u s e y o u r h a n d s

Men will not understand, unless you’re some kind of intersexed man-lady with boobies. But most of you aren’t. And if you are, call me. I kind of want to check that out.

Anyway, I dressed this a.m. in a rather stupid, ham-handed [not in the large hands way, but in a clumsy ass way] manner, throwing on an outfit sort of impractical for the day. I thought it was going to be another of the shimmery spring-has-sprung days we’ve been having, so I went with a dress, no tights, and open toe sandals. The dress, I realize at a stop light, makes me look like cleavage central. And who’s to help me realize this but the dude in the car next to mine? I needed to yawn, so I did, arching my arms back over my head and doing this chest-thrusty thing. But it’s my car, and as such, I am invisible in it. Not today! I happen to catch the guy next to me check out said chest-thrustage and blowing me a kiss. Ew, ew, Polish plumber. Ew, ew.

I have never noticed until right now that Polish and polish are the same thing. I am not retarded, I just failed to realize. I now imagine hordes of Poles buffing their way around Europe, like backpacked American college students with new credit cards.

Today is Brian’s birthday. Happy Prime Number, Brian! I kiss you!

Is it possible to be in a moment, and at the same time, look back on it more fondly than you’re experiencing it? I think we all do this at some point. During my desperate high school period, I’d take these incredibly long walks by myself and imagine that the time was really a whole lot better.

At the root of nostalgia is the desire to return home, being homesick, and more generally, being homesick for the past. But during my adolescence, trapped in a home I’d have given anything to leave, I was fueled by nostalgia, but not for the past or for home, but for how I preferred to imagine the present.

I’d listen to 105.9 “The Edge” radio play the Cure, Morrissey, and other highly literate mopey Brit rock and incorporate these songs into my soundtrack of escape. And today, when thinking about the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven,” I remembered this thing I’d do where I’d get to the core emotion of a song, pulling it on like a winter coat, and imagine a far more beautiful life. I’d fall in love, spin wildly, dance in tall grass, frequent art galleries, dress like a debutante, and never feel unhappy again.

Do all kids do this? Does everyone do this at any time? If so, how could we help it when there’s lyrics like this in the world: You / Soft and only / You / Lost and lonely / You / Just like heaven. Yes, most pop songs are all about love, unrequited or otherwise, but this one puts these words to a dizzying back beat that completely simulates the schoolyard memory of a furiously whirling merry-go-round. The best kind of dizzy. And when you’re a kid and reality is fucked up, you’ll trade dizzy any day, even when it makes you sick.

“Show me / Show me / Show me / How you do that trick / The one that makes me scream / She said.” And even today, when I’m in the moment and loving reality as much as I ever have, I still superimpose myself in this song, with my own memories of giggling under the covers and light filtering through the window.

Long before he plunked down on the sofa, Kevin could smell Ben approaching. Kevin kept watching old re-run of SNL without a word to Ben, who sat in his normal position — legs wide apart, with one foot up on the armrest. It drove Kevin nuts, but he had grown to tolerate it. Ben was an asshole, but his dad owned this building and never raised the rent on Kevin, who, ostensibly, was Ben’s best bud.

Fey and Fallon faded to commercial and Bed turned to Kevin and asked, “You ever jerk off so much you get a ring around your dick?”

“The fuck…?” Kevin replied to this noteworthy non sequitur.

“Yeah,” Ben said, pantomiming the masturbatory act, “I noticed it the other day and was all, ‘what the shit is that?’ so I looked it up on Google and it said that it might be too much jerking off.”

Kevin turned back to the TV and stared intently at the dancing scrubbing bubbles and tried to shrug off the grotesque imagery punishing his mind and palate.

“Ya think?” Ben persisted.

“Maybe it’s an STD,” said Kevin.

Ben knocked him in the arm and snorted. “No, seriously. I thought of that, but I don’t think so.”

“Must be hard being celibate, huh?” said Kevin. Ben hadn’t brought home anyone lately — or ever, actually. Which was why Kevin thought of Ben as pussy repellant.

Ben grew silent for a few beats before deciding that he, in fact, did want to continue the conversation. Why, Kevin often wondered, had he been appointed confidante and counselor to this not-so-lovable buffoon? Although most of the time Ben totally annoyed the shit out of Kevin, he couldn’t help remain loyal to Ben because he once had Kevin’s back in a fight. And, plus, the cheap rent.

“So, you don’t have a ring … down there?”

“No, Ben. I don’t.”

Ben shifted around uncomfortably, visibly dismayed at this lack of mutual ringage. “Tyra Banks is still pretty hot, don’t you think?”

“Why? Is it her ring you’re wearing?” Kevin muttered.

“Fucking Tyra Banks.”