We are like licking mole from a plate and when it hits our palettes we want chocolate and the truth is all of its ingredients -- we are not a Mexican sauce we are more than that -- we are a Mexican dish
We are like black jeans living outside of a boot Like just threw on your clothes because you rush to show that it isn't your skin's fault it wants to hang out with other skins
We are like don't have sex for either of us We have sex for both of us. It's not about you or me when our bodies speak lost in translation, and I can't believe that all these years later I finally get what that means I mean of course I learn this the night I go to bill Murray's sons restaurant-- I think in Spanish maybe translate to French back to Spanish to say in English, the context is different, the meaning just isn't the same
Sex is like cooking you say It's the time we spend together pace in the kitchen music of me typing letters for your secretarying the shit out of English to help you and your company
But we be like ova
But we be like donzo
But we be like hasta luego
It's my fault. Me and My emotions. Not everyone can deal with them. Like my ex. No, I'm done talking about him, now that's the truth. The truth is in and around the time of my period I get mouthy. Like my brain sits on my tongue and goes Nah, No thanks, let's give the roomie a try, and then up on first base is What the fuck, and on second base Who the fuck cares, and on third base is When did I say that?!
Then you get a package dropped off at your local haunt. Pick it up. Open it. And you say fuck. Even though I've been a goddamn bloodhound he thought of me. Shit. My ex just got me flowers I hate because they die. Much like our relationship always in bloom with the flowers and out with the last soaked up droop of water.
Listen, I wasn't trying to date. I wasn't trying to meet someone. I wasn't trying to be Ammiel Alcalay translating the Sarajevo Blues while Semezdin smokes in the room and doesn't give a fuck if the window is open and only if the translation makes emotions like what is that called when language gets stuck in the hawking hole of before translation.
I might have loved him. But for the good reasons. I was sober. I was awake. I was fed. I was in bed. I was staring at his half shaved face. I was under the covers. I was resting my head. I was looking into his eyes. I was cliche. I was filming the scene in my head. I was photographing the moment. I was there. I was with him. And, now I'm not.
My friend frank said it best last night, sometimes it takes time to share your emotions with people.
So. That's my story without really any details about the story. Add in a company, a lonely woman, an entrepreneur, a New Yorker, a food truck, money lost, Mexican products, hating jobs, losing kitchens, greenpoint, poetry, yelle, lattes with extra shots, mole, and well, that's the unofficial unwritten bio of the last two weeks.
This is like food being plated for you. There are no seconds. There are no family style. It's eat what you're given, until it's gone.