they tend to repeat themselves
Have you ever seen the movie, “Flubber?”
It’s honestly pretty great as movies go.
Robin Williams is a scientist who’s missed his own wedding three times because he’s working on something BIG.
Flubber is a bouncy green substance that’s also somehow cognisant. Couple this with a robot assistant that is secretly deleting his wedding reminders because she (it?) is in love with him, and you’ve got a classic 90’s movie:
Nothing makes sense but it’s fun to watch.
— — —
I’m on the floor of my friend’s apartment, mouth slowly rotting from soda and a Klondike bar, and thinking that I feel really lucky. Lucky in the fact that they trust me when they need someone to help hold the pieces together, and lucky to fall asleep on the floor in a heap: Something child-me wanted but have only experienced as an adult. Platonic sleepovers feel like a milestone
— — —
At a friend’s gay event, I talk about my breakups. They ask how long ago they were, and I’m surprised when I say,
“It’s actually been one month.”
Time tends to drag when you’re sad, and speeds up when you’re trying to wade through it.
I make myself move through it. I stop and pause to catch my breath. I don’t shy away from photos as I scroll through my library, looking for something to show a friend. I let the waves crash into my chest: I don’t try to jump over them. I’d like to just float in it, maybe let it carry me to whatever shore I’ll end up at next.
— — —
I gathered old friends I’ve been meaning to catch up with. We played cards and Jenga and drank on a Monday night. An Instagram crush introduced themselves. The best thing about the internet is learning what someone’s voice sounds like in person for the first time. I fall asleep alone, sandwich crumbs swept quickly to the floor beside my bed.
Is this what I imagined being single to be like? Not happy, not really, but not completely sad. I tell myself at least 6 months of this.
— — —
I learn to throw knives an hour south of Chicago. We slide down a waterfall and try to catch crawdads. I am looking at the harsher parts of myself in the eye. I am hopeful for friendship, for sweetness. The donut we shared is warmed by the sun and I want more. The parts of me that aren’t ready simmer.
— — —
Why do I want a partner in the first place? I talk myself into a fury with my therapist. I bring up my trauma.
“I think it would be easier to face everything and find my rhythm with my siblings again if I had a partner. Is that a hard thing to ask of someone?”
I want to trust my friends more. Ask for a floor bed and ice cream and 90s movie.
“No one will be home when it gets bad,” I say.
My therapist reminds me that phones exist.
