About a Bath

I lit a candle called "Warm Rustic Woods" which I bought exclusively because of the absurd name and drew a super hot bath, the point of which was to wash away all the psychic gunk I've been collecting like little pieces of lint lately.

Baths always sound like a relaxing thing to do but typically end with me just lying there, overheated and worrying. I was hunched over, scraping the soap scum off the handle of my razor blade, because this is the kind of shit I do when I let my nails get long, and then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the silver of the faucet and thought about how that angle is really unflattering, and then I saw how gray the water had gotten from the soap and the salts and the shaving cream and then I thought about how I'm practically douching with all these chemicals and here's hoping there isn't any pussy-freak-outs in my near future, and then I was thinking about all the hair on my legs I guess I've been missing for like, years.

I've been applying to residencies and grad programs, which has stirred up a lot of insecurity (collective yawn from the void). For background, for these programs you have to write a "statement of purpose," which is essentially just like, where you talk about yourself as an artist and how you situate your art in The World At Large. I usually leave my house and draft these things at like, the laundromat or the Hawaiian BBQ or something, and then the next day think they're awful and rewrite them crinkled up in some unfortunate similarly-unflattering position in my room, with pizza face and greasy hair, and then that happens a few more rounds until I feel good about the thing and then I send it off and then the next day I say By God I think I'll have a bath I certainly do think I've earned it and then in the bath I get struck with the realization that it was probably a really shitty statement where I didn't even realize how self-absorbed or conceited I came across, and then I start thinking of like, how maybe this is just My Thing, like something everybody knows about me but me, and how I will never know, because even if I ask people what they think they will not tell me the truth.

Earlier in the bath I was thinking about how I really should work on letting go of what other people think, because I can't control it and besides it's an immature thing to obsess about and unproductive. So many of my peers are out changing the world because they just buck up and do it but I'm over here in the tub spazzing. Then I was thinking about blogging, and how I love it and hate it in equal measure; I love it because it has connected me with some really lovely folks, and I hate it because everything self-reflective I write in this format I end up really hating because I think it sounds so fucking like, narcissistic and contrived and like, totally preoccupied with its own narrative.

Earlier than that I was thinking about this big huge blow-out fight I had with one of my closest family members about Motherfucking Donald Trump, and how so much of the anger I've been carrying has been explicitly because this specific person cannot understand my anger, but it still makes me so angry because I want them to get it, to get the fury of the collective, to understand it isn't just Oh my candidate lost bummer but like, something apocalyptic, and they don't. 

And then I was thinking about this online class I'm taking, and how I haven't engaged with my classmates enough at all because I've been so swamped with everything else, and then I was like Well you shouldn't have added an online poetry class to your plate, and then I was thinking of the ways in which I self-sabotage, like overloading my schedule, or insisting on perfection when it never is remotely realistic because I am not an android, or like, the self-fulfilling prophecy of self-loathing. 

And then I was thinking about how I'm so tired of this version of myself, the ugly underbelly version, where I worry on such a loop that there truly doesn't seem to be one benign thing in my sphere at all, where I like, stay up late and pick my face or like, eat something and then go lift up my shirt to see if like, my stomach looks any different, or like, the version of me that is so quick to anger and exceeds at letting my temper ruin just about everything.

Don't you sometimes wish you believed in God? And you could just spit it all out and say "Shit man, IDK, here ya go" with like, a shrug, and move on, get an ice cream, make out with somebody. But I don't. So I spew it on the Internet like a proper asshole Millennial, still salty about this shitshow.