The Others

New York City is overwhelming. All the others pulse through the streets, in and out of bars and restaurants, spilling from the front doors of tall glass buildings into taxis, on their way to the rest of their lives.

The Buddha and I stroll through Manhattan late on Tuesday night. People are everywhere. I think about how strange it is- all of them on one side of the thin membrane of my skin and just me on the other.
“I hate this. It’s like Tokyo or something, but in English.”
“Get over yourself. You could’ve been anybody." he says.
And he’s right. Just a few measly skin fibers separate me from them. I am bothered by the fact that I can see them but they don’t see me. “I know how you feel.” says Buddha.
“How come they don’t realize how important I am? Don’t they read my blog?”
“There is no They, silly. Only We. “

This is a hard pill to swallow in New York City but it opens up a whole new world of possibilities.
“So, if there is no They, that means we are intimidated by our own haircuts?”
“Exactly. And twenty minutes from now, we’ll be holding ourselves up at knife-point in the snow, breathing down our necks and whispering racial slurs.”
“You mean we are angry, racist pedophiles?”
He nods.
“And later on, we’ll be half-naked in chaps, lying on a bed of machetes in a literary freak show on Avenue A. “
“Wow.” That I can believe.

This is incredible.

I am somewhat comforted by the idea that we are all real writers who still feel the need to compensate for everything.
“See over there? We are stoned out of our minds, eating nachos in the bushes.”
“And we have a cheap tracheotomy and a personality disorder that is often mistaken for crack addiction?” I ask.
“Yes. We were molested by everyone. No one understands us.”
For a moment I get it. It all makes sense now. I realize exactly why we need pink patten-leather boots:

To complement our prosthetic elf ears.

I also understand now why we don’t have any personal time. We are completely unconscious. I get nervous, realizing that we are fractured at every joint. We are thankful. But we must have more...now. We are tired and we always have to pee. We are having plastic surgery. We are living underground with rats. We can’t stop talking about how important our work is. We can’t sleep. We don’t make sense to us. We are locked in fetal position, praying that we don’t burst in at any moment ready to mow us down with semi-automatics-hoping that we will listen to reason and begging ourselves for mercy.

I grab his golden coat. “Holy shit. Will we have mercy?”
Buddha scowls. “What do I look like, a Catholic saint?”

Easy Rider

There was a reason the Buddha wandered for years --and it wasn’t because he was busy touring the Midwest with Peter Fonda. He probably spent too much time sitting in cafés, drinking lattes, getting a little belly and thinking about his mom. In essence, he was sort of a buzz-kill.

I’m just like the Buddha but more popular. Most people like me. They say things like “You have such pretty hair.” “You are so funny.” “Be my maid of honor!” “I’m going to name my first child after to you.”

Nevertheless, I relate to Buddha and his self-imposed isolation and it’s not that I have a fear of commitment. Because I don’t.

I have a fear of other people's commitments. To get out of the last relationship I was ensared in, I actually had to chew through my own femur. Now I hobble around with a fifth of gin, shaking my nub at people and offering sage advice. “Always wear a helmet. Moisturize after showers. Don’t date men who wear fishnet…”

It can be so stressful sometimes, knowing everything at such a tender age. I suppose it has its rewards. I am always either content in my omnipotence, or in some cases, pleasantly surprised when my garbage can hasn’t been stolen.

I’m doing pretty well. It's special. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who would leave me alone and I am not particularly good at, nor am I fond of, intimate relationships.

Unfortunately, I am fond of gin and intimacy seems to go really well with gin; as do cigarettes and more gin. The Buddha and I do not have these particular vices in common, which is why he is not touring the countryside with Peter Fonda-and why he will probably never have his head blown off by a homicidal, mustache-fearing redneck.

Race you to the Bodi tree. Fool.

False Impressions, False Pride