by Aimee Delong
La Flaneuse becomes ill at ease
OK. So, there is this kid grabbing at this lady's boobs. Grabbing,
groping, pulling. And it is really pissing me off. I am angry. I
don't quite know what about. The awkwardness of life. Sometimes I
try to think of a better way to do things. Like if I were the
creator. Couldn't there just be baby-milk trees? We have coconut
trees. I think it's a good idea. And they wouldn't only grow in
tropical climates. They would grow anywhere. The baby-milk trees.
I mean, this kid has teeth. And when she is done. When she comes
out from under the blanket. She has this grotesque smile. And I
keep searching her face for wet milk spots. But I don't see any.
This kid seems old enough to have certain food preferences, like
Captain Crunch. Peanut butter perhaps. What is so good about breastmilk? Why doesn't the kid ask for soda? I'm sure that grape soda
tastes much better. I know it isn't a healthy option, but I just
think a kid should try to ask for some grape soda. I think it is a
dignified thing for a kid to do. How good can this warm pallid sap
be? That comes out of skin, holes in skin on another person's body.
I have this image of tubes connected from the inside, carrying the
universal drink. I cringe. I think the mom sees me cringe. And I'm
sorry because I really do think that all women should be able to
breastfeed anywhere they want. But, why can't I just be fine with
things? I try, but I feel so tense and agitated about the
specificity of the thing. I want to ring a wet washcloth. Hard. I want to twist a pillow. Tight. Tubes carrying the universal drink.
Tight. Angry.
La Flaneuse sees things from both sides
I am at the office supply store, picking up some supplies for my
friend at the office. And this girl, this really desolate-looking
girl, with eyes that pull the earth a little farther down, is ringing
me up. Her eyes will soon crash like bowling balls through her sinus
cavities. She does her job dutifully. With great professional
precision, as if this job--this job that consists of her shuffling
objects over a red light that beeps--were her saving grace--the
redeeming factor of her salami sandwich existence. But her eyes do
betray her tired contentedness. They are super heavy with a packed
density like the Guinness World Record holder for largest meatloaf.
Really ordinary. Really endless. Her mouth--the two lips that
possibly utter sad, harsh swear words, not funny ones, not fun ones--
are moving. She is talking--saying what is on her mind to say. What
is on her mind to say? She tells me of a promotional program for the
office supply store. If I buy so many office supplies I can win more
free office supplies. Supplies for the office that I was probably
never planning on purchasing. But. Now. I will be able to have
them. To hold them. Maybe a glitter pen, or a rotating desk
organizer. The girl is so helpful. She does her job so well. I'm
proud of her. I am actually proud of her for shining through those
dismal soggy eyes. When I arrive back at the office my friend looks
over the promotional material with irony--she is not actually
interested. "Wow. This is so exciting. If I buy fifty dollars
worth of shit that I don't need I can get five dollars of even more
shit for free. I do love shit." And she laughs because it is
funny. Because it is so completely unimportant. And I laugh,
because it is so ridiculous. But. I just can't stop thinking about
how this promotion is possibly the one thing that girl puts herself
into. She maybe takes some pride in explaining the information with
unusual articulation to customers who need her help. Maybe she
doesn't give a fuck either. It just seemed like she did. I want my
friend to stop laughing.
La Flaneuse is in a bad mood
I become hyper-jaded sometimes. I stare at people's faces with
contempt. Big fat root beer barrellheads. I hate someone's laugh,
echoing like a weak chill. I want to peel the smile off of a girl's
dunce face like peeling a fruit roll-up off the plastic. Her
happiness is an affront to my astute sensibilities of cynicism. I
want to disbelieve everything I believed yesterday. Especially if it
was lovely and good. If it brings pink things to my mind, then I
want to vomit shards of glass to feel what I believe, now. Today. I
want to hate everything as hard as I can. I want to twist the
thinning hair off of someone's blue cadaver scalp. And I want that
person to squeal the word ouch. Obnoxiously. Because that would
somehow make sense. It would be a satisfying climax to my cruelty.
Why do we all have to be so fucking pathetic? Why do we have to
sniffle and hack? Why is the sky a putrid gray? What is this muddy-
gravel scuffmark reality? I don't think perfection is boring. Why
can't we have that?
La Flaneuse is rumpled with anxiety
There is a ravaged and chaotic child at play. Running frantically
with a wide unruly smile in my inner yard. She pretends to be an
animal. Crawling on all fours, digging at the grass, the green grass
of my inner yard. She's falling all around there. Landing on elbow
points and knees there. Blowing flimsy ridiculous kisses to no one.
There. She is. And I think that she is just a twine of uncoiled
restriction in my inner yard. And I know it isn't nice of me, but I
want her to go away before she embarrasses me. Again. I think she
might be looking for someone to play with. The grass is turning
brown now, because she is retracing all her paths over and over and
over and over.