Solace In Summer Heat

JULY 15, 2022

    I am beginning to believe that men are muses, more so than women, but there are very few men worth writing about. I’ve felt bored with my monologue and I’ve tried to pull from others, especially men, but I haven’t written anything worth publishing in the last one hundred and ten days. I went to a strip club for the first time and I wrote about that, but similar to a piece about love, it may get me in trouble.

        It took me three years to grasp the unspoken ramifications of love and five years to accept that purchases do not fix you, and honestly, neither does therapy. I bought the Miu Miu boots. Yellow, with the python square toe, from SS99. I found them in three colors: pink, white, and yellow. Unheard of. I was willing to settle for any of the three. Quinn wanted a pair too. We purchased both the pink and the yellow under the guise of “sharing them.” We haven’t done much of that, but at least we have the option to. 

        I thought these boots would fix me. They almost did. My life has become increasingly better since I built a shoe rack and set them on it. My life has become increasingly better since I got a therapist, but I’m not convinced she will fix me either. Supposedly, only I can fix myself.

        As the summer progresses I become vainer. My hair gets blonder and my quarter Irish skin becomes a quarter of a shade darker. That is my therapy. I didn’t know I was Irish, or I guess I forgot, until I sat next to a guy from Ireland. Myles said the resemblance in our skin tone and hair color was uncanny, which made me want to die. I love corned beef and cabbage, it is my favorite holiday meal, but I have never resonated with the Irish otherwise. When I Googled, “Traits of the Irish” the first answer I got was, “We love complaining.” The more Quora answers I clicked through, the more Irish I felt, so I closed the tab. Ever since I got the boots and the summer skin I’ve pleaded my closest friends to take photos of me. I haven’t posed for a photo since 2018, but it’s one fun thing about summer, I become outwardly vain, and therefore, I need my photo taken. None of these photos are very good because it’s a passage of confidence that can only be felt, not captured. Whereas my Irish genes are the contrary.

        I have new opinions and they are sometimes brash and rarely ever welcomed, but I spew them like the gospel. For example, why do I suddenly resent the Irish? I continuously wonder what inspired these opinions and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I tried to chalk it up to humidity or vanity but those aren’t real reasons as to why I am developing newfound opinions. It has become apparent that opinionated people get what they want, so this could be my plea with God to give me more than I already have in exchange for my persuasions. I regret virtually nothing I have ever done, but some things that I have said. And regardless of which hill I die on, I am sure I’m going to hell.

        In the meantime, I have been making a nightly martini, extra dirty, with two olives. I get so drunk from this martini that I rarely write anything–despite believing that martinis inspire greatness in me. Instead, I look at photos of myself from when I was 16 and I get wild ideas about how I can revert to my Instagram baddie days. One night I manically ordered individual eyelash extensions. I thought I could DIY the 16-year-old beauty regime that cost me thousands of dollars each year to keep up. But the extensions fell out after a few days and I’ve been too lazy to try again since. I’m drinking one of my nightly martinis now and I am writing, but it’s my second, so maybe that is where I have gone wrong all these nights–I stopped after one.

        My perception has continuously failed me this summer, that is obvious. I wore slides to Socialista and it was the worst night of my life. Very rarely do I feel embarrassed about being five foot two, but this experience left me inconsolable. I went out with Quinn, and according to her agency profile, she stands five foot nine inches. The fact that there is an agency profile to refer to in this instance should tell you how god-awful flat shoes are for any occasion with her.

        The outfit was cute, but it was cursed long before this evening. I wore a little cashmere tank top, one that was ripped straight down the middle when I was robbed at gunpoint, years ago. I paired it with my favorite white jeans, also a victim of heinous crimes, a horrible electric citibike accident and a very malicious bird at dinner the same night. I don’t know what was worse, having a gun put to my head or being surrounded by modelesque tall women in shoes that made them taller and slinky little black dresses. I was unprepared for all of these instances of pain, but wearing slides to Socialista feels like a fault of my own and it was way more threatening to my ego than the gun. So therefore, it was worse.