(me)
I took the job and I start the 15th and blah blah blah but more importantly, I’m leaving for Tulsa (and Blackhorse, and Dylan) in the morning.
I woke up from a dream on Sunday where I watched The Fucking Drummer get married to his girlfriend. Why was I invited? We haven’t spoken since he texted me for a hookup…for Carly Rae Jepsen tickets. He wanted Carly tickets, not me. Offered a grammar-school-bully-at-the principal’s “sorry” for the desperation in reaching out but since I have an actual old hookup who could lock them down for me, which is to say for him, me for him, always me for him, could I?
Why was my mom invited? My mom never met him, doesn’t know his name, would Uncle Phil1 him out the door on paper, grit her teeth to ivory splinters in person…but this I understand, psychologically. Two people for whom I have been kicking a can (of worms) down the road, delaying and musing on the idea of going no contact. Why was I at the house getting ready with the parents and the groomsmen and why can’t I remember what I was wearing I feel like the color of the dress I was wearing or if I wore a dress at all would be the legend to charting this dream, and why was I suddenly chummy with his bandmates who in our waking lives have no idea I exist, and why were we conducting a Joe Swanberg mumbledrama while he was putting on his bowtie and why did nobody notice and oh no I’ve gone crosseyed2. And then we cut, because my life is a movie and my dreams are too, to the church. Why is he having a wedding in a church? I’m guessing her family asked for this.
His bride, a blonde3, a gamine little pixie and a turquoise dress, paraded up the indoor mountain that lived in a church, because this is a dream, to him in a New Orleans style jazz pack of her mother, a brunette in a white dress (!!!) and pillbox hat, and some friends. The Drummer, atop the mountain in a suit, inscrutable look on his face. I watched from the bottom of this church mountain, unsure why I was there, turgidly aware this was a dream, thoroughly unable to wake. They exchanged vows, they kissed with hands on faces, everyone in their seats beveled into the mountain looked so damn happy. I spent the ceremony reading his face, still, after all of these years, looking for clues to his mood. Changing my life to better suit his mood4.
Wondering if he would lock eyes with me, fifty feet down and say my name instead of hers. Ross in London. I always hated Ross. I wish I hated The Drummer. His birthday would be easier.
Was this dream a warning of patterns desperate to be repeated? Was this dream the presentation of a mountain to climb, a lesson I need to scale in letting go of the way he used me for validation, as an emotional punching girlfriend, the attention, the confidence that only comes from having someone 15 years younger want to further test the limits of your worsening lower back? That there is work I still have to do in regaining the confidence I lost, confidence in myself and confidence in the love I deserve from others?
No. I think it was a goodbye. Just a goodbye. The Drummer is the person who got me into metal, which led me to an Instagram friendship with a fellow Danzighead that led to a lunch at the Bowery Hotel that led me to a temporary penpalship in Greece which led me to pumpkin pie at Veselka which led me to a sparkling invitation to Tulsa. My layoff in September led to Tulsa, too. Everything is…going…according to plan? That is a mountain I have not yet climbed in this life. But here I am, taking first steps in hiking boots I haven’t yet broken in. Steps they are, though.
I think it was a goodbye. I’ll never read the expression on his face again because I’ll never see him again and even if I do…I will choose to not read the expression on his face. His brooding is not my sword to fall upon. His corrosive acid tears are not mine to drink. His needs of me are not my landmines. I’m stepping around. I am ready to steel myself, a bad bitch in mithril, and put all of his horseshit and gloom to bed.
It hurt once. Once.5
Bye, ******.
To read:
I really have Oklahoma on the brain: my Lawton-raised bb
just released the newest issue of Handbasket, a LGBTQ+ zine featuring poetry, short essays, and cultural critique. Taylor, I am so proud of you. The newest issue is here and you can support the zine here!Why Queer Solidarity With Palestine Is Not “Chickens for KFC,” a conversation with Dr. Sa’ed Atshan and Sally Tamarkin about the rise in LGBTQ+ solidarity with Palestine and the reductionism of its backlash.
I found myself as easily in this
essay as I would peering into Narcissus’ lake:“I didn’t talk about it for weeks, and the account still fits in my mouth like yarn when I try to explain it now. I feel the need to practice swallowing it all and chasing it with my shame until it becomes a funny enough story, even though no one is asking and even though it’s not comedy. I want it to go down as smooth as water when I tell it offhandedly to our mutual friends.”
Dirt and elsewhere are producing a 10-part editorial nightlife series, and their first short story by Samuel Rutter “The Gates of Hell” was great.
Jake Nevins and Connor Norton interviewed Lisa “I love that” Barlow from the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City over a tequila tasting (she owns a tequila brand, VIDA) and she is a perfect Housewife.
Matt Zoller Seitz interviewing Jesse Armstrong about Succession and its plotting camaraderie with The Godfather.
To watch:
As someone who created the Las Culturistas fan group on Facebook, I couldn’t have enjoyed this Matt Rogers/Trixie Mattel makeover video more:
Recommended by
: my idol, Cher:This is literally just Simone:
This is literally just Lugosi:
Actually my babies:
Various and sundry:
My friends Nicole and Mike (whose movie novelization database Hollywood & Spine I have effused about before) were on Watch What Happens Live, interviewing the GRANDE DAME herself, Kurn Hurger Karen Huger:
Me and who:
Oh, Joan.
I can’t stop laughing at this:
I have not stopped thinking about this comment left on my Road House review by
:
This is exactly why I write this newsletter.
Love you bitches,
TG
(I’ve never met her but with a name like hers oh, she’s a blonde)
🎵 AND IT’S JUST LIKE THE OCEAN UNDER THE MOON, IT’S THE SAME AS THE EM- 🎵
(I’m doing this in the Johnny Dangerously voice.)
Nice! Good luck with your new job, they’re lucky to have you! ♥️♥️
I meant worse than Sam. But less may be appropos too...wouldn’t know from IRL. But one does dream, doesn’t one?