the worst of me

My favorite idea–the one most satisfying, like eating ice cream right out of the pint–is disagreement. To me, casual antagonism with a stoic face and a shrug is an art form. The more infuriatingly neutral the better.

I know you’re thinking of the hypocrisy–of how I always make direct eye contact, nod my head off, find the tiny thread of empathy between us and turn it into a wool sweater we both wrap ourselves in as we walk home arm in arm. But I disagree in opposition to everything else I am–to take some power back from my regular programming. I say things like, yeah I asked for less money, actually. And, no, I’d like it if he slept with other people. And, why? I just want to rent forever. And I don’t know anymore what’s true and what’s just scratching the itch. There has to be a reason the herd’s walking that way, so why am so satisfied by the tiny rebellion of turning around without explanation?

I haven’t known what to write about in a long time, but typing this felt good. My recent daydreams have all looked like a white-walled apartment filled with the forty things I own, in some foreign city, and no photos to show for it. But the thought tastes like standing at the freezer after an indulgence. And if I’m being honest, I’ve never even been into dessert.