hope to see you later.”   I yelled back “OK!”   He was going to have his hands full to say the least. But was that the best I could do?  “OK”?  Really?  What about “ I love your overwhelmed host look.  How about we meet tomorrow for coffee?”  To desperate, I guess “OK” really was the best I could do.   I beat myself up all the way to our table. 

We were in the VIP Section.   With thousands of people at a mult-level, multi-acre, multi-section event, the odds were ever increasing in my favor of not seeing MC.  It did make me a little sad…but it was for the best.  

Suddenly a familiar voice echoing the words…“Oh Zio!” (A Roman way to say Hey Dude! Direct translation…Hey Uncle!) Sent chills up my exposed spine.   Guess who is sitting two fricken tables over?   Not on the other side of the veranda, overlooking the bay…Oh no, eight chairs away!  MC?  What bad luck!   I was secretly happy to see him.  Even though the thought of him and the recent awkwardness made me dizzy.  Biting the inside of my cheek I kept breathing deeply. 

He spotted me.  I wasn’t sure he recognized me so I thought I should say Hello… As I waved he did a double take and it took a second for his bewildered look to transform into a charming smile.  He blew a kiss in my direction. 

MC kept coming up to me and introducing me to more of his friends.  He kept reaching toward me, or he would start to speak only to sheepishly pull back. Then he would leave.  He would ask if I would dance with him, not now, but a little later and he would leave.  Every time he walked up to me, it hurt, but not as bad as when he walked away.  This was silly.  He is too young and I am too old.   Enough already.

Our last exchange went something like this.  “I am leaving for Calabria in a few days, then I go back to Rome…Can I come up and see you this fall?” he said looking down and then away.   “Only if you really want to and aren’t just looking for cute polite things to say.” I answered.    Shrugging his shoulders while he stumbled over sounds he finally asked, “Do you realize you never call me?”  “You’re the man, that’s up to you.”  I quipped and this time I walked away.  

 It hurt just as much.  So, I did what any crazy dead hooker cookie would do in that situation.   I got drunk, actually beyond drunk.  More like “Who’s the idiot in a coma?” waisted.    I lost my shoes.  I embarrassed my sister.  A pregnant, tattooed, pierced, badass, dressed like a dead hooker cookie, was ashamed of me.  She kept saying, “Grow up!  You’re drinking to hurt yourself!” I have no idea what I did or who saw me lose control. 

 My brother-in-law took over getting me to the car.  Another friend was telling me to induce vomiting.  The pain in my stomach was outrageous. 

Someone finally tossed me in a van and slid the door shut.   Poor guy…I puked in his car.  Carlo and Amos, two tattoo artists,  got me upstairs and another girlfriend undressed me.  I ruined their night.  As punishment, there I moaned in pain and puked all night and into the next day.  Alone. 

I cannot believe this is who I have become.  A lonely waisted, puking dead, hooker cookie.  I can’t imagine anyone less marketable.  I cannot believe on the way to Building Beautiful I took such a sharp left, crashed and burned.  I don’t even care about building anything right now.  I certainly don’t care if it’s beautiful. 

It can have warts, three heads and one continuous unibrow…. I just want something, or someone to say what I really want to hear.  And it’s not “your hot”, not “you look good for your age”, or “let’s get naked”.    I want to hear what I haven’t heard in over a year and a half. “Cindy, I love you.”   You know what else?  I really don’t want have to say “goodbye” to someone I love ever again.  

  1. buildingbeautiful posted this