A Conversation with the Personification of My Artistic Insecurities

Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there.

In my defense, your outfit is so bland and repressed I just assumed you were wallpaper.

Seriously, it looks like you probably dressed like the 2005 post-Rocket-Power westside skater punk you wanted to be like once when you were 13 but then your family made such a big weird deal about it that you took off your pyramid stud belt and never wore black again.

You know what you should do next time? Wear a leather jacket. Do you like mine? I don’t feel like a fraud when I wear it.

Everyone knows that girls who wear leather jackets, a simple shoulder covering made from the hide of a dead bovine, are inherently cooler and probably have lax attitudes towards monogamy, attachment and spontaneous butt stuff after dinner.

Do you mind if I smoke? Don’t answer that. I don’t care what you think. Or what anyone thinks. I just live. I’m the fun, sexy kind of mentally ill- not the kind that leaves work early to sleep for 13 hours because no one shared your work on the internet and That One Writer Who Always Copies You But Never Gets Called Out is positively rolling in accolades.

I’m probably the girl they wrote “Love Me Dead” about.

Did you like that reference? I thought you might, you look like the kind of person who got really into late 00s glam-pop-punk bands that also looked like they made music for white girls who got really into anime and Portland burlesque dancers with Doctor Who tattoos.

Not that I’d know, I’m more into obscure British cigarette-rock bands that sound like all the members talk like characters in a Guy Ritchie movie about criminals who wear tracksuits.

Who am I? Do you honestly not know me?

It’s me, the artist you secretly think everyone wants you to be. I write poetry about married professors I had affairs with. You know, because I finished college. My thesis film was about me sitting on a balcony and smoking while an attractive man threw things because I’m just so beautiful and aloof.

One time I wrote a short story about hooking up with a stranger and it was published in a literary magazine whose name is some kind of old-timey slang for a brothel and the cover looks like it was designed by a sentient pair of steampunk goggles that got really into Anais Nin in high school and thought it was really cool how often she cheated on her husband and not fucked up at all.

Oh you write comedy? That’s cute. One time I tried to write a comedic essay but instead it turned into a 1500 word prose poem that’s a thinly veiled reference to this time I did drugs. Which time? Who knows? It was published in Vice.

I’m actually friends with That One Writer That Copies Everything You Do but Never Gets Called Out Because She Has A Bunch of Followers and next year we’re releasing an anthology of poetry with titles like “Sexy Spooky Baby” and “Professor Daddy” and “I Keep My Teeth in a Tampon Box” and they’re all about S-E-X but written in a way that makes it sound uncomfortable and Lynchian.

Anyway, this has been fun but I have to meet up with your boyfriend’s one ex that everyone is still friends with for a night of performance art where we chain smoke in the old American Apparel factory downtown. We don’t even have a permit.

And, just so you know, last July I didn’t get take the headstaggers and cut all my hair off and my CVS didn’t switch my brands of birth control causing me to put on 6lbs overnight right before my 28th birthday.

You know, just in case you were wondering.

the second mrs. de winter wattpad.com/califiapress

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